Just Another Death

("In Shift on Khashoggi Killing, Trump  Edges Closer to Acknowledging Saudi Role")

 I would venture a guess that M.B.S. is enormously surprised by the level of attention and outrage generated by the death of Jamal Khashoggi.

 In a world where the cannibalizing of a country (Syria) by its own leader, an estimated 400,000 deaths having been reported as of the last count in 2016, has drawn only ever more receding spasms of protest and where Saudi Arabia has not faced serious repercussions for playing a central role in a humanitarian crisis in Yemen resulting in untold thousands of civilian deaths and up to 13 million men, women and children facing famine and the possibility of starvation, what can the loss of one more life mean?

In a time where dissidents are being routinely silenced in China, Russia and in countries around the globe, what could the loss of one more voice mean?

In a political universe where our President turns a blind eye and a cold heart to brutalities near and far those who would commit the worst of atrocities are only emboldened. And so what has occurred is both unimaginable and not unexpected. What could the loss of one more irritant mean?

Who could blame M.B.S. if he thought this grotesque act, behind closed doors, would go virtually unnoticed by the world?

For those in charge in Saudi Arabia it was clearly envisioned as but one gruesome mutilation in an endless sea of man's inhumanity to man.

How could they ever have suspected it would be seen as anything else?

Do We Care?

Do we care?

Do we care about our freedoms?

Do we care about our morality?

Do we care about our planet?

Do we care about our future?

Do we care about our standing?

Do we care about our democracy?

Do we care about our presidency?

Do we care about our leaders?

Do we care about our promises?

Do we care about our dreams?

Do we care about our children?

Do we care about our health?

Do we understand that there but for the grace of God go I?

Do we understand that the world does not end at our borders and neither should our compassion?

Do we understand that there are truths and lies, rights and wrongs?

Do we understand what is happening to this land day by day and step by step?

Do we understand that if we are not forever vigilant this will only get worse?

Do we understand that we deserve everything that befalls us if we let this go on one moment more than it has to, if we are too tired, too bored, too busy, too uninformed, unthinking, unmotivated to express our opinion, to exercise our most fundamental right?

Do we understand that not only do actions have consequences but so do inactions?

For God's sake, for my sake, for your sake, for your children's sake, for the sake of this planet, get off your couch get out of your chair, your bed, your stupor and VOTE.

Your life depends on it.

The Opening Statement of M.B.S. to Congress

"I like beer. I like beer a lot. I drink lots of beer. But then who among you doesn't like beer. Oh, sorry, wrong speech.

I went to university. The best university. And I graduated at the top of my class (don't dare check facts on me). I am married with 4 lovely children (bring them to me now. No, not Tiffany and Barron. They are not my children). And my wife can drive if she chooses to do so, and go to the movies whenever she wants. Now what more could a woman ask for?

This is who I am. Not the monster you would portray who orders the death of one who would speak out against me, against my kingdom. Imprisonment, sure. Torture, maybe. But not this, never this.

I shed real tears for the man's death, but I never met him, I don't remember him, and I have an affidavit from three million of my loyal subjects saying that each one of them was the force behind this tragedy. I swear on the life of Donald Trump that this was not my doing.

In closing, I ask each of you to look over your shoulder. See those two men standing with AR-15 assault rifles in the corner. Just think of them when you decide my fate. And yours. God Bless America."

The Art of the De(ni)al

It is the art of the firm denial. It seems it has been mastered by a Saudi prince charming and it's king,  a nominee for our Supreme Court, the leader of Russia. For those adept at its practice you are, in the eyes of the President, relieved of any possible culpability in murder, in sexual assault, in changing the very outcome of our 2016 election. Because, as Mr. Trump has informed us, they really, really proclaimed their innocence.

Yet it appears that some have not learned the necessary intricacies of this practice. No matter how many times Barack Obama explained to Mr. Trump that he was not born outside of this country, no matter the production of a birth certificate it did not deter the mouth that roared. And now Elizabeth Warren has given us DNA evidence of her ancestral ties to the Native American community. Yet Mr. Trump insists that he alone (as the DNA expert he most certainly is) would have to perform the distasteful test himself before he would relent in his Pocahontas mocking of the Senator from Massachusetts.

Maybe the title of Mr. Trump's next book will be the art of the firm denial. With foreword by all those who have firmly denied their way into his heart.

Seeing Red (a Death in the Bronx)

("Behind Enemy Lines: The Red Sox Fan at Yankee Stadium")

They smelled blood, those scattered among us hoping to watch us suffer a slow painful death. They were seated behind me, even next to me. Armed with the knowledge of 16 to 1, with 108, with possibilities in every at bat and CC, at least what was left of him, all that stood between them and the kill. 

I squirmed in my seat, uncomfortable with the reality of the moment. And with the young woman and her Irish green colored Red Sox hat on my left.

There is no greater indignity than being forced to endure a Red Sox fan victory dance in your own home. While this was not the House that the Bambino built (Ruth being received in fair exchange with the Beantowners so that No No Nanette could be yes, yes on Broadway) it still was close enough so that the echoes of Babe, DiMag, Mickey, Derek were ringing in our ears and dancing in our heads.

There was the feel of inevitability in the air from the first pitch to the last excruciating one, when we were forced to stand for an extra minute more before we were finally pronounced dead. No beating on our collective chests could bring us back to life. Nothing left to do to wipe the smile off the face of our executioner.

And yet the woman next to me, between the intermittent screams of delight was, strangely, a very pleasant human being even in the heat of battle. Not the devil herself, but merely someone who had chosen the devil as her God. Not someone I could hate but rather, in a different universe, one I could possibly consider as a positive member of society.

That is until the last out was registered and I was trudging, dejected and depressed, away from the scene of the crime. For there at the railing still stood one person, yelling in absolute shrieking delight at the covey of Sox gathered in prolonged celebration directly on OUR mound. There she was, my next door neighbor for the evening, her inner demons fully unleashed, lording over us, bathed in the triumph of the moment. Her fangs exposed, our blood dripping from her lips.

Et tu Brute. Even you.

The Visit

It is amazing watching a new life take shape. Staring for the longest time at the tiniest of forms seemingly doing little more than existing, hardly aware of its own purpose much less the universe it is  trying to comprehend. The smallest sign of recognition, imagined though it may well be, a cause for celebration.

Birthdays now counted in weeks. Sleep counted in hours. Feedings counted in minutes. Every aspect of this being's being important. Nothing beyond the ever watchful gaze of those entrusted with preserving and protecting. Every moment shouting to be recognized

As we step onto the terrace, she and I enter into a lengthy discussion about the sounds and sights of the city, the colors, the noises, the possibilities and dreams of those who move about below us. It is our first adventure together, alone.

Watching as her parents dress her, trying to fit an arm in here and a leg there like a geometry equation. Seeing her pressed in a snuggly against her father's chest, a protective womb enveloping her.

Each movement of a hand, each wrinkle of a face, each suggestion, each hint, each action a world unto itself.

I try to recall what it felt like for me when this little girl's mommy was my little girl, when she was in her own embryonic stages. But I cannot bring up the intensity that surely consumed those days. There is a small sadness in my failure.

Yet I am grateful for the second chance I now have. To feel the feelings that only a new life can bring. Thank you little girl.

Til Death Do Us Part

Til death us do part.

If there was one lesson to be taken from the Garland to Kavanaugh fiasco that played out over these past two years it was that the time has come to face head on the ugly reality of lifetime appointments to the Supreme Court.

Our founding fathers lived in a universe markedly different from ours. It has been a near quarter of a millenium since the birth of this nation and death has receded farther and farther from our collective being with each new medical advancement. We stay healthier and fit longer and our capacity to be productive, or destructive, members of society has lengthened with each passing decade.

Term limits for our highest office in the land were codified in the 22nd Amendment, passed by the 36th state (There were only 48 states at the time) in 1951, in clear response to the only President who ruled for more than two terms in this nation's history. Concerns  on the length of power of the presidency were voiced from the time of the framers of our Constitution forward. But it was only the reality of FDR's tenure that spurred this nation to action.

We are now at such a point in history regarding appointments to the Supreme Court. On the next occasion sane people are in position of power, the first order of business should be to call for a constitutional Amendment for an 18 year term limit for a Supreme Court Justice. Come Hell or Mitch McConnell, during each four year presidential term there will be two new appointments to the highest court (and with its effect, the current Justices would be unseated in FIFO order). 

The bloodbath we have recently witnessed will thus never be repeated, the urgency to rule this land in perpetuity having been muted. 

We stand at one of the lowest points in the arc of this nation. If we do not treat the disease now infecting us with immediacy and urgency it will continue to fester and make us sicker and sicker.

Til death do us part.

#HimToo

This vote will mark the proclamation of the #HimToo movement, the declaration of independence from an overzealous prosecution of the male id. The response of those offended by the mere suggestion of a problem in need of correction.

The belief that Harvey Weinstein and Bill Cosby are nothing but aberrations, that while the Brett Kavanaughs of this world may proliferate, they are but harmless exercisers of the right of free expression, a virtual first Amendment, constitutional, America born and bred, God given, man driven expression of love, not hate or domination or whatever ill intended motive those with overzealous imaginations and easily bruised psyches might otherwise suggest.

This is not merely a statement that Mr. Kavanaugh is qualified to judge all of us but that no woman is qualified, emotionally and intellectually to judge him or the many other Brett Kavanaughs who lord over this culture and this nation.

Make no mistake about what is now happening in our hallowed halls. Women are being put back in their place, pushed into dark corners, groped, demeaned and diminished while Mr. Kavanaugh takes his wrongful seat as the rightful heir to a lifetime throne.

The Sound of 50,000 People Exhaling

That was the sound of 50,000 people exhaling. The thought of a season, which began with such soaring hopes and then settled into long stretches of mediocrity, ending in one cruel slap across the face, had been avoided. 

And now the seemingly inevitable dance awaits. Nirvana or desolation knocking at the gate, our arch enemy, Lex Luthor to our Superman, poised to do battle to the death. Can we wipe the smile off their face, the swagger from their step, the painful memories of the recent past from our minds? Can we teach those boys from Beantown why we really deserve the moniker Bronx Bombers?

For this night, Aaron Boone looked every part the genius. Sacrificing the safety of Happ for the possibility of Severino, the offensive fireworks of Andujar for the defensive wizardry of one who leaped into the heavens to pull down a line drive and justify his manager's decision.

And then there was our Judge, the one who did not need to gain approval of a committee to demonstrate this was a man well suited for his chosen field of endeavor. His first inning laser an exclamation point that calmed us down and revved us up into a frenzy at one and the same moment.

It was but a single evening, yet it embraced a much larger meaning, giving us a chance to watch the sunrise in all its glory, allowing us to bask in the warmth of a glorious early October night, permitting the dream of champagne and championships to persist.

No matter the swirl of insanity that grips our nation, at least for these nine innings, in this Stadium, sitting in our seats and standing in unison and in appreciation, all was right in the world.

Cannibalism

("The American Civil War, Part II")

We have always been a country replete with skirmishes. It is the nature of human beings and the nature of democracy. The freedom to be, to express one's views and flex one's muscles. But never, in any of our lifetimes, has it been a call to war. Until now.

It is not a case of class warfare that tears us asunder, but classless warfare, the kind employed by Republican leaders. Not merely the head of the snake filled with bile and venom, but the body coursing with fury and fanaticism, sending its poison through the system, seeking with each opportunity to strike a fatal blow.

Don't blame myriad social ills, globalization, abhorrent sexual proclivities of the powerful. The sky is not falling for any other reason then those in power on the right have made a conscious determination to take us down a path that can lead only to bloodshed, to kill or be killed, to darkness, to moral failings and absolutes.

Donald Trump is the result, hissing with hatred, destined to lead us into the abyss, a walking talking neon sign of what we can never be but somehow are.

What we have witnessed this week in our most cherished institutions is not normal. Except that, owing only to the bargain the Republican party struck with the devil, we have a new normal. A nation in perpetual crisis, in unending turmoil. 

We have become cannibals.