Threading the Political Needle

This is the Republican response AFTER Christine Blasey Ford's testimony:

"She is a remarkable woman, courageous for coming forward to bring to this nation's attention her concerns regarding Judge Kavanaugh. But while we believe she may well have suffered the attack of which she complains, we cannot conclude that this was the act of the man who stands accused.

We have listened to Brett Kavanaugh deny this assault in clear and unambiguous terms. We have no corroborating evidence that he committed these wrongs save that the complainant first made and later repeated these allegations some three decades after their occurrence. We have a lifetime of evidence that would stand in contradiction, that would strongly suggest that Brett Kavanaugh was not the perpetrator of this wrong but merely the unfortunate victim of a case of mistaken identity.

We fully appreciate Ms. Blase Ford's testimony and her honest attempt to inform this body, but we must reject the same if we are to be faithful to our duty to those we serve.

There is great tragedy here. The wrongs sustained by those like Christine Blasey Ford have far too long been ignored or minimized, women's voices crying out in pain the subject of ridicule or scorn. We stand before you to say this lack of compassion, of understanding, of belief in the integrity of those who speak of grievous wrongs, will no longer be tolerated. Not today or in the tomorrow's to come. But we cannot and will not make Brett Kavanaugh suffer for the misdeeds of others, nor for our past transgressions in this country's treatment of claims of sexual assault.

Simply put, Brett Kavanaugh is deserving of this nation's trust and our vote for confirmation."

The above is forever after to be referred to as threading of the political needle.

Extinguished

("Trump Administration Aims to Sharply Restrict New Green Cards For Those On Public Aid")

Give me your tired (but not those wearied of war and the smell of death), your poor (but not those whose hands are too deeply in our coffers), your huddled masses yearning to breathe free (but not those little ones gathered in cells bewildered and beleaguered by an openly hostile universe).

We have abandoned the principle that was our beacon of light. Dismissed in anger, consumed by the excrement that masquerades as concern for our own well being.

"Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me."

It has become the empty and darkest of nights 

Danger residing deep within our troubled souls

We are blind to the pain directly in our sights

Our beating heart turned hard, harsh and cold

We are deaf to the sound of their fervent cries

As if they are but a grain of sand on our shores

We are lost in a sea of endless aching lies

And Lady Liberty resides among us no more.

Welcome to the World

To my granddaughter:

I wish for you a heart full of compassion, a mind full of questions, eyes that see not what we are but what we can be, legs that take you where your dreams insist,  arms filled with love, a voice that demands the best in others and in yourself.

 I wish for you that every pain passes quickly, that each tear dries instantly, that the darkest night leads swiftly to the brightest day, that heartaches are few and vanish in the blink of an eye, that you are fierce and resilient, able to weather each storm with certainty and determination.

I wish for you that you are filled with wonder and expectation, joy and happiness, smiles and laughter, wit and humor.

I wish for you that your life is one of which you are proud, that each year brings you satisfaction, each day brings you hope, each moment brings you knowledge.

I wish for you that you feel in the core of your being the depth of a parent's love, the breadth of a family's trust in your greatness and potential to change the universe.

I wish for you that you believe in your own capacity, you rely on your strengths, you strive to meet all your promises, you act not on your fears but on your visions.

I wish for you romance and passion, excitement and anticipation, the touch of one that brings meaning beyond all others.

I wish for you a long and important life, deep and abiding respect for others, the desire to make this planet a better place than the one delivered to you, causes that stir you to act, ideas that matter and demand your attention.

I wish for myself that I am a part of your existence, that I bring you pleasure, that you await my arrival and are saddened by my departure. I wish that I am privileged to witness you in all your glory.

My wishes for you are without end. But beyond all I wish you are a good and decent person.

Welcome to the world. I love you.


COPYRIGHT 2018 ROBERT S. NUSSBAUM

Tears of Sadness in Victory

We all rooted for Serena. Our American idol, almost two decades on top of the tennis world, domination interrupted only by the arrival of her child and the very real complications of childbirth. Now at the ready to reclaim the throne here, at home in NYC, at our Open. A perfect fairy tale ending. And then this.

We can argue the merits of Serena's claims of sexism another day, the propriety of prohibiting coaching during the match, the consequences of an outburst resulting in the loss of a game at such a crucial juncture.

But what struck me most was how the joy of the moment was sapped from a 20 year old new star on the horizon. Tears of sadness and pain, not accomplishment and wonder, making her cover her face in the immediate aftermath of her astounding victory. Serena eventually recognizing that her anger was doing such damage to this young woman who was among the many who revered our American Idol. And then publicly lamenting that her unhappiness had spilled over to the other side of the net.

This was to have been Naomi Osaka's time in the sun. Sadly, it was not. I applaud her for her extraordinary skill and determination. But most of all I will remember this day for why she cried.

The less than supreme Supreme Court nomination hearing

The nomination hearing for Mr. Kavanaugh is ludicrous, a series of questions intended to increase the reputation of the solemn and increasingly discouraged inquisitors followed by replies intended to convey that either Mr. Kavanaugh is suffering from early onset Alzheimer's or that he doesn't have one fully formed opinion in his head.

It is a preordained determination masquerading as an important exercise in the preservation of our democracy. The Republicans already envisioning future victories for years to come, the Democrats still with righteous, smoldering indignation that two Supreme seats have now been stolen from them, one by a refusal of the opposition to acknowledge even the existence of Merrick Garland, the other a likely combination of bad timing on the part of James Comey and bad intentions on the part of Mr. Putin. 

There is no chance that even one Republican will break rank, no matter their opposition to some of the nominee's uglier positions, no matter his penchant for bending truth and logic. And so we are left with little or nothing to show for this show. 

Except, perhaps, increasing angst that our democracy has come to this. 

The Identity of Deep Throat, Revealed

Who is Deep Throat, Mr./Ms. Anonymous? 

It was a question I posed to my "sources" at the New York Times yesterday. Only give me the initials, I said. "And I promise not to tell anyone."

Surprisingly, the identity was not revealed to me. But then I, like countless other millions, began my own investigation, looking for clues in every syllable of the Op-Ed. And suddenly it struck me, the answer as obvious as the orange color of the President's face. A lightning bolt of revelation. It was Donald Trump himself.

The initials were the "tell". It was not mere serendipity that the last unknown hero and this one shared the same first letters. It was a clue, really the clue.

Mr. Trump was desperate to be released from the bondage of his office, the slings and arrows, the sticks and stones, the names that really did hurt him, finally all too much to take. The months and months of having to fight against an army of enemies who existed at every turn, too exhausting to allow him to continue. But he could not admit defeat, not to the public. It would be too humiliating to perp walk himself through the streets of DC, his bird's nest on the top of his head shorn, Samson no more.

And thus he conceived of his seemingly bizarre exit strategy, convinced that no one would possibly consider that he would orchestrate his own demise, certain in his knowledge that even the most astute would not reach the conclusion the President himself would ask the failing New York Times to be a co-conspirator in his own coup.

Only he knows the way this will play out in the coming days. He will manipulate us as he has every day of this presidency, pulling and pushing us hither and yon. Finally, one day we will awaken and the great man will be gone. And then we will be left with Pence.

We never thought we would long for George W. and his reign of Terrible.  But then D.T. came along and we learned the true definition of nadir. Until P.P.(President Pence) P.P's all over us. And then we will once again grieve what we no longer have. A bad case of the D.T's seeming much more palatable in our rear view mirror.

This man is a true genius.

It Was the Best of Times. Or At Least, the Hottest.

It was one of those August days. When there seemed no air to breathe. When the temperature and humidity decided to try to collide at 100. When being outside was as dangerous to your mental well being as your physical.

Kind of the perfect storm of reasons not be wandering around a golf course for six hours. Particularly if you were not even playing. And your interest in the sport was definitely more lukewarm than the thermometer. And if you were in your last month of pregnancy you might strongly consider an alternative adventure for the day. Make that any alternative.

But there we were, my son, my wife, my daughter, with her omnipresent companion, and myself, from nearly sunup to sundown. We had all gathered to witness our daughter's husband attempt an ascent to the peak of this particular Mt. Everest, the club championship.

It was not enough that he was performing against an opponent of great skill, by most considered more than his match. He also carried the weight of winner's past, seeking to become the fourth successive generation of his lineage to wear the champion's crown. His mom and 91 year old grandma part of the human caravan wandering these hills, serving as constant reminder of the greatness of his golfing heritage.

For six hours the battle raged. Not only did I, as someone who has spent six decades with this sport's futility as a constant presence, find the event compelling, but so, amazingly, did the rest of my crew. My wife of 41 years, almost never subject to the fluttering of a nervous stomach, now riveted to the twists and turns of the moment. 

As for the pregnant lady, sometimes walking barefoot and looking for all the world as if she would, at any moment, announce the baby's imminent arrival, she was definitely going nowhere until the last putt had found its way into the cup. Even if she had to give birth on the final green.

One small asterisk was that I have a sneaking suspicion my son found the food at the halfway house nearly as memorable as the travails and triumphs unfolding upon this stage.

In the end neither rain (briefly torrential), suffocating heat nor that four putt on the fourth, could keep our hero from his appointed seat on the throne. He seemed to will his way to victory, refusing to allow his opponent any more than the most minimal of emotional air to breathe, the universe outside virtually identical to the one inside this contest.

He did not to wilt under the weight of expectations but thrived in them, absorbing the stress as easily as he did the scorching sun. In fact, as the euphoria pulsed over him, my son in law announced that, apart from every day with his bride, this was the best six hours of his life. A very wise young man indeed.

When husband and wife walked hand in hand, one golf shoed the other barefoot, up that last fairway and into glory, it was, for me, like the final scene of a movie too good to be true.

As for that unborn child, I could only wonder if she now felt pressure, in utero, of her quest to become a next generation star. Maybe even more pressure than she was exerting on her mom's belly.

I envisioned being part of her gallery on that day in the future. On an air conditioned course. Why not dream the biggest dream you can?

Mutiny?

("I Am Part of the Resistance Inside the Trump Administration")

Are we to be grateful for these "heroes" of the administration, tasked with keeping the worst of Mr. Trump's impulses under control? 

Don't applaud yourself when you have allowed what you know is a grave danger to this nation to fester. Don't tell us it would be worse if you were not guarding us. If your sworn duty is to country over party, over self, then you long since had an obligation, a mandate, to not allow one more moment to pass without confronting this plague head on.

You have been complicit, an unindicted co-conspirator. You have colluded with others of your rank to protect not your country but your station and the charlatan masquerading as President. 

Do you want to be a hero? Show us your face and inform us in the light of day you are willing to sacrifice your career, and your party's future if necessary, to rid us of the madman. That there are things worth metaphorically dying for.

This is a battle not for the faint of heart or spirit. But it is a moment in our history that demands such a person step forth. Of such are heroes truly born. 

Whose Funeral Was It Anyway?

("Mourning McCain, and America")

Whose funeral was it anyway? We mourned not merely the death of John McCain but the life of Donald Trump. Not merely the heart of McCain but the heartlessness of Trump. Not merely the loss of hope for a better tomorrow but the omnipresent fear of a worse today.

We came as much to bury our Caesar as to praise John McCain. It was remarkable that even without stepping foot into the sanctuary Donald Trump was seemingly front and center. Every speaker's remarks a rebuke of all Mr. Trump represented. It was a stark reminder of how much air in the room he occupies.

Whose funeral was it anyway? Miss Goldberg is accurate in her reporting of America's demise, at least the America symbolized by the best of John McCain, for it has now been buried deep in the quagmire. And thus we wailed our lamentations over a man who golfed while this country burned in its resentment for his continued assault upon the values we hold dear.

If I Only Had a Brain

I would speak a little better

Read a book or write a letter

Stop drivin' you insane

I would stop all my tweetin', 

Stop behavin' like a cretin

If I only had a brain

I would sop up Keats and Plato

Or just stop bashing NATO

Maybe learn to fly my plane

I would start actin' nicer

Might even bring back Spicer

If I only had a brain

Oh I roar like a lion

But inside me I'm cryin'

Cause every little thing riddles me

Like one plus one, does it make three

Oh that Putin thinks he's so smart

But inside he has no heart

Oh he's drivin' me insane

I could shut up Mueller

Such a detestable fellow 

If I only had a brain

We could win the midterms easy

I might stop being sleazy

Might even cut my mane

But for now I'm a bad man

Just a really, really sad man 

Cause I don't have a brain

Oh I roar like a lion

But inside me I'm cryin'

Cause every little thing riddles me

Like one plus one, does it make three

That yellow brick road I'd sure find

The trip I know I'd not mind

Brave the wind or hurricane

Oh I'd be oh so clever,

Like Obama only better

If I only had a brain

Oh I'd be oh so clever

Like Obama only better 

If I only had a brain

COPYRIGHT 2018 ROBERT S. NUSSBAUM