We had a little snowstorm a week ago Monday. It blew in overnight and by Monday afternoon it was already sunny and near 50 degrees. Everything melted quickly, no harm, no foul. The schools first announced a two-hour delay, but later they closed altogether mostly because the roads were slippery and because unlike most winters here only two snow days had been used. So the kids got an extra day off, one where they could even go out and play in the sun and spring-like warmth by 1:00 PM.
It was clearly God’s joke.
The next morning I told that to the school bus driver and since then I’ve mentioned it to several people. Their responses have been interesting to say the least, and not at all what I might have expected. The people I’ve mentioned it to have laughed kind of nervously and then said yes. I think they were a bit nervous about what I was saying and I believe they were nervous about talking about God, about someone bringing God into a conversation.
What I was calling His joke was that all winter here in the northeast we’ve only had two or three snows for a total of about maybe twenty inches, if that. Last year the snow was oppressive. Boston had about one hundred-twenty inches and we had all that too. I only had to use the snow blower three times this year. Last year it was about fifteen times and there was so much snow that the blower couldn’t throw it over the mounds that had built up. So I was saying that God was laughing and saying “Look what I could’ve done if I wanted.”
Which brings me to America in the politically-correct era. Why do I have to worry about offending someone by mentioning God? Why do I have to suppress my beliefs? Atheists and the political-correctness police (PCP) don’t worry about how I feel when they spout their beliefs and tell me what I can’t do in America anymore. Let me see:
- I can’t say Merry Christmas and my town can’t display a manger scene
- I can’t say the pledge in my class because it says under God in it
- I can’t wear my military uniform to the school when I pick up my child, even on active duty and reporting to work immediately afterward or just having gotten home
- My child can’t wear a pro-America t-shirt to school, especially on May 5th, but others can wear shirts that celebrate their countries, particularly on that day
- I can’t say man as in chairman even when the person in position is a man
And on and on.
My God. We’ve gone totally bonkers. We don’t have a Congress anymore. We have a Politburo. We don’t have free expression. We have the PCP who tell us we have to suppress American beliefs and suppress personal beliefs so that some groups of people whom we can’t actually identify aren’t upset.
Bonkers, Crazy, Insane. Tell me it isn’t crazy when someone didn’t report the suspicious activity noted with the California terrorists because they didn’t want to be labeled racist. (Note how one has to change grammar so as to be gender unspecific.)
Progressives say this is progress. When the PCP finally fix it so the police nationwide are so demonized that they no longer can do their jobs and chaos finally sets in, what then? Look at all our movies, Mad Max, Anarchy, Escape From L.A., and look where we’re heading if we don’t change our course.
Walking Dead, here we come.
My new novel will be coming within the next two weeks. I See My Light is a contemporary novel that explores the directions lives take through periods of time. Sometimes funny, sometimes sexy, always offbeat and real, I See My Light will take you where you never imagined.
It was the middle of winter in Columbus Ohio and snow had been falling for several hours, a big Midwest snow. Jack had called me the night before and asked if I could take him to the airport and I’d said sure, so I walked through the snow that morning from my apartment to his to get there in time to leave early enough for him to make his flight. I’d factored in a slow drive due to the weather.
When I got to his house, Annabelle was there. She was in the kitchen making tuna fish. Jack was still in his underwear. He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Annabelle was wearing one of Jack’s shirts and nothing else that I could see. The shirt was only buttoned at one button and her breasts were pretty much hanging out there. They were cute, perky little things with dark areolas. When she bent down to give the tuna water to the cats, her whole bum showed. At nineteen and single I surely didn’t mind looking. Annabelle was nineteen too and she had a tight, firm butt that she didn’t object to showing.
She asked me if I liked what I was seeing and I said I didn’t mind, that I wouldn’t mind feeling it either. She stepped close to me and put one of my hands inside the shirt. I reached down with my other hand and she let me cop a quick feel before taking my hand away. But I could see I’d made her blush.
“You know I’m sitting right here,” Jack said.
“Well if you want to make your flight, you’d better get dressed and we’d better get going,” I said.
He got up and said he’d only be a few minutes.
In his absence, Annabelle sashayed into my arms and kissed me. We weren’t boyfriend/girlfriend and didn’t know each other all that well. In those days that didn’t matter too much. Girls were asserting their sexual freedom; pop a pill, smoke a doobie and camp in for the duration of the storm.
I asked Annabelle if I was supposed to think she was Jack’s girlfriend. She laughed so hard she had to cross her legs not to pee right there and ran to the green bathroom. I followed and watched her sit down on the toilet. “He’s a gay blade,” she said. We both heard the tinkle. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.”
Green Bathroom Jack from Miami insisted upon driving. He’d never driven in the snow and wasn’t hearing my suggestion that I handle it since I was from New York. The three of us sat in the front of Jack’s pink Ford Fairlane sedan, one of those big boats of the time. Annabelle was feeling me up on the sly and Jack was saying that he was seeing it and I kept telling him to watch the road and slow down. The radio was blasting, Doors and Led Zepplin and Crosby Stills and Nash and Neil Young and we were having a swell time until we came to the highway exit, a long uphill backwards C exit at the top of which sat a car stuck in the snow. I told Jack at the bottom of exit to start braking, but he ignored me. All the way up the hilly exit I kept telling him to brake, and mid way I told Annabelle to brace herself and relax because we were going to hit that stuck car. When Jack finally braked, we skidded. Jack hadn’t counted on that.
We hit it right in the back, pretty square from what I could see, but as luck would have it, the impact set that car free from being stuck and didn’t even put a dent in it. The guy in the car was happy to be on his way and not angry since his car was unhurt. Jack’s Fairlane was mostly unscathed and he made his flight too. Annabelle and I went back to Jack’s house and smoked his weed. We popped some reds, drank some wine and enjoyed the snow.
Coming soon, my new novel, I See My Light.
Color be damned! Kudos to Obama for being the first African-American president, but he hasn’t given us much else to laud him for. Seven years into his presidency, he is now all about his legacy and in the end that legacy will be the sum of his actions as well as the sum of his accomplishments and failures. In this regard, his not attending the funeral of Antonin Scalia is metaphoric for his pettiness and relentless partisanship, two characteristics sure to define him as a man and a president.
He began with such hope and promise. The kid from nowhere who defied all odds, he was in a classic sense the real American dream. Personally, who could ask for more? But for as great as his promise was, he was overcome by…his spite? his anger? his contempt for America? It’s a kind of fill in the blank. His words were grandiose, but his vision, despite what he would have us believe, has been myopic.
His myopic vision combined with his anger and spite led him to oversee a Justice Department that is biased and overtly unjust. Obama would have done better to have reviewed the writings of Martin Luther King Jr., for then he would have understood the true definition of laws and what they are supposed to be. He might have aspired to that. Instead, one would think that perhaps the overriding theme of his presidency is paybacks, for his many specific actions, from those insulting gifts to England through his snubbing Kate Steinle’s family (and many other such families), perhaps because they were not of color, seem nothing short of just that, paybacks. Obama chose to antagonize our allies, celebrate and cow-tow to our foes, divide our nation and its peoples.
The list of his small-ball actions is long. Conversely, the list of his accomplishments is short, and of those, his view of his accomplishments is quite different from many others such that what he calls an achievement may not be so at all. One thing is sure, and this will be part of his legacy too, he has always thought that he knows better than everyone else. He knows better than his military advisors, better than former presidents, better than foreign policy experts and economists. He is, without doubt, above everyone else, in his own mind of course.
Not attending Justice Scalia’s funeral is clearly a slap in the face to Justice Scalia and his family, to the Supreme Court, which he is also smarter than and which he looks down upon, and to the nation. It is the action of an embittered, petty political partisan, an action undercutting a president. He will be the first president not to attend a Supreme Court Justice’s funeral in 80 years, and he has nothing on his agenda for the day either. In contrast, he wouldn’t miss that upcoming trip to Cuba for the world. So once again, he lashes out at political foes and American patriots while pandering to socialist dictators with countless killings in their past. It’s totally Obama, all small ball and all very unattractive on both a personal and professional level.
Small ball player, narcissist, petty partisan who is spiteful and myopic–this will be Obama’s legacy. And he could have been so large and prominent a figure.
N.B. Obama further showed his pettiness and his penchant for small-ball by not attending the funeral of Nancy Reagan. As Ronald Reagan might have said, there you go again.
Approaching quickly now: Watch for my new novel, I See My Light.
Only one of the remaining presidential candidates, Donald Trump, is not an insider. Any way you look at it, all the others are insiders. Some of them would like us to believe they are not because this is one of those election years where being an insider is not popular, and that is an understatement. But they are insiders. The very fact that they are insiders trying to deny they are shows how much they are politicians. Not all, but surely most politicians would say anything to get elected, and in this group of insiders they all would and most already have.
Hillary would have us believe she is an outsider because she is a woman. She wants us to vote for her because she is a woman. Does that really need any further discussion? Isn’t its sheer ridiculousness apparent?
Bernie is a socialist. Is that why he says he’s an outsider? Seems as if regardless of his beliefs, however, he is an insider just by position. Margaret Thatcher said “The problem with socialism is that you eventually run out of other people’s money.”
All the rest on both sides are simply insiders. But that doesn’t mean they are not good candidates or would or wouldn’t be good presidents. It only means they are part and parcel of the political establishment.
Personally, Ben Carson was probably the most human-life-oriented candidate and the one most focused on the integrity of America, Americans and American citizens. He gets criticized for being slow, but imagine how meticulous a brain surgeon has to be. He is surely an outsider and he brings a unique skill set to the race. Would he have made a good president? Who knows? He certainly is a man of integrity and a true humanist. But then that rules him out.
Donald Trump is a true outsider and a real maverick. He scares the establishment and if that isn’t obvious, let the campaigns against him, from the media to the general political establishment, do the articulation of it. Trump more than any other candidate has the ability to upset their apple carts, to show them for who and what they are, to make clear to the public what they have been doing for so long. It’s that simple. In part, they are afraid of him because he has contributed to many of them, the polite way of saying he has bought favors from them, and he isn’t afraid to say so. He is neither apologetic about it nor ashamed of it. True to what it is, paying them off is the price of doing business in this country and that is what they do not want brought to the light. Hence it’s stop Trump at all costs.
Would Trump be a good president? Who knows? One thing is sure. Stopping him is more a matter of the insiders protecting their collective asses and maintaining their corrupt status quo than it is a matter of whether or not he is a conservative or if he would be a good president.
Generally, the ones screaming the loudest are most guilty, in this case the ones with the most to hide. Generally they are the ones looking to keep what they’re doing from being exposed and hence stopped. That applies here. Surely those insiders are not trying to stop Trump for any other reason than he might just show the system to be what it is and doing that would surely not be good for them. That applies to some of the media too.
The louder they all scream and fight to stop Trump, the more we can believe they are only interested in protecting themselves and the less we can believe they are interested in the good of America. And that statement has nothing to do with whether or not Trump should be president or would make a good president.
Watch for my new novel, I See My Light, coming soon on Amazon.
For eight hours Murph sat in Jack’s bathtub. He’d taken LSD and was tripping his brains out. “Look at the green,” he said over and over again. “Look at the green.” Jack’s bathroom was painted loud, tropical green. Jack was from Miami, so tropical colors were his norm. Each room in his house was done in a different color: wine and gold and paradise blue to name a few.
Jack was a dancer in UDC. Everyone thought he was one of the rare, straight male dancers, but that was because he hadn’t come out yet. Rell lived with him. Rell had tripped for two years straight and his brain was totally fried. He saw things in terms of his trips and only spoke that way. “Oh,” he would say, “that was trip number fifty-seven, mushrooms.” He was medium height and wiry with a full afro though he wasn’t black. After Jack came out, well, maybe Rell was his lover, maybe not.
Hiding that he was gay, Jack ended up aggravating a lot of people on both sides of the field. Some of the gays were piqued because he’d snubbed them, even rebuffed them. The straight male friends were irked because they’d changed clothes side by side, even skinny dipped together. Some of the straights wondered what kind of game Jack was running. Really, though, in the end, it was just his inadequacies.
Jack had two humongous cats, both grey tiger stripes. Everyone had taken mescaline and smoked a whole lot of dope. Murph had popped some reds too and he was drinking white wine from the bottle. Led Zeppelin was playing on the stereo. They were in the kitchen hanging out and it took awhile before anyone noticed that the cats had caught a mouse and were playing with it by sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen and batting it across the room. Murph had snuck up on Annabelle and wrapped her in his arms. He was kissing and nibbling on her back. Jack was baking hash brownies and Rell wore a flowered apron over his jeans and t shirt. He was barefoot and so was Annabelle. She and Rell were planning to do their toes red. “Red toes,” Rell said, “that was trip one hundred. MDA.”
Tim came in from outside, and stepping into the kitchen, he was the one who noticed the cats. “Don’t you see what the cats are doing?” He was freaked. Jack just handed him the joint being passed around and Rell said, “Trip number twenty-three, mice and cats. That was purple dot acid.”
“My first trip was purple dot acid,” Murph said. “I took it going through the midtown tunnel in New York. We were on our way to the Fillmore East.”
“The mouse is still alive,” Tim said.
“Have a brownie,” Jack said, taking they tray out of the oven. They all watched, mesmerized, as the cats battered the life from the defenseless mouse.
Meet Murph in depth: I See My Light, a contemporary novel coming soon on Amazon.