Not To Be TrusTed

There are strong echoes of Bridgegate in the series of grievous missteps taken by the Cruz underlings leading to the expulsion of the candidate's communications director Rick Tyler.

 

From the "misunderstanding" regarding the "suspension" of Dr. Carson's campaign to the fictitious image of Senator Rubio and President Obama in affectionate handshake, to the Bible boo-boo, there appears to be no means too crude, no action too unthinkable, to justify the ends.

And so it was for Governor Christie. Those under his command well understood the drill. Mayor Sokolich of Fort Lee was but one in a long line of the unfortunate and unknowing recipients of the bully's ire and payback. 

It is the expectation of dirty tricks that is at the diseased heart of these two politician's empires. If Senator Cruz or Governor Christie did not order these despicable acts, they were clearly fully consistent with implicit mandates. While Cruz and Christie deny any unethical intent, and attempt to portray themselves as beyond reproach, there is really no daylight between the wrongs committed by those in their employ and the puppeteers who control their every move.

Baseball, Barry Bonds and The Bigger Picture

("Why Baseball Still Needs Barry Bonds")

There may be myriad rationale why Mr.Bonds, Mr. Clemens and Mr. McGwire have found their way back into baseball's good graces. Maybe it is the power of mercy, or that time heals all wounds, While these reasons, or others, might resonate with those who love the game, the premise of the piece of Mr. Costa seems to be a three base error.

Who among us attended a Major League contest last year for the chance to see Mark McGwire emerge from the dugout? And while the sight of Barry Bonds in uniform, even that of the Miami Marlins, may pique some curiosity, it will not alter the attendance figures in any meaningful way. A blip on the radar screen at best. Mr. Clemens in the front office. So what.

If Mr. Costa feels that penance has been done by Mr. Bonds, Mr. Clemens and Mr. McGwire for their dalliances with steroids or that the punishment did not fit the crime, those are position well worth our contemplation. And if the long suffering Mr. Rose should be be given a reprieve by the baseball gods, I for one would consider this a welcome and long overdue response..

But Mr. Costa should not hide behind the fiction that baseball needs these gentlemen for its very survival. There is, and will always be, a new generation of superstars who will take center stage and shine brightly. The game endures not because of its past heroes or villains but because  there has always been, and always will be the next Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens or Mark McGwire. He is there in front of our eyes and if Mr. Costa can't see him, he is missing the point and the bigger picture.

Max Kellerman and the Republican Elite Donors - Slipping Away

("Cranks On Top")

Max Kellerman's "It feels like its all slipping away" could well be the mantra of today's donor class in the Republican party.

No longer was the Catskills the answer. Instead, "22 countries in 3 days" was what captured minds and hearts. It was now all flash and dazzle. The old ways were now just old.

There was resignation in Kellerman's voice, a recognition that nothing he could do would be enough to stop the inevitable from becoming reality. 

As Dirty Dancing closes, while Patrick Swayze ushers in a new world, loud, brash and bold,  Kellerman asks Tito the bandleader, "You have sheet music on this stuff".

Max Kellerman and the Republican elite donors both in the middle of the floor, dancing to the sounds of a different beat, looking a little uncomfortable and trying not to appear out of step and lost.

Never, Never, Never Land

Welcome to Never, Never, Never Land. It is the place where reality has vanished, where nothing has turned into everything, where an orange colored bird's nest rests atop a looking glass universe.

From here one peers out on an endless vista of pretend, on a paradise predicated on puffery, on a picture of perfection produced by fairy dust and the unbridled suspension of disbelief. 

Welcome to the land of ids and odds, of fakes and fools of fiction as function. A place where once upon a time sits on every plate and each meal consists of hot air and a large dollop of I scream.

It is a time in the distant future that is now and a place far away that is here. Here it is never dark though there is no light and never clear though one looks at forever. Here one is never wrong though never right and never speaks though always talks.

This is a place that doesn't exist but we can touch, doesn't have a mind but has a voice, doesn't know the way but leads. 

Is there a prayer we can make, a name we can invoke, a sign we can find, to turn this nightmare off? Is there a tomorrow or merely this? Is there some place to hide until the storm has passed?

Never, never, never is in our house and refuses to leave, in our heads and refuses to listen, in our hearts and refuses to lessen. Never, never, never is a a prognostication that is not, a panacea that never was.

It is a cancer not a cure, a cause with ill effect, a disease without end. It is nothing we are and everything we should not become. It is never, never, never going to happen. And yet it is here among us.

Is Bernie a One Note Wonder

('Bernie and the 'Lunatic of One Idea')

The contention that Mr. Sanders is a one note wonder is inaccurate. He is, like all those who aspire to the highest office in the land, merely looking for a message that sells, whether it be one note or a symphony.

We hear in Marco Rubio the constant attack on President Obama, in Donald Trump the endless articulation of great, great, great, win, win, win. Hillary Clinton is searching,as she did eight years earlier, for her hook. For now, it is building on the Obama legacy and taking the slow and steady course, but that is proving a tough mantra to stir the masses.

These candidates are all in a frantic search for the goose that lays the golden egg, the central message that will capture the minds and hearts of the electorate. Mr. Sanders has positions on all range of issues, from intervention in foreign conflicts to educational reform, to the disaster of mass incarceration, to the dilemma of the epidemic of drug related deaths, to all matters large and small. But what has given him traction, and what he will continue to beat like a dead horse until it proves unrewarding, is that Hillary Clinton is tied to Wall Street and Wall Street is the fundamental catalyst for what ails this nation.

These men and women who stand before us are politicians, and by their very nature, they will go wherever the votes are. To believe that Mr. Sanders is different from Ms. Clinton, Mr. Trump, Mr. Cruz, Mr. Kasich, Mr. Bush or Dr. Carson is to miss the essence of what a political campaign is all about.

Insurrection

How has Republican intransigence damaged their brand? They have shut down the government, come to the precipice of having this nation default on its debts and committed to the concept that compromise is DOA in Washington.

And yet they have, since talk of their demise after the 2008 election, made enormous gains in both the Senate and the House and turned a dominant Democratic party into one searching for answers to stop the bleeding. 

So for every Republican declaration of war on sanity and every prognostication that this one or that was a step too far, the truth has been demonstrably to the contrary.

Thus, when a Mitch McConnell draws a line in the sand and announces that the President need not waste a moment of his time proposing a replacement for Justice Scalia, there is the most important of all precedent for his action. 

It lies not in lame ducks of the past or historical appointment shenanigans but in today's reality. It resides in the fact that there has not been a price to pay for open hostility. It speaks to Republican hubris, borne of recent results, that there is no stance too severe, no action too fraught with political peril. It allows the concept of insurrection to flourish.

And thus, do not call upon Constitutional mandate or potential voter revolt to change the course set by these Republicans. For they understand they have little to fear in brandishing their collective sword and cutting the heart out of the concept of governing.

The Empty Chair

Over the coming days we will learn more than we ever imagined about the history of and impediments to filling vacancies on the Supreme Court. With the death of Justice Scalia, the thoughts of this nation turn almost immediately to the Armageddon which will ensue.

Mitch McConnell, on cue, hued to the Republican mantra. Nothing President Obama favored, and certainly no person he nominated for a seat on the highest court, would ever be deemed worthy of approval by a perpetually intractable opponent.

And while Harry Reid spoke of the unprecedented (more accurately "unpresidented") contemplations and condemnations of his senate rivals, the Republican candidates for their parties top spot on this November's ticket wasted no time in advising us of the shortening of the second term of this president to slightly more than three years. We have learned that "lame duck" has meaning far beyond prohibitions in attempting to pass significant legislation. Now it seems the "will of the people" was to elect a president who was to be fully neutered once the first people moved in herds around the gym during the Iowa caucus.

For almost 30 years, Justice Scalia brandished his own unique interpretation of the Constitution on this nation. He has done little to stop the great divide that plagues us, and many would argue his declarations and determinations have only exacerbated our problems.

With his death, we should once more consider term limits for this court, to stop the decades long stranglehold that comes with life time appointments. Over two hundred years ago, the framers of our Constitution could not possibly have imagined the extended duration that many, like Justice Scalia, would hold sway over the course of this country's affairs.

But that is a discussion for another moment. At present, we must narrow our focus to the seemingly unsolvable riddle of trying to fill an empty chair between now and next January 20th.

The Joke

("With A Slur For Ted Cruz, Donald Trump Further Splits Voters")

We have seen this act for years. It has played to millions of Americans, come into our homes and been wildly accepted. But never before without a wink and a nod, and an innate sense that, as John McEnroe would famously intone, "You cannot be serious!"

The Donald Trump speak badly and carry a big shtick campaign was first on prominent display in the form of another Don, Rickles, who laid waste to all the taboos and treated all communities with equal disdain. There is more than a hint of Mr. Trump's most famous slur of Mexicans in Mr. Rickles'

'Italians are fantastic people, really. They can work you over in an alley while singing opera."

 or echoes of the slap to the face of Carly Fiorina in this put-down from Mr. Rickles:

"Oh my God, look at you. Anyone else hurt in the accident?'

Mr.Rickles' scatter-gun denunciations were followed by the miscalculations of Archie Bunker, a character bewildered by a world changing in front of his eyes. where "conservative" values were suddenly out of favor. We heard in his butchered words, concerns like the following: 

"When the whole neighborhood turns into a smelting pot."

He insulted blacks, Jews, "fags", women and anything remotely deemed liberal. He was cast as a voice residing deep inside many. However, he was portrayed mainly as a buffoon and someone, given the opportunity and space, who would have understood the error of his misanthropic rants.

But Mr. Trump has steadfastly maintained  there is no fiction in his message. And it is in the failure to let us see beyond the mask that the real ugliness lies. Mr. Trump is an entertainer, no different on his stage than the others we watched in the past. But we do not get to shake our heads and chuckle, don't give a knowing nod and move back to reality.

The true nightmare for the Republican party and the unfolding tragedy for the nation is that those who believe in Mr. Trump believe in Mr. Trump's words. And that, unfortunately, is no joke.

One Vote for National Primary Day

The ability to communicate one's thoughts to others in our nation has grown exponentially over the past  hundred years. From a time when families huddled around a radio, if they owned one, to the introduction of television into every home, to the age of personal computers and the explosion of the internet, we now have the capacity to reach into the minds of vast swaths of our population every second of every day. 

From a day when a select few owned automobiles and travel by train was the only viable alternative, we have been elevated into the sky and can now criss-cross the country in several hours.

We have become omnipresent.

Yet we continue to treat our political process as if we were living in the age of the horse and buggy. Announcements by candidates of their decision to seek their party's nomination for the highest office in our nation, seemingly begins in earnest just after the mid-term elections.

On December 16, 2014, almost two years before we would elect our 46th President of the United States, Jeb Bush advised us that he had formed an exploratory committee regarding his possible insertion into the Republican race. It was a badly kept secret for months that he would run, as he kept the exploration fiction alive as long as possible, so he could skirt certain rules regarding contributions to candidates. Finally, on June 15, 2015, he put both feet into the water.

Others, still alive in our primary process, informed us with joy and celebration of their joining the fray on the following dates: March 4, 2015- Ben Carson; March 23, 2015-Ted Cruz; April 12, 2015- Hillary Clinton; April 13, 2015- Marco Rubio; April 29, 2015, Bernie Sanders; June 16,2015- Donald Trump; John Kasich, July 21, 2015.

Before the first ballot was cast, or more precisely before the first caucus was held, we had spent more than a half year, and in some instances almost a full year, in the constant company of those who would be our king. Their words had been broadcast in as many forums as one's imagination allowed. Each syllable was recorded, scrutinized and dissected by those who are charged with analyzing and interpreting. Their smiles had been reviewed, their frowns had been considered. And yet, here we are with miles to go before we (and they) sleep, when the primary process comes to a merciful conclusion.

If you guessed that this method of choosing a party's nominee was somewhere mandated, you would be mistaken. In fact, in the first two presidential elections, the Electoral College was tasked with determining each party's selection. Thereafter, until 1820,  the members of Congress made the selection. It was not until 1832 that a national convention of delegates, chosen by we the public, became the accepted method for nomination.

The concept of a national primary day was first birthed over 100 years ago, well before the advent of the modern age of communication. A bill was placed before Congress in 1911 for consideration of having simultaneous casting in all jurisdictions. The bill, and the many attempts thereafter to codify a rule for a one day primary voting process have all failed.

But look at what has been the result. The early states, Iowa and New Hampshire, become virtual home to the candidates. John Kasich reported having undertaken the arduous task of performing at over 100 town halls in the Granite state. Chris Christie basically abandoned governing in New Jersey (some might consider that a good thing) and then failed to garner enough support to even stay in the race after a dismal showing in the first true primary in the nation.

Meanwhile, my home state of New Jersey and others, like California, don't have our primary day until June 7. In most election years, this means that our votes simply don't count, as the front-runner has historically gathered sufficient delegates at that point to make my ballot, and those in many late states, of absolutely no import. Thus, while the first jurisdictions are bombarded with candidate love and affection, we are the unwanted step-child, ignored and without consequence.

So why then do we not strongly consider the realities of the 21st century, when each candidate has more than sufficient time, in myriad ways, to make his or her case simultaneously throughout our nation? Why not bring equal footing and equal weight to what those in my state, or California, or New York, have to say as to the candidate for each party?

Don't merely mouth the words that our inclinations towards a candidate change over time. Of course they do, but why can't all of us uniformly consider and contemplate, rather than a select few?

There is more than ample reason and justification to abandon a long since unnecessary and antiquated system. Let's get out of our horse and buggies and come into the world as it presently exists. Let's not just keep doing what we do, but let's have a national primary day in the early part of the year in which we hold our presidential election.

 We need not require the absurd period of contemplation that now prevails. By way of extreme alternative, on April 6, 2010, then prime minister Gordon Brown announced that an election for that position would be held one month later, on May 6, 2010. And so it did, with David Cameron succeeding to that office.

I am not suggesting such a radical revision, but clearly we do not need the time frame presently in place, to make our selection for party nominee. Our task is merely to pay more attention, sooner.

The Man Who Altered History

While the Republican New Hampshire primary results were unfolding, I was in a room with the man who was possibly the most responsible for what was transpiring. His name is Mark Sokolich.

It was not too many years back that Chris Christie was the darling of his party. He was practically anointed as the savior in the days and months before the  ascendancy of Mitt Romney. If Christie had wanted it, the Republican crown and sceptre were his for the asking. Even his "hug" with the enemy, in the aftermath of Sandy, was then considered an act of sanity in an otherwise insane political arena. 

All of that changed, and the fortunes of Mr. Christie began to unravel because of Mayor Sokolich. He was the impetus for and intended target of Bridgegate. He was the reason, why a foul mouthed bully not named Christie was riding high in New Hampshire and around the country. He was the reason why the junior Senator from Florida had become the target of the brutal attack of the dying gasps of the also ran Governor of New Jersey. He was, in many ways, responsible for a tectonic shift in the ground beneath us, which allowed the fissure through which Donald Trump emerged.

And yet this evening, in this crowded basement filled with mostly senior citizens was not devoted to a speech on the state of our nation but of our town. Mayor Sokolich, of Fort Lee, explained to the assembled the nooks and crannies not  of the state of disarray of the Republican party but of the development of the 16 acre parcel that sat within a stone's throw of where history was forever altered by the closing lanes of the George Washington Bridge. 

Mr. Sokolich spoke not of his role in matters larger than him, but in matters small, of tax restructuring, of public parks, of actual traffic issues, of pot holes in roads. 

He recalled that this long fallow site had once been the subject of an intended bribe of a different Mayor, of arrests, of witness protection. That attempted altering of the landscape through improper means was a crime even then. But he did not attempt to put those long ago events in the context of what had been done to him, to all of us. He did not seek to draw larger conclusions. 

Only as he readied his exit did he reference what was happening last evening outside this room, outside this town, outside the scope of what we had gathered to consider. And I wondered how he saw himself as impacting on the arc of our country. But I did not ask and he would undoubtedly not have answered. On this night he was not the man who had earned the ire of the bully and set in motion the chain of events which now seemed to alter the landscape of politics, contributed to an overriding distrust for the integrity of the political establishment, led to the demise of the Presidential aspirations of the leader of our state and the apparent derailment of the present aspirations of Mr. Rubio, but was merely the person called upon to calm nerves and provide assurances that the buildings which were rising but a few yards from where the moving of cones had closed much more than traffic were a good thing for our town.

Mark Sokolich walked out of an overcrowded basement eager, as we all were, to find out about much more than the future of our town, but of the destiny of over 300 million people. New Hampshire had proclaimed Trump triumphant and rejected  the man who sought revenge against a small town Mayor who had irritated him. Chris Christie, who had all but abandoned New Jersey and established residence in the Granite state, had been soundly thrashed. 

As he left the room, I shook the hand of the man who had set the chain of events in motion. And I told him what had occurred, giving him the details of the primary vote. I won't tell you his reply. I can only reveal that it might have surprised you.

Headaches for the N.F.L.

("One Play, Two Sides of the N.F.L." and "The Dark Side of the Super Bowl").

While football is an inherently brutal sport, it is not boxing. While there is an alarming rate of C.T.E. found in the brains of those who played in the league, the game will not suffer the same fate of damnation as pugilism. The reason lies in their difference of purpose.

For fighters, the core of their being resides in inflicting as many concussive blows to the cranium of their opponent as possible. The task is successfully completed when there is a lump of humanity, removed from conscious thought, laying at the feet of the victor.

In football, for all of its long term casualties, at its best, there is both speed and beauty, almost a ballet performed by eleven moving parts. What is intended is not the physical destruction of the opponent (although that may be the by-product) but the scoring of touchdowns and even the almost genteel act of kicking extra points and field goals.

And so, though we abhor the damage done to our gridiron heroes in later days, there is far less immediacy to the harm being inflicted. The image of football may suffer somewhat from the blows of those who charge it with negligence or worse, but like a ball carrier who is strong and adept, it will shrug off the challenges and stand triumphant in the end zone at day's end.

The Bully Pulpit

 AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST IS SCHEDULED TO APPEAR IN THE RECORD (THE BERGEN COUNTY NEWSPAPER)

This was not what Teddy Roosevelt was contemplating when he coined the phrase "bully pulpit". It was, in its original intent, an elevated platform from which one's ideas would be heard and considered. No longer.

The dissection of Marco Rubio by Chris Christie was the schoolyard bully at his best, or worst. A flustered and shaken Mr. Rubio went on "tilt" with his scripted and repeated response to Mr. Christie's accusation that he was merely an actor with rehearsed lines, not a candidate with ideas. It was a direct and brutal hit and Mr. Rubio would have been counted out if he were a fighter in a ring. 

The Republican debate season has been marked by its lows, led by the idea free Mr. Trump who spouts conclusions without underpinning, and who mocks and taunts rather than considers and contrasts. It has been a sandbox for bullies, which is Mr. Christie's natural habitat.

In the bizarre universe that is the field for the Republican candidate, there is little reason to know if last night's dismal performance was a death knell for Mr. Rubio. But for those watching the heavyweight beat up the suddenly 98 pound weakling, it was an uncomfortable and defining moment in viewing this party's 2016 notion of the bully pulpit.

Today's FedEx Service Alert

"We have no reason for any delays today. We have tried to come up with some basis, some excuse not to get your overnight package to its destination overnight, but we were unable to locate any local, regional or national disasters. There are no Mardi Gras road closings in Alabama (?), no tornadoes, no blizzards, no earthquakes. No terrorist alerts, no power outages, no catastrophes known or contemplated"

"That is not to say that we are definitely delivering your most important package when and where you think. There is the possibility of a SARS outbreak, or even a new case of Ebola that will require a quarantine exactly in the locale where you desperately need your most critical document to arrive. There is also the chance that the airplane may have a mechanical problem, the truck could break down, the driver could have a stomach ache or an endangered species could plant itself in the middle of the roadway and refuse to be relocated without an order of the court. Or maybe we are just a little slower because that is how we are feeling today."

"We are committed to providing you with the best and most reliable service in the industry.. We don't like to bad mouth our competitors but my Aunt Joan shipped a package by UPS and it was 30 minutes late in arriving. Just saying"

.

"We thank you in advance for your continued loyalty and we welcome your feedback (as long as it is positive). Again, we apologize if you are at all inconvenienced by matters outside of our control, but you should get used to it."

OK, you got me. That was not a real message from the company that notifies me, seemingly on a daily basis, why they may be experiencing problems in performing their agreed upon duties. Unlike the post office, where neither rain, sleet nor snow will keep those people from their appointed rounds, there are myriad issues that you and I would never imagine that could lead to your mother's special delivery of your favorite cookies arriving the day after your Super Bowl party.

Not all of the consequences are insignificant. When I googled "Fed Ex Service Alerts" this appeared on my screen; "FedEx is no longer experiencing national service disruptions. Any specimens that were recently delayed will be processed and reviewed as soon as possible." 

And when I focused my attention on FedEx International Mail Service for the last month I was alerted of "global hot spots"  including Rwanda where the constitutional referendum in that country resulted in no postal service on that day.

Speaking of the Super Bowl (which I did above, if you were paying attention) there is the following notice: "Operations During Super Bowl 50"- February 2-7, 2016 - "Some customers in Santa Clara and San Francisco, CA areas may experience service delays or disruptions during this time because of governmental of security measures in place for Super Bowl 50." 

You see, FedEx is a mirror for what is transpiring in the world in this most turbulent of times. Our environment is globally heated up and the plagues seem always to be at our doorstep (or at least at the doorstep of where our package is intended).  Political and social unrest and upheaval mean that we are on universal alert, a kind of perpetual lock-down and that we must be forever vigilant to the threat of attack. If caution dictates that we not rush headlong into potential disaster, if mother nature or ISIS is sending out messages of warning, then FedEx must heed its call.

But rather than contemplate tragedies and tribulations, I would rather just poke a little fun. I thought of sending my fictional message with which I began this piece to the company. I would then suggest that they run this as their service notice on April 1, 2016. Yet while I understand that my submission to them would most likely find the appropriate receptacle (that is the sound of a toilet flushing) my real fear is that my thoughts would fall into the wrong hands. And that my favorite cookies from my mother would somehow never find their way to my home, or my stomach. 

Or that FedEx would be compelled to respond in kind:

"Be aware of possible false notices. There is a rogue out there, perpetrating his own brand of mischief. He is conniving, clever and cunning. He will lull you into believing his fictions, but don't be fooled. There is no truth to the assertion that "my Aunt Joan shipped a package by UPS and it was 30 minutes late in arriving". The truth is that it was 45 minutes late."

The Night Before Caucus

Twas the day before Caucus and all over town politicians were roaming, each seeking a crown

Come Donald, come Jeb, come Marco and more, come Carly and Ted, no Bobby for sure 

There's Chris and Mike, but no longer George, now Rick, here's Ben and John's at the door

They all have a message, they all have a plan, they all come with smiles and a shake of the hand 

And while old Sanders is filling his sleigh, getting prepared for a very long day

We are greeted at home with presents a plenty, with hats and pens but never a twenty 

With promises of sugarplums and stockings all filled, with a chicken in each pot and Obamacare killed

With talk of white Christians and dreams all come true, with fairy tales and heroes and things each would do 

With terror to beat back and guns everywhere, with promises on promises and plenty to share

With reindeer, religion for God's in the mix, with passion and caring and things each would fix 

With truth in hiding and fiction as true, with rhythm and rhyme and old sold as new

With laughter and tears and all in between, with corn dogs and beer and meat that is lean 

They come like a locust, they stay half a day, then off to the next town they all slink away

They say that they love us and they will be back, and then they are off with their goody sack 

And each as they leave us and fade from our sight, wish all Merry Caucus and to all a good night.

I'm Dreaming of a Warm Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas and all through our state not a snowflake had fallen, not ever this late

The grass was still green, it should have been dead and thoughts of the golf course danced in my head

El Nino they said was the true reason that we have forgotten about winter season

So Santa sat with reindeer in tow and wondered if ever he'd put on his show

We're hurting our planet little by little, who ever thought with Christmas we'd fiddle

And Santa just waited and thought of his firing, and wondered at his age if anyone's hiring.

It was much too hot for reindeer to play and only seemed to get hotter each day

The weather forecast was surely not  pretty, said it would  reach 65 in the city

Oh I long for days of blizzards and storms not of a world dialed forever to warm

And for all the children who lay in their beds with thoughts of Santa stuck in their heads

How can we tell them what we had done, that we are the ones who ruined their fun

And if you were waiting for happy endings, with sugarplums dancing and Claus descending.

Then you must believe in fairy tales like, global warming's not due to man's oversight

The truth is we are treating our planet so poorly it needs a complete overhaul shortly

So for all the babies and Santa too, for white blankets that cover our landscape anew

For all of the Christmas dreams to come true, for sleigh bells and stockings and Dancer too

For the sake of our future and those we love most, let's try not to turn this planet to toast

If we heed these words Santa will soon be in sight, with Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.