Thanks

I thought I would finish this year of angst filled blogs by stepping away from the edge of the abyss. I wanted to send a note of thanks to all of you who have put up with me not only this year but for nearly a decade.

I know my thoughts can be repetitive, that there is a fine line between dogged pursuit and obsession. I know there is an endless supply of other voices for you to turn to, a virtual world at your fingertips and that there are millions of others more clever, more precise, more of so many positive qualities I do not possess.

But still there are those who not only tolerate me but seek me out and for that I am  in your debt. You give me the motivation to put my ideas on the page, to think more clearly about what I feel, to try to more accurately decipher a world that is often perplexing.

I understand my failures far outweigh my successes. I know that many more walk away, disinterested or worse, than remain. I apologize to those who feel their time has been wasted in my company.

But this piece is not written to them, but to you. Thank you for letting me into your homes, your heads and hopefully your hearts. My promise to you is to try to do better tomorrow and in the tomorrows to come. I can only hope to be worthy of the faith you have shown in me.

And so, as this often bizarre year comes to a close I offer you the one present I can for 2018: my best effort.

Speak to you soon.

The Sky is Falling

("The End of Trump and the End of Days")

We live in a land of hyperbolic frenzy where it seems near impossible not to be swallowed up by the carnival atmosphere. But Mr. Bruni is correct. Not everything signals the imminent collapse of democracy. Not every day is the end of the world as we know it.

Mr. Trump has exhausted us with a constant barrage of inexcusable comments and an inexhaustible supply of missteps. And in the process we have lost much of our collective capacity to distinguish wheat from chaff. Bad morphs forever into the worst ever.

We have caught the President's disease of turning small into large, like his proclamation that a few hirings at Carrier or the issuance of a few bonus checks after the passage of the tax "cuts"  were emblematic of a much grander, albeit non-existent, change in the country. Or one death in San Francisco as a justification for mistreatment of millions.

We cannot lose sight of the big facts and greater truths that make this presidency everything it is not: destruction of relationships around the globe, attempted environmental decimation, authoritarian acts to diminish the media and first amendment rights, unconstitutional and ill conceived actions to thwart immigration, the intentional decision to neuter his own agencies like the FBI and the DOJ, to name but a few of the more egregious disasters.

There are enough fault lines in this administration to crack it open like the San Andreas fault. But if we insist on focusing on each little fissure, we face the real risk of missing the big hole right in front of our face.

The sky may be falling, just not everywhere at once.

Diminished

 AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST IS SCHEDULED TO APPEAR IN LETTERS TO THE EDITOR IN THE NEW YORK TIMES

There has been much discussion on the word of the year. I believe that word should be diminished.

In 2017 we have witnessed Mr.Trump's destructive comments on North Korea, on Israel, on NATO, on NAFTA on the United Nations, on the Paris accord, on the deal with Iran, on the very idea of immigration.

In 2017 we have watched as Mr. Trump filled the seat rightfully that of Judge Garland with Justice Gorsuch, and stacked the Federal bench with those most willing to do his bidding.

In 2017 we have seen the gutting of our State Department leaving posts woefully understaffed, our diplomatic capabilities in tatters, impotent.

In 2017 we have recoiled as our environmental laws have been overturned and we have forced each state to be protector of our lands and the very air we breathe.

In 2017 we have been informed that our rich are not rich enough, our poor can get still poorer and the sick ever sicker.

In 2017 we learned how tenuous was our hold on the truth, how unrepentant the President was for his mountain of bold faced lies, how vulnerable the media to the unrelenting attack of the occupier of the Oval Office and his merry band of henchmen.

In 2017 we have been horrified as the party in power shut its eyes and genuflected before the most pervasive,  pernicious, immoral excuse for a leader this country has ever witnessed.

In 2017 we have been outmaneuvered and outplayed by China and Russia as they have watched and waited for the next inevitable opening.

In 2017 we have heard a President cannibalize his own from the FBI to the Department of Justice as he clawed to protect himself above all else.

In 2017 we have, in our eyes and those around the globe, in so many arenas and on so many levels, been nothing so much as diminished.

The Night Before Christmas 2017

Twas the night before Christmas

When suddenly appeared

A creature before me

Not full with white beard

But a strange shade of orange

His face all aglow

But not from the sun

The wind or the snow

A nightmare his presence

Repulsed by his sight

Why come you before me

On this holy night

I come bearing tales

He said with a smile

And like it or not

I'll stay for a while

And so with my children 

Safely tucked in their bed

He reached up and pulled out 

Some thoughts from his head

He told me of high walls

Of the naughty not nice

He told me of laws

He tried to pass thrice

He told me of small birds

The ones he called tweets

He told me of Dreamers

Who I could not meet

He told me of Spicer 

Of Conway and Flynn

He told me that those

Were the ones without sin

He told me how taxing

This turned out to be

He told of big presents

For a few, just not me

My stocking was empty

And so it would stay

For he was not Santa

Was all he would say 

He talked and he talked

But it just made me mad

No love lived within him

And that made me sad

What kind of Christmas

Will this ever be

I  pray to dear God

Get him far, far from me

And then just like that

Up the chimney he rose

His fat ass was gone

I could just see his toes

Stuck for a second

Then he pulled far away

My nightmare was over

At least for the day

And so on the night before Christmas next year

If there is a chance for some true Christmas cheer

I'll stuff up the chimney and turn off the lights

And hope that the orange man's nowhere in sight

The Congress Who Stole Christmas

("Tax Bill Hysteria")

So maybe the sky didn't fall when Mr. Trump signed the tax bill into existence. No locust, fiery hail, boils or frogs. God didn't decide enough was enough and turn the President to stone. But that doesn't mean this was not an apocalyptic disaster.

This legislation marks the end of Christmas, not its beginning. In the season of brotherhood towards all it stands as unqualified statement of man's inhumanity to man. Mr. Stephens can suggest otherwise, but he fully comprehends in the recesses of his cranium that the Republican soul at work here was not filled with compassion, not focused on lifting up, not representing this country in its finest hour but diminishing it in one of its saddest.

When the true effects of this subterfuge are eventually felt there will be more poverty, more sickness, more suffering. We did not form this Union for such malevolent purpose nor send those we appointed to the Hill to be creators of misery on our behalf.

Shame on those who pretend there was some higher intention at work here. God knows you can do better than this. And more importantly, you know it as well. Don't take pride in what you have done. 

You are the Congress who stole Christmas.

A Christmas Tale - 2017

This is the Christmas nightmare entitled "Screwed."

It stars Little Fingers Trump as the tax man and features poor and crippled Chip as the boy in grave danger of losing his health care and his health.

The story occurs virtually in the dark. We see almost nothing, only hearing voices of the choir singing of Neverland, a place that does not exist where being a reverse Robin Hood works out just swell for the have nots.

There is a cameo by Houdini who makes the lower class disappear.

It is a jumbled mess of a tale as Little Fingers' nose gets ever and ever longer while his lies take him to Pinnochioland.

On Christmas morning Chip awakens to find a lump of coal in his stocking. It is stamped "made in the new mines of Pennsylvania thanks to Little Fingers."

Most of the audience is befuddled, confused, depressed and scared by the unfolding horror. They have come seeking a Christmas miracle of goodness and redemption but have found only a stinking universe filled with hot air and alms for the rich.

As the play concludes, the choir serenades all to a tune that sounds much like Silent Night. Only this one goes "all's not swell, nothing's right."

Ho, ho, holy crap.

The Truth, The Whole Truth and Anything But the Truth

("Trump's Lies vs. Obama's")

When the goal is not for the narrative to fit the facts, but the facts to fit the narrative, you get the death of truth, commonly known as the presidency of Donald Trump.

We recognize that politicians are politicians not saints, even President Obama. Putting a slant on reality is an essential tool of the trade. But Mr. Trump does not stretch or bend logic, he ignores its physics. To make a comparative analysis of the actions of this President and his predecessor on the matter of prevaricating is to bring the concept of false equivalency to a new low (or high possibly).

We now wake each morning bracing ourselves against the latest attack on reality, girding ourselves against another early morning assault on our brains. We are grateful when Mr. Trump is silent. How can that be the best we can expect?

Adding up the lies that emanate from the mouth and fingers of Donald Trump is like counting the number of grains of sand on the beach. After a while you just have to give up trying.

Of Weddings and Funerals

There is a symmetry to our existence, a coming and going, a beginning and end, a greeting and a farewell. And then there is everything in between.

There are definitely phases we pass in and out of every few years, seeming each time to create a new set of clothing out of whole cloth. And I am entrenched in one now.

Today marks the fourth funeral I am attending in rapid succession after a summer of an equal number of weddings. Tis the season to be jolly, or not.

I am not big on paying attention to my attire, as anyone who has even a passing interest in my existence can attest. Thus while I have my celebrating life ensemble and my mourning death one I fear the two are remarkably alike, or maybe even one and the same.

And really, like my choice of ensemble, the line between life and death tends to blur. Those who I have recently come to bid adieu all resided on this earth since, well, let's just say before FDR was FDR. So these are really occasions where sadness is on the periphery. Memories and laughter abound, food is plentiful and the time in many ways passes more easily then trying to shout over the music of the band.

Strangely, in some bizarre universe, given the choice of competing alternatives, heading to a funeral doesn't seem so bad. In the better ones, you learn an interesting tidbit or two about the newly dearly departed. She was funnier then you ever thought. He was certainly a handsome young man and a far more generous person then you ever imagined. And, as an added bonus, if you don't like eating dinner at midnight, that is not an issue you have to fret about.

Don't get me wrong, I choose life over death every day. To know the young couple standing before me is eager to begin their journey into the unknown is exciting and wonderful. It is a time of unending hope and possibilities (which unfortunately cuts both ways).

My daughter married this year and it was without a doubt one the most joyous moments I could ever imagine. It filled my heart to overflowing. But also  this year my mom passed away at 99. Her funeral and the mourning period thereafter was, for me at least, much more pleasure than pain, more smiles than tears and more cookies, cakes, lox and bagels, good wishes and warm thoughts then I thought possible.

Life is made of diametric opposites, clear lines where things start and stop, where first breaths are taken and last ones expelled, where there is only a future or merely a past. But the reality is there can be more in common then not with the start and the stop, with happy days and sad ones, with highs and lows, with what is and what will be.

And you should rest easy knowing there are bagels and lox awaiting all along the way.

Harrison Smith Kane

He was born yesterday, seven pounds three ounces, beautiful and totally unaware of what a lucky boy he is.

He is my grand nephew. I have not met him yet but I love him. I love him for many reasons but one is that he has a perfect middle name. 

My mom, Dorothy, was one of five Smith children. When she passed earlier this year, the last of that spectacular group was gone. And a little of what made me, made my sister, who we are seemed lost as well.

But Harrison Smith Kane has informed us that I was mistaken. That through his veins runs the blood of those who came before, that the Smiths will always be remembered, that the values they demonstrated remain, that Harrison stands (or will soon enough) as testament and tribute to a greatness that did not die with my mom's last breath.

Harrison Smith Kane will make his own way in life, make his own mark and create his own legacy. I am most thankful for his presence, most eager to see where the future takes him but first I want to thank him for the lasting gift he has already bestowed upon me, upon us.

No Moore

So this is how Donald Trump, with a lot of help from Roy Moore, can impact our land. How a state which has forever been the deepest shade of red is, at least in this moment, the color of the most radiant cloudless sky. And so the Alabama crimson tide has turned, while we wonder aloud if this is mere aberration or the birth of a new nation.

We should not be misled, for even with the worst of candidates supported by the worst of presidents, even with many in his own party calling him unfit to be elected, even in this moment of national awakening on the issue of sexual assault, Roy Moore quite nearly became the choice of a majority of those who cast their ballot.

But there is no mistaking that this win by Doug Jones had meaning. The malignancy that is Mr. Trump has spread disease throughout his party, and his fingerprints are all over this loss. As much as Roy Moore suffered defeat tonight so did Donald Trump.

This is the first night in over a year, since that terrible Tuesday last November, where there is a glimmer of hope that the hell we have all endured, the hatred, the bigotry, the small minds and empty hearts may finally have their day of reckoning.

Our thanks to those voters in Alabama who have cast off the allegiances so deeply ingrained in them and announced to all of us that enough is enough. 

Tonight was a victory for the soul of America.

And the Award Goes To

Nominees for worst actor/actress in a supporting role:

10.  Sarah Huckabee Sanders - she gives new meaning to chutzpah.

9.  Betsy DeVos - everyday is another lesson in why a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

8.  Rick Perry - he should have never remembered that third department he wanted to decimate.

7. Ben Carson - he was right that this was a job he was not qualified to perform.

6. Anthony Scaramucci - it does take a certain unique talent to get fired from a position even before you officially begin.

5. Kellyanne Conway - she may be the odds on favorite for her contribution of alternative facts to the lexicon

4. Steve Bannon- he molded Mr. Trump from a mere harmless lump of clay into a weapon of mass destruction

3. Jared Kushner - how can one man with so little training have a voice on so many subjects (this appears to be a family trait).

2.  Ivanka Trump - repeat number 3, except insert woman for man.

1. Paul Manafort, Michael Flynn, Rick Gates and George Papadopoulos - maybe this group will soon be receiving the highest award possible - the One No Trump for bringing a presidency to its knees.

There are so many more who are eminently qualified for this award. I apologize if you have been slighted. I know my personal favorite did not even make the list, Sean Spicer, an idiot's delight. 

To all nominated : keep up the the bad work, you richly deserve this recognition

Moronic

("Franken Offers Resignation, and a Parting Shot at Trump")

It is not "ironic", as Mr. Franken suggests, that he has now been compelled to vacate his post while Mr. Trump, who has without question committed a lifetime of far greater sins, remains firmly entrenched. It is moronic.

Mr. Trump is the embodiment of depravity, willing to do or say whatever suits his fancy, seemingly freed from ethical and moral constraints. His boorish behavior, his outlandish statements, his indifference to truth, are not aberrations but his soul and heartbeat.

He has methodically and consistently treated women with contempt and leveled abuse, both verbal and physical, upon them without care or reprisal. But his capacity to inflict pain extends far beyond this arena, swallowing up the poor, the disabled, the immigrant,  virtually anyone and everyone who is not rich, white and kneeling at his throne. 

He is the living antithesis of the statue that sits upon the Hudson. His is an existence spent without compassion, without understanding, without giving, without any of the qualities that make one good, that make one great. 

And so Mr. Franken departs even as Mr. Trump looks for his next victim and Roy Moore awaits his impending election to the same body that, in virtual unison, has demanded the junior Senator from Minnesota stand down.

This is not intended as full throated defense of Mr. Franken, but rather as indictment of those who remain unscathed by their breaches.

"Ironic"? No, it is beyond sickening. 

Let Them Eat Cake (Part Two)

("A Baker's First Amendment Rights")

Pure nonsense.

We should be concerned with protecting the rights not of the white cake baker who is offended by the notion of same sex marriage, but rather with those who are members of a suspect class of persons who have been the historical target of unremitting hatred and prejudice.

This country was founded on the principle that all people, women as well as men, gays as well as straights, black as well as white, were created equal. And if we allow our rulings to advocate against that precept then we are indeed failing in our essential purpose.

This is not the story of an aggrieved baker, but of two men hungry not for food but mere acceptance as equal members of our society.

Let them eat cake.

Let Them Eat Cake

("Even the Bernini of Buttercream Has to Serve Gay Couples")

If he were not a builder of cakes but of homes could he refuse to sell his "creation" to a gay couple, or a black couple, or an interracial one? 

Are we back on the bus, or at the restaurant counter in 2017? Is there a separate water fountain or bathroom for those who do not fit neatly into one's concept of who belongs as equal members of and participant's in our society?

This couple was seeking a cake, not the blessing, of the proprietor. And for the money exchanged, they were not receiving a morsel of love, or even respect. Just the right to be considered as unimportant as anyone else.

To be or not to be, that is the question.

Cut

Cut to the quick.

Cut to the bone.

Cuts on the sick.

Cuts on their homes.

Cut to the chase.

Cut to the core.

Cuts on their face.

Blood on the floor.

Give me my cut

Give me my due

Give me enough but

Nothing for you

Cut out the nonsense

Cut out the lies

Cut off the weak

Cut off their cries

Give me my cut

Give to us few

Give all I want 

For them not a sou

Cut to the shot

Cut on my cue

Cut out the rot

To whom nothing is due

Give me my cut

Give me what's right

Give me a beacon

I'll cut off their light

Cut off the many

Just make them pay

Don't give them any

It's mine anyway

Cut off their hope

Cut out their heart

Just give me my cut

I need a fresh start

Cut them all down
Like so many trees
They make no sound
When they cease to be

Cut them a break
No that's not the way
Give them no voice
They've nothing to say

Cut to the quick.

Cut to the bone.

It makes me sick.

To call this my home.

Numbers on a Page

("Republican's Tax Lies Show the Rot Spreads Wide and Runs Deep")

How does one measure incalculable loss?

1.5 trillion, 13 million, as though disembodied from their own reality.

There is an obscenity hidden as figures dance across our screens, enter our minds but then disappear in an avalanche of distractions and distortions.

It seems but an abstraction, no matter the doom and disaster prophesied for the many who will certainly feel the wrath of this abomination. 

24,000 is today's calculus on the dizzying ascent of the stock market. Meanwhile, the human cost of legislation wrapped in cruelty, moving inexorably forward, does not fit neatly into the equation.

A loss of morality as acceptable collateral damage. All really nothing more than numbers on a page.