I am a letter writer

 I am a letter writer

Been doing this way too long 

Day after day and year after year

Trying to right the wrong

I take to the computer

And tell you all a tale

Making it up as I go along

Writing it down as I sing my song

Listen while I wail

I am a letter writer

See evil all around

Sin after sin, losers who win

Danger just abounds

I hate bad politicians

Who lead us all astray

Making crap up as they go along

Turning right into very wrong

That is the game they play

I am a letter writer

Telling papers what I know

The New York Times my best friend

When they put me in the show

And when they print my writing

My head begins to swell

Looking for praise wherever I gaze

Aren't I great all congregate

To say I gave them Hell

 

I am a letter writer

With an audience of one

Keeping myself entertained

Is all that I have done

I cannot move the needle

Didn't even make it budge

Making a name, trying for fame

Burned out an extinguished flame

Trying to touch the sun

And so I write this letter

In apology to you

A little man with bigger plans

Too big for his own shoes

I hope you will forgive me

I mean to do no harm

Doing my best to pass the test

Trying to prove I really could

With just a touch of charm

(riffing off Billy Joel's The Entertainer)

The January 6th Hearings. Going. Going. Gone.

 ("House Jan. 6 Panel Plans a Sweeping Summation of Its Case Against Trump")

The case against Trump is overwhelming, undeniable and, well, irrelevant. 

Just like the pandemic, hey we're over it. Ok, so it happened, but, really, move on.

The problem is half the country doesn't care, whatever the evidence supports, they support Mr. Trump. The other half, who does care, doesn't care anymore.

Oh sure, it is critical for history to be written accurately. And yes, if we don't pay attention, well the future may be so much worse than anything we might imagine.

But justice delayed is justice discarded. And for Donald Trump, he can run out the clock with the best of them. We lose focus. We lose interest. It is his best defense.

So yes, this might be, may be the last hearing to tell us definitively what we knew even before the first of these hearings began. Donald Trump was an insurrectionist with anti-impostor syndrome, believing in all the lies he told about himself, clinging to his power with every ounce of strength he could extract from those who followed his every wish as their command.

I understand what I am about to write is not the politic response to the efforts of the January 6th committee, and their exhaustive undertaking to expose Mr. Trump.

Please, no more hearings. No more big reveal. Too much is far more than enough. 

And, to our great misfortune, not nearly enough to take down its target. 

Victims of the Storm

 ("Stay or Leave? Retirees Torn In Ian's Wake")

Their way of life gone in a blink of an eye. What they had forever taken for granted now no more.

As I read the tales of heartache and pain, I couldn't help but wonder how many of these same people had ever imagined the hardships of the millions of men, women and children attempting to escape from the horrors they have too long endured. Those who crossed our borders seeking to find even a hint of shelter from their own storms.

So while they sift through the rubble of their former existence, I ask only that those who now awake to a new, harsh reality take an instant to consider what the ones who look upon this country as a beacon of light must be feeling on each and every step of their long, harsh journey.

Let all who seek peace and comfort find it. For suffering is universal. And compassion should be as well.

He Did It His Way

 And now election's near

And I just might not have mentioned

A kid or two or three

Well you know its just my penchant

Forgive me for my sins 

As I forgive all others 

While now I tell my kid

He may have brothers

I may exaggerate

Ok I do but just a little

I did not graduate 

At the top but in the middle

Ok I never learned

Never finished what I started

But in my mind I did

I'm being martyred 

I said I was a cop

That I hauled away the bad guys

And what I call the truth

You insist was just some bad lies

Well no one's without fault

A low or two and not just all highs

So don't go throwing stones

I've told a few lies

And yes I paid the bill

And sent the card for that abortion

I never said she must

I just said I'd send my portion

I never went inside

You must know it wasn't my play

My stance on this is clear

She did it her way

For what's a man what has he got

What is my sin, that I got caught

And for the things that I have done

All that I did was run, run, run

From all my lies don't criticize

I did it my way

62

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST NOW APPEARS ONLINE IN LETTERS TO THE EDITOR IN THE NEW YORK TIMES (AND IS SCHEDULED TO APPEAR IN THE PRINT EDITION TOMORROW)

Baseball is a game of numbers. Statistics to be analyzed, dissected and discussed. But there is one figure above all that separates the men from the boys.

Aaron Judge looks different from everyone else on the field. Taller, broader, bigger. A man among boys.

And so he is. 

I have had the privilege of never growing up. I am 70 years old and retain the same passion for this sport as I did when I listened to Mel Allen and Red Barber paint pictures on my radio. Mickey Mantle still residing deep in my heart. Now I make room there for another as well.

The relentlessness of this chase and the unwavering effort Aaron Judge demonstrated day in and day out for more than six months was like watching each brushstroke of a piece of  wondrous art unfold. His love and respect for this sport bursting forth with as much force as his every swing.

62 is more than a number. But, as a shorthand, it will suffice. The best. Thank you Aaron Judge.

Thank you.

Pardon The Former Guy? To Quote John McEnroe......

("Is There Anything That Would Make 'the Former Guy' Go Away?")

A pardon would humiliate Donald Trump? In what universe?

In this world, the former guy would use this as proof that the present guy was driven to his political knees, that the Donald was fully vindicated (remember the Mueller report and Mr. Barr?) and that the Democrats should start referring to him as 45 AND 47.

I don't for a second believe the Mar-a-Lago miscues will end with the little dough boy in an orange jump suit. But that doesn't mean he gets to pass go and collect $200.

So, as Gail Collins so eloquently replied to Bret Stephens' hypothetical, no, no, no, no, no. And I would add one more no for good measure.

Pardon the former guy? To quote John McEnroe.......

D

 ("One Year Old Offered Sixty Million to Sign")

Once upon a time there was the six million dollar man. Now a baby commands ten times this price.

He does not yet even stand for more than a few blinks of an eye on his own two feet. He still requires naps in both morning and afternoon. And his entire vocabulary consists of "momma" and a sound that vaguely resembles "moo". But there is something about him that brings  hordes to his door, begging for an audience.

His dad first noticed it when his son was but a few days past his first half birthday. "Once he sat up on his own he became obsessed with playing ball. Rolling it gently to him initially. Then within weeks at almost full speed. He could go to his left or right. Even if he went from sitting to falling over, he could right himself and still throw out the imaginary runner."

The arm. There is video of him at nine months crying for his bottle (sorry, wrong video). There is video of him at nine months playing catch (from a sitting position of course) with his dad from twenty feet. At ten months from fifty. And on his first birthday from a hundred and twenty five.

Rumors abounded. But when someone who attended the birthday bash had his own film not only of the cake being all over virtually every inch of the face and hair of the center of attention, but of his unleashing a laser to his dad from one end of the yard to the other, life in this otherwise normal household became anything but.

By the next morning at 8 AM, Scott Boras had been in contact. By 1 PM he was at their front door, unannounced and uninvited. And from there it has only become evermore unrelenting.

Offers for his picture on a Wheaties box. Requests to appear on late night TV (don't they know about bedtime?). From morning until he cuddled with his stuffies at night. Without pause. And then, last week, the unsolicited offer from the Yankees arrived.

Sixty million signing bonus. Guaranteed payment of his educational costs (they hope to have him play at the alma mater of their new center fielder). A permanent suite for his family at the Stadium. Aaron Judge to babysit every other Saturday night, without charge, during the off season. And best of all, a new stuffy of his choosing each week until his parents tell him he is too old for such things.

This is more than he can comprehend. No, not the terms of the deal. Just, literally, all the big words.

For the moment at least, no offers have been accepted. "We just want his life to be like that of any other child of his age." (at least those who can't throw a baseball like a major leaguer, while seated) 

Meanwhile, Scott Boras is still calling every day. And showing up on Sundays. With a stuffy in one hand.  And a contract in the other.

 

Say It Ain't So Joe

 ("The Supreme Court Is Broken. Where's Biden?")

He has never been a bully and the bully pulpit is an ill fit for Joe Biden.

While the Supreme Court has been battered and bruised by the  2016 non-appointment of Merrick Garland and the in your face installation of Amy Coney Barrett four years later, by the pretzel twisting construction of the Second Amendment in Bruen and the refusal to adhere to judicial  precedent in Dobbs, President Biden will not rail at ills he cannot fix.

The inherent problems with the structure of the Supreme Court, of placing such immense power in 9 men or women, not elected, not subject to any true oversight, not limited in the length of their tenure, are myriad and unrelenting.

But Joe Biden, unlike his predecessor is a pragmatist. Joe Biden, unlike his predecessor, does not rant just to hear the sound of his own voice. Joe Biden attacks issues he has a fighting chance to win.

Say it ain't so Joe. 

Not on this one. Not now, and sadly, likely never.

About Last Night

 Our country is weighed heavy with issues from climate change to gun control, immigration to abortion, Russia to China, voting rights to the makeup of the Supreme Court, to a seemingly endless array of politicians and media personalities who leave us shaking our heads in distress and wondering how it ever got this bad. And then there is Aaron Judge.

His name starts with not one but two A's because he is that good. He is the all-American boy, adopted at two days old, married to his high school sweetheart, a loving son, and by the way, a larger than life star in his chosen undertaking.

If sports is intended as a distraction from the burdens we all carry with us, then Mr. Judge in 2022 is the perfect serum, the antidote to what ails. 

Last night, after a seeming eternity, he nudged past Babe and sidled up to Roger. Almost a century ago the Great Bambino was the one who dwarfed all others, in the size of his personality as well as in the arc of his game and his homers. Today there is another giant wandering the streets of the Big Apple. 

With his speak softly but carry a big stick aura, we have a humble hero, a present day echo of Lou Gehrig, who now gives us ample reason to All Rise.

The world's dilemmas will still be there to greet us when we awake in the morrow, but at least for today, there is double A.

Thank you Aaron. Just please don't keep us waiting so long for 62.

Speaking in Exclamation Points

 ("O'Rourke  Condemns Dehumanizing Stunts")

If you haven't noticed, Republicans speak in exclamation points. From the governors of Texas and Florida to the former President, messaging does not come in nuance or subtle distinction. It appears in existential threats, in hyperbole and dire forecasts. In Fox News and Alex Jones. The intention is to capture your attention, no matter the means to the end.

And while Beto O'Rourke hopes that the shenanigans of Greg Abbott will prove insufficient defense against the reality of the Dobbs decision, we well know how easily the public eye is diverted (see James Comey and Hillary Clinton's emails).

Beto O'Rourke, fully comprehends the extreme difficulty of scoring political points as a Democrat in Texas. See his AR-15 declaration and the political poo this caused there - or his unsuccessful effort to unseat a master of the ludicrous, Mr. Green Eggs and Ham himself. Merely railing against the moral bankruptcy of a Republican opponent is not a winning strategy in the Lone Star State.

Without his own exclamation point, I fear this could well be Mr. O'Rourke's Alamo.

I wonder what Mr. Comey is up to these days. 

Why Him?

 ("What We Will Miss Most About Roger Federer")

Why him? 

Because those who play individual sports stand without cover before us. Greatness,  or something less, on full display.

Week after week and year after year we attached to Tiger Woods. His triumphs visceral. His struggles engrossing. His resurrection, personal and professional, almost beyond adequate description.  

Roger Federer suffered losses with as much emotion and dignity as he celebrated his wins. For two decades we were drawn to his heart nearly as much as we were to his game. He gave us everything he possessed. We gave him unfettered love in response.

In the 21st century, these two men have captured our attention in ways that others, whose accomplishments take place as part of a team have not, cannot. 

Rafa and Novak had the great fortune, and misfortune, to play alongside Roger. They will forever be but in his shadow, no matter what the numbers say. There can only be one number one, one to whom we have attached in ways that go far beyond what the record book reports.

As we watch Roger Federer's tearful exit from the stage, those are our tears he wipes away from his cheeks. He stood alone on the court. He leaves with millions walking beside him.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up.... Unless, of course.....

 ("Trump Claims He Declassified Documents. Why Don't His Lawyers Say So In Court?")

Richard Nixon when asked if a President could do something illegal, responded: "Well, when the President does it, that means it is not illegal."

Donald Trump just did him one better.

Jimmy Carter admitted to committing adultery in his heart many times, a sin for which God forgave him.

Maybe Mr. Trump would consider that one an asterisk on his presidential thought equals deed credo.

When even his lawyers can't get up the nerve to repeat the "I declassified them in my mind" fiction, you know 45 has gone a few bridges too far.

You can't make this stuff up. Unless, of course, you are Donald Trump.

60

 Aaron Judge does not hit baseballs for a living. He destroys them. And so, in game 147 of a season that has become spine chillingly extraordinary, he has sidled up to Babe and is staring Roger square in the history books. He is now producing home runs at a clip that makes it seem they are coming off an assembly line.

No No Nanette brought us George Herman Ruth. The Yankees "feeder" team, Kansas City, handed over Roger Eugene Maris. God, or at least pinstripe magic, delivered Aaron James Judge, bigger than a baseball player was supposed to be and better this season than even our wildest imaginations would have allowed.

 Maris hit 61 in '61. 61 years ago.  This is what destiny looks like. Only larger.

The Perfect Shot

There were hundreds of them. All staring at the same point in the distance. All waiting for nothing more than darkness. To show them what they could not see.

Some were famous. Most never would be. But they were all there hoping to capture a moment of magic.

It was the night of a full moon. The harvest moon. The orange moon. There was some app that told them this was where they should be. 

My son was meant to be a photographer. Most days when we are together, at some point in that day, he pulls out his phone, or his camera. He sees things my eyes miss. The little details. The angles that escape my attention. The hints of light in the petals of a flower. The bug that has stopped to contemplate its place in the universe.

Often, like today, he pauses in our journey to look upon larger objects of majesty, mountains as far as the eye can imagine, streams and lakes, the colors of earth and sky. Or, the harvest moon over the Manhattan skyline.

When he suggested we drive to this point where there was nothing except the beauty of the Hudson between here and there, I anticipated a few others might be similarly inclined.

We rushed to arrive in time for him to set up, tripod and camera at the ready. When we neared our destination there were cars lined up like we had stumbled upon an all you can eat free buffet. A policeman standing guard, advising those who dared stop their vehicle where the road narrowed, to find another home.

And then I saw the sea of cameras, closely followed by those who had carried them to the perfect spot, for the perfect shot.

And what immediately struck me was that my son's lens was as a Lilliputian among an army of Brobdingnagians. The others must be able to see the freckles on the face of the moon.

They stood in large clusters, each cluster but a few yards removed from the next. Each certain that they had chosen well. Each waiting impatiently for the light to fade.

There was a haze in the sky. The effects of fires almost 3000 miles removed from here. There was concern that it would obscure, that it would subtract from the possibility of greatness. 

And then there were murmurs. My eye not nearly able to know what the quiet fuss was about. Even my son struggling to get in on this party.

In but an instant, this posse moved, almost as one, tripods and cameras in a dead run. This location now seemed slightly askew. Trying with a quiet desperation to land on the next small sliver of land where everything important in this world was in absolute alignment.

For the next 15 minutes, maybe more, all eyes were as one. Each click a chance for a tiny sliver of immortality.

These adventures with my son mean everything to me. I am addicted to the adrenaline rush he feels, as if it courses through my own veins.

When the famous photographer had packed up his equipment and headed off into the night, even I knew that the best possibilities were now past. And soon thereafter the army began to dwindle in size, as the moon rose too high in the sky, or moved into a position where reality no longer met expectation and imagination.

Next month there be a sighting of another full moon, and another group searching for the image that cracks the code. If good luck allows, my son will be the one to bag the prize that night. For me, just being by his side is all the luck I need.

It Is the Hope You Extinguish - (AN ODE TO GOVERNOR DESANTIS)

 It is the hope you extinguish

The light shining from their eyes

It is the hope you extinguish

When you parade them through the skies

It is the hope you extinguish

When you masquerade them with your lies

It is the hope you extinguish

When even the charade of decency dies

I hope you are proud of who you have become

Proud of what you have done

Proud as a father of a son

Proud as if you'd won

It is the hope you extinguish

The light shining from their eyes 

When all that remains is the whys 

Why Is He Still Here?

 ("Why Is There Still No Strategy to Defeat Donald Trump?")

Why have we not not been able to say bad riddance to Mr. Trump?

Those who are drawn to him are enamored with a different genre of writing than the ones who find him abhorrent. Fiction is their game of choice, where immigrant is spelled terrorist, where the melting glaciers are only bad for polar bears, where their man is a victim of cruel and unrelenting examination by those who refuse to accept his vision, where two plus two equals whatever he says it does and where innocent even after proven guilty is the one rule of law that exists in his universe.

Donald Trump remains because the idea of Donald Trump, not the ideas of Donald Trump under harsh light, are paramount. A heroic figure, this Don Quixote, willing to fight to the death for those who believe like him, who believe in him. Willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause.

And that is, and will forever be, why reason and reality do not stand a chance against such an impregnable foe.

Game. Set. Match.

 (" Roger Federer Says He Will Retire from Tennis")

He was like Cary Grant with a racquet in his hand. An elegance to his game and to his demeanor.

Never a hair, a word or a shot that appeared out of place. He made all the hard work seem not so hard after all.

20 majors doesn't begin to tell the entire story of Roger Federer. He was an ambassador for his sport, with a dignity in his bearing, giving everyone who watched him or competed against him the full measure of his effort and respect.

He was part of a three headed monster, along with Nadal and Djokovic, who swallowed up a generation of accolades. Each with his surface of preference, the grass of Wimbledon seeming to be greenest when Roger trod upon it.

There is question as to which among them can lay claim to the title of G.O.A.T. But there can be little doubt that the game of tennis itself is far better for having been able to count Roger Federer among its ranks for nearly the last quarter of a century.

 It has been an honor and a privilege to bear witness to a quality man bringing so many special qualities to his chosen field of endeavor.

A Noun. A Verb. And Rudy Guiliani

 ("Rudy Guiliani Is Alone")

In 2001 the country was desperate for a stabilizing force wrapped in red, white and blue. From the smoldering embers, out of a plume of smoke, emerged a walking, talking symbol of America's enduring strength. But Rudy Guiliani was just a mirage, a hero in the moment, of the moment.

Several years later, I went to a series of political discussions in New York City. One of the participants was the former Mayor. My most vivid recollection was how the audience almost snickered at his thoughts. Even then he had become a caricature, an embarrassing display of what many among us there perceived as a bewildering look at a man going off the rails. Clinging to an importance that was rapidly slipping through his fingers.

He has long since become the Emperor with no clothes. And what remains is but a small man, engulfed by his insatiable desire to remain relevant, to feel once more as he did when, for a terrible moment, he was the calm in the eye of the storm.

People in Glass Houses

 ("With Malice Toward Quite a Few")

What is it they say about people in glass houses?

Democrats have been turning the other cheek for decades. Leaving the Republicans free to fabricate and aggravate, to create animosity as the centerpiece of their platform. Division and dissension their calling cards.

National unity is a fiction long since dissolved. Joe Biden has spent a lifetime reaching across the aisle trying to find compromise where none was evident. But even he has his limits and two years of aggravation, of countering lies and biting his tongue, while trying to bring this country through a pandemic and a war in Ukraine that has wreaked havoc across the globe, have given him ample cause to lash out at those who do little to make America better, stronger and more moral.

I am sorry if Mr. Stephens feels aggrieved by having to face the truth of the failures of a large portion of this nation. But our wake up call is long overdue. And leaving the messaging, and the "facts" to the Republicans is no longer an acceptable option. 

The 60 Day Unwritten Rule and the Definition of Irony

 ("As midterms near, election rule raises dilemma for Trump inquiries")

"Unwritten rules" protecting a person who never found a rule he couldn't break. Quick, get out the definition of irony.

Remember James Comey and the breaking news 11 days before the 2016 election that something involving Anthony Weiner maybe, kind of, didn't exactly clear Hillary Clinton from precisely what wrong doing we weren't certain? And then Mr. Trump played this nothing burger into 4 years of Hell in America.

So, please excuse me if I don't have a great deal of sympathy for the party that continues to treat Mr. Trump with a respect he in no shape or form deserves. And I cannot find just cause to halt an investigation on a person NOT RUNNING for office in 2022 just because it could possibly, maybe have an impact on races involving other people not named Trump.

If that is the standard we establish, then we have now trumped (pardon the intention here) the "last year of the presidency, no Merrick Garland Supreme Court nomination rule"(one which the Republicans demonstrated in 2020, thank you Amy Coney Barrett, only applies to Democrats). And while we're at it, why don't we just say we can never investigate Donald Trump because he might one day decide he wants to see how close he can come to destroying our democracy and, well, we don't want to look like we are putting our finger on the scale.

And, oh by the way, this 60 day unwritten rule decision is Merrick Garland's to make? Now I have to look up the definition of irony on steroids.

Of Haystacks Calhoun and Tag Teams

 It was 3 against 1. The 3 of us never stood a chance.

The last 4 days, my son, wife and I were privileged to be in charge of the care of a soon to be 4 year old. Well, in charge is not really an accurate term. More like holding on for dear life.

Parenting, or in this case, uncleing and grandparenting is definitely not for the weak of heart or mind. There is good reason to leave this responsibility to the people who first began the sequence of events leading to this moment.

I used to watch tag team wrestling when I was growing up. You know, one person getting the poo kicked out of him or her, crawling to the edge of the mat and, with the last possible ounce of life remaining, barely be in fingertip contact with their partner who then rushes to the rescue. That, in essence, is what a date with a little being of endless energy is like. Except harder.

Did you ever fake like you have to go to the bathroom just to try to catch your breath? But has the pitter patter of little feet followed almost immediately in your path and the door swung open before you have even taken up residence in your point of refuge?

I absolutely adore my granddaughter. She is all the superlatives you can gather up and put on a platter. Every day with her is sunshine. But even the sun has to rest, which is why it invented clouds and catnaps.

Don't get me wrong. She can entertain herself for long stretches, singing songs, playing with her toys, coloring, hopscotching. I am getting tired just writing this list. But even in her solitary times, the 3 of us were on call, at the ready, much like "Chase is on the case." Next activity but the next thought away.

It is like running a marathon, taking a sip of water and heading back out for another 26 miles 185 yards. While her mind and body are growing by the minute, mine are shrinking. Over the last few days I have been swimming more than I have since I was in summer camp, been on several play dates, scurried around more than one playground, been wholly unable to locate the hider in hide and seek, biked, hiked, drawn my letters and numbers, made several beautiful colored drawings for my son, daughter or son in law, learned my standing long jump is still pretty darn good, watched cows, eaten plenty of pizza and ice cream (at least we have identical taste in food), been entertained by Bluey (if you have not yet been introduced to her, run directly to Disney Plus immediately), read a lot of bedtime stories and generally been hugged and kissed a bunch. Which is absolutely the only thing I ever need to do all this and whatever else is asked of me, again and again, for as long as she allows.

Yesterday afternoon, our daughter arrived. Along with the 1 year old version of the soon to be 4 year old. The 1 year old making what we did look like child's play as he tried to set a land speed record for crawling and finding some way to wreak temporary  havoc.

How did my wife and I ever survive bringing up 2 young children? And how will our daughter ever remain intact until the cavalry, in the form of her husband, arrives later today to be her tag team partner?

If memory serves, Haystacks Calhoun weighed about 600 pounds and, maybe only by way of apocryphal recollection, sometimes fought alone against a tag team duo of highly skilled opponents in the ring. 

I only know for certain he never would have stood a chance in hell against my grandkids.

The Top 10 Ad Slogans (Past and Present) Behind the Oval Office Great Pilfer Caper

 

Capital One: What's in your wallet?

American Express: Don't leave home without it

Toyota: Let's go places

Nike: Just do it

Samsung: Do what you can't

Uber: Move the way you want

Staples: That was easy

Marriott Bonvoy: Rewards reimagined 

AirBnb- Belong anywhere

Taco Bell: Make a run for the border

My Left Shoulder Is Refusing to Speak to Me

 My left shoulder and I are not on speaking terms. Actually, I thought it said hi to me earlier today, but when I turned to respond, I got the cold shoulder. Quite literally.

It was not always this way. In fact, I think until the beginning of this year we were friends. I would even say good friends.

I don't ever recall us arguing. Which is saying a lot since we have been inseparable since our birth seven decades ago. Oh maybe there were disagreements, like the time I banged it into the icy snow after catapulting out of my skis, but really give me a break (and no, I did not give it one). 

No body's perfect. Except maybe Sandy Koufax and his left shoulder. At least from 1961 until 1966. Or even Randy Johnson the year he almost single handedly beat the Yankees in the Series. Not that he only had a single hand.

Anyway, we were very close. Veryclose. It shouldered everything I threw at it with a smile. Until I slipped up. Or more accurately, slipped down.

I entirely shoulder the blame for that one. I never should have descended the stairs in my socks. And my right hand (left shoulder) man (it) willingly absorbed the weight of expectations on crash landing. Taking one for the team. I lay there believing it and I were separated. Just the thought of that causing take away my breath pain. Actually, not just the thought.

It turns out we were not separated but torn apart. Tomato tomaato. Rotator cuff.

And so, a few weeks into 2022 it suffered the unkindest cut. Or so both it and I believed. The doctor putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. Good as new, or at least good as new as old gets. After five months of pulling here, pushing there, racing fingers up the wall, stretching our bond into shape, we were back. Not back but shoulder. And shouldee.

Through it all we remained, if not as tight as before, certainly still tighter than most. Able to share a laugh, lift a glass together just not too high, capable of handling whatever curve life threw at us (unless of course it had been delivered by Sandy Koufax during that incredible stretch or Randy Johnson when he appeared on the mound a giant, or more accurately, a Diamondback that Series).

The next one was not my fault. Ok, maybe it was. But who didn't sit out in the sun all summer, every summer back in the days when my shoulder and I were growing up? So what if I tore off the dead skin from my friend after baking it to a crisp. Year after year.

What are the odds that a melanoma would land with a thud right beside where the previously unkindest cut had just healed? I could have won big on that bet.

And so, just when I and it thought it (not that it, just it) safe to celebrate our win, once more into the breach we went. The scar from this incision far more than merely psychological. My shoulder now resembling Frankenstein's face on a bad hair day.

Good fortune shined on my friend and me as the doctor's subsequent report was that the cancer was nowhere in sight (kind of like the Koufax or Johnson fastball or curveball at their finest). We were now both free to move about the cabin.

Only our relationship is slow to heal. My left shoulder finding the insult in these injuries, as more than its pride had been wounded.

Thus, I am saddened even in my hour of joy. Healed but not whole. Not until my friend forgives my trespasses. When we see eye to metaphorical eye and stand shoulder to shoulder once more.

Well, not really shoulder to shoulder, but you know what I mean.

Clandestine Human Sources

 "Clandestine human sources." Even the terminology is clandestine. Oh, you mean spies.

Look, Donald Trump would have removed the filling from your teeth if he had the tools. Nothing within eyeshot of this man is out of reach. Who were his targets? What did he take? Where did he intend to show off his wares? When was he going to take everything out of the broom closet? Why does he always do precisely the wrong thing?

Trying to find the logic in the absurd is an impossibility. Mr. Trump's actions defy comprehension because they spring from the mind of a man who is allergic to rational thought. 

Here are some of the suggestions from Mr. Trump's flunkies that could be sold to the person who bought the Brooklyn Bridge. Mr. Trump spent time reviewing some of the files at Mar-a-lago (Only if he was looking for his  decoder ring). Mr. Trump cooperated with the authorities requesting he return what he had purloined (Only if he thought purloin was a kind of steak).

The redacted affidavit is the very definition of read between the lines. It tells us everything we knew and almost nothing we didn't. But what comes forward with clarity is that, true to his nature, Donald Trump was careless to the point of not caring, unrepentant for his transgressions, manipulative and obstructive. 

Everything but the kitchen sink is now being thrown at 45, in the numerous investigations that move forward, step by step and inch by inch. This one seeming to corner him into a closet overflowing with clandestine human sources.

The Tit for Tat Mambo, a/k/a What's Bad for the Goose

 ("Can you Tell Me What Would Happen If the F.B.I. Were Investigating a Democrat?")

Not "if" but "when". Maybe not the F.B.I. but whatever agency, committee or body can be charged with performing the tit for tat mambo the instant the gavel is in Republican claws.

We all know Donald Trump invites a probe into every orifice of his being, his existence one big (ok, maybe small) middle finger to morality and convention. He got elected, and may well get re-elected, for being as big a pompous jerk as humanly possible.

Did he pilfer state secrets on the way out the door? I think he more covets the recipe to the secret sauce on a burger,  but he treats everything with such disdain and contempt it is virtually impossible to separate wheat from chaff.

It feels like we could, and maybe we will, spend 10 lifetimes trying to nail the coffin on 45, with the likelihood of success (ie a jumpsuit matching the often unique color of his skin) as remote as Hillary and Don deciding to double date this weekend. But try we must. As the Republicans will attempt to morph Sleepy Joe into Al Capone before he even waves his final Oval Office farewell.

What's bad for the goose....

The Sound of One Hand Clapping

 ("Biden Signs Bill on Taxes and Climate")

Is that the best you can do? No, not the Dems. The New York Times.

Under the headline hailing President Biden's signing of the law, FINALLY, finally providing  meaningful progress on the issue of attempting to save the planet, the NY Times has a caption reminding us that the "new law falls short of uplifting workers." 

Why that angle? Why today? Cannot this paper sing the praises of this President and his party without a caveat? Are they concerned this will make this venerable publication seem but a shill for one team?

I get there is still much work to be done. The Republican party will undoubtedly provide not very gentle reminders of that in the coming days and months before this November's showdown.

But come on. Would it kill you to allow the Dems one unfiltered moment in the sun for an accomplishment that but weeks ago seemed dead in the waters? For something, to borrow an old line from the now President, that is a "big f-ing deal" ?

So thanks, but no thanks for your "even handed" reporting. Today we expected far more from you than the sound of one hand clapping.

I Cannot Tell the Truth - Donald Pleads the 5th

 He may not actually have said "I cannot tell a lie" but the Father of our Country bears absolutely no resemblance to this Mother of Invention and Deception.

And yes we have had a good number of our Presidents caught in compromising positions, in most recent memory from Watergate to Iran Contra, to Bill Clinton's attempted parsing of the term "sexual relations". But never before in the long and storied history of this nation has a person who was chosen as the best among us raised his right hand and called upon his Constitutional protection not to put his foot in his mouth and his entire body behind bars.

Donald Trump spent most of the day yesterday covering his ample behind, uttering the same phrase nearly 400 times. For a man with such obvious disregard for the truth, it must have ibbled him that he could not have used this time to fabricate, equivocate and pontificate. But eventually even the worst among us decides the system has its advantages that are best to be called upon in the worst of moments.

Donald Trump is more likely to be our next President than to spend even one nanosecond behind bars. More likely to utter the Oath of office than to ever testify beyond what he didn't say when asked to provide something  other than his name.

Somewhere there is a cherry tree that was cut down by our 45th President. But he will never admit it.  For he is a man who cannot tell the truth.

Picking On Donald

 ("F.B.I. Search of Trump's Home Pushes Long Conflict  Into Public View")

Poor Donald. There they go picking on him again.

Donald Trump treats laws, subpoenas and the Constitution as but pieces of paper to shred and flush down the toilet. He  spent his presidency, no his lifetime, flouting rules, his moral compass set on disregard.

So the fact that he removed items from the White House improperly as he left the Oval Office came as absolutely no surprise. For a man who rose to power ranting about Hillary's 33,000 emails and smiled at the chants of "lock her up" for her alleged transgression, the "raid" on Mar-a-Lago was but a tiny dose of his own medicine.

This from a President who repeatedly attempted to utilize the Justice Department throughout his term as a cudgel to address his personal grievances.

And oh, the irony, that Merrick Garland should be the one to decide that, yes, breaking rules does have consequences.

Maybe in Mr. Trump's safe they will find the irrefutable proof that Barack Obama was not born in the United States. Because we always know that Donald tells us nothing but the truth about the documents in his possession.

Counting the Years - On Our 45th Anniversary

 Billy Martin

Derek Jeter

Babe Ruth

Lou Gehrig

Joe Dimaggio

Joe Torre

Mickey Mantle 

Yogi Berra

Roger Maris

Phil Rizzuto

Lefty Gomez 

Wade Boggs 

Alex Rodriguez

Lou Piniella 

Thurman Munson

Whitey Ford

Mickey Rivers

Don Larsen 

Dave Righetti

Jorge Posada

Paul O'Neill

Roger Clemens

Don Mattingly

Robinson Cano

Mark Teixeira

Orlando Hernandez

Giancarlo Stanton

Sparky Lyle

Catfish Hunter 

Willie Randolph

Dave Winfield

Elston Howard

David Wells

Mel Stottlemyre

Mike Mussina

David Cone

Casey Stengel

Johnny Blanchard

Daryl Strawberry

Chien-Ming Wang

Randy Johnson

Mariano Riviera

Jeff Nelson

Reggie Jackson 

Gerrit Cole

Next up is Andy Pettite

Four more to Ron Guidry

Six to Bernie Williams

Aaron Judge - neverland

PS - this was done with an assist from my dear Yankee buddy Sheldon (not the marriage, just the list)

When a Doctor Calls You at Home at 7 PM on a Saturday Night

 When a doctor calls you at home at 7 PM on a Saturday night, your first thought has to be:"this can't be good."

Luckily, for me, it wasn't so bad.

So, my left shoulder and I have been in a battle for some time now. In January, I slipped on the interior steps of our apartment and landed squarely on my ego. You have, if you follow my mental wanderings with any regularity, been provided chapter and verse of my surgery and recovery. I was pronounced almost good as new a few weeks back. And starting last week, I was allowed the freedom to curse the gods on the golf course.

A few days before my surgery, I met with a dermatologist whose task was to advise if any of the score of moles and other strange looking protuberances were more than met the eye. And she focused on one spot that was located, as you now might suspect, on my uncooperative left shoulder. There was no way, I stated, that she was taking a small slice out of that area immediately before I was to face a most unkind cut in that very region from a surgeon.

And so, I quickly forgot about her concern, for I was dealing with a mountain and could not focus on a mole.

Fast forward to slightly more than 2 weeks ago. As I had scaled to the top of Everest and was now swinging a golf club free of pain (at least physical), I was before a different dermatologist, showing my full self to a new set of eyes. Bingo, back to the left shoulder. He studied it with a small microscope and then informed me that the offending area would have to be sliced and diced. The biopsy results would take a week to 10 days he said.

So, three days later, when I received that Saturday night greeting from him, I suspected he was not calling to let me know the Yankees had looked a little shaky recently.

Melanoma, he said. But only on the top layer of the skin. Just have to cut some more around the surrounding area to be absolutely certain that you are clear of any hint of cancer and then you can move about the cabin freely. Or at least that is what I heard, after I took a moment or two to recover from hearing the word at the top of this paragraph.

I could have addressed this a half year ago had my offending limb not been otherwise wounded. I was most fortunate that during that time the cancer had apparently not taken a trip beyond where it  remained while I recuperated from the shoulder surgery.

And it was but serendipity that I even saw this latest doctor. I had been in another physician's office very recently (don't ask) and on the way out the door, she remarked that I had to see a dermatologist for a mole she spotted behind one of my knees. But for that glance, I may not have found my way to where I am today.

Which is at a 3:15 appointment for the cutting and stitching. I am grateful that good luck seems to have spared me from anything more than the most minor of temporary distractions from my golf game. Soon, I hope to be able to query the ball, with my reconstructed and cancer free shoulder, and wonder why it has decided that the bottom of the cup is its sworn enemy.

This should be my most pressing question.

I am one very lucky guy.

When They Go Low, We Go Lower

 ("A Cynical Low For the Democratic Party")

When they go low, we go lower.

Isn't that what Michelle Obama said? OK, maybe not, but how about all's fair in love and political war. Because, make no doubt about it, this is treated in Republican circles as a battle to the death.

And while it would be nice to keep your hands clean and your moral code unblemished, if you are fighting against an opponent using an AR-15, you better not rely on your ethical superiority as your first line of defense.

If January 6th and its aftermath was not a wakeup call to Democrats everywhere, then shame on us. Fighting dirty is not an abstraction, but a necessity and, if supporting the worst of the bad in a Republican primary gives the Dems even a hint of an advantage in the general election, then I say just watch how low we can go.

A Dad Joke

 Unfortunately, this conversation actually took place yesterday morning:

Son: (After a steep hike in the hot sun) "Boy am I perspiring."

Dad: "I am not a sweater. I'm a shirt."

This is exactly why children are often embarrassed by their fathers.

Donald Trump and Lieutenant - Commander Queeg

 ("The Case Against Trump" - Talk of the Town - August 1, 2022)

Amy Davidson Sorkin's evaluation of the circumstances surrounding the circus involving Donald Trump reminds me of the film, Caine Mutiny. Ms. Sorkin writes of President Trump's relentless assault on the truth, his disappointment that Vice President Pence "let (him) down" and the unwavering support for the former President, no matter the facts that would suggest otherwise.

In the film,  Lieutenant - Commander Queeg speaks of alternative considerations as to what is the appropriate manner of performance by those under his command:

Queeg (during his introduction to the officers): "Mr. Maryk, kindly tell the crew on behalf of myself- that there are four ways of doing things on board my ship: the right way, the wrong way, the Navy way; and my way. So long as they do things my way, we'll get along."

And later, at Queeg's trial, there is a description of his symptoms which bears striking echoes to what we, as a nation, have borne witness to regarding Mr. Trump:

Lt Greenwald :"Doctor, you have testified that the following symptoms exist in Lieutenant- Commander Queeg's behavior: Rigidity of personality, feelings of persecution, unreasonable suspicion, a mania for perfection, and a neurotic certainty that he is always in the right. Doctor, isn't there one psychiatric term for this illness?"

And the response, which could apply with equal force to those who have stood behind Mr. Trump despite all evidence to the contrary, and would very likely result in their casting votes for him to run this country, even from a jail cell, in 2025:

Doctor Dickson: " I never said there was any illness."

Too Little, Too Late

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

("I Was Wrong About Al Franken", by Michelle Goldberg)

Mr. Franken was swept up in the "one size fits all" frenzy that consumed him predicated, in very large part, on one photo showing a comedian making an attempted joke gone horribly wrong. 

Even at the time I believed the clamor for his political head was an error. Now, given what has transpired in this nation since that day, and the very distinct possibility that Donald Trump may be his party's 2024 presidential nominee despite a list of grievances that makes Mr. Franken's seem as a pebble to a mountain, my belief in the mistaken rush to judgment for Mr. Franken has grown exponentially.

I understand the mea culpa of this op ed. But too little, too late never seemed a more apt reply 

Thru Hikers and Me

 For those who find walking from the kitchen table to the refrigerator a journey, the idea of thru hiking would be as appealing as my imagining Mr. Trump plopping his ample posterior back in the Oval Office in 2025.

But for me, there is something magical in these men and women, boys and girls and a few geriatrics putting one foot in front of another, Forrest Gump style, from the first hint of coming spring until the changing leaves of fall beckon. 

And sometimes, in the deepest heat of the summer, their lives and mine intersect for a nanosecond. So it was yesterday.

The Appalachian Trail stretches for over 2000 miles from its southernmost tip to its northern edge. My son went to college in New Hampshire and the path of the thru hikers took them right through the middle of his campus. And on occasion into the house where my son was staying. He would say that sometimes you could literally smell them coming, the months of accumulated toil and variable weather leaving a calling card that was testament to both their perseverance and perspiration.

Our family likes to hike, but what we do should not be given the same name as their task. On most mornings when we are in the Berkshires (except when the snow, artificial or real, demands our attention on the slopes) we take an hour or two to give ourselves modest challenge, to get the heart pumping and the muscles moving. Sometimes, we walk the tiniest sliver of the route as those who have committed to something enormous in scope.

I am 70 with feet as ugly as a political campaign and a mind wholly useless at everyday tasks like boiling water or following the most mundane instructions. So the chance of me ever performing this 2000 mile plus feat is about the same as my parting the Red Sea. No, less.

Yesterday, my son and I found ourselves on a small stretch of the AT (for us, in the know, that is shorthand for the Appalachian Trail). I remarked that I thought it was late in the season (by their calendar) for thru hikers to be still this far south. I was wrong. Over the next ten minutes, at least three, maybe four, passed us (we were not necessarily slower, just hiking in the opposite direction).

In my mind, this was almost the same as bumping into a few NY Yankees on the street (maybe this is a bit of an exaggeration, more on the level of running into a few Knicks).

And I took the opportunity, whether those trekking North were interested or not, to do a brief interview of two. I flunked the first test in flame out fashion.

My son always reminds me that not everyone gets my terrible sense of humor. That they don't always understand that I am only kidding when I say something that sounds discordant when it reaches their ears. 

So, the first contestant in my game show was a nice young lady who gave me a brief synopsis of this her first (and, she said, last) AT expedition. I congratulated her on her effort and exchanged a few more minor pleasantries. As we were concluding our ships passing in the night time together, she mentioned she was from the South. My political antennae now acting like a third rail I replied that she was still welcome as long as she was thru hiking. The attempted joke falling flatter than the Sierra. I could almost see the question mark above her head as she mumbled some response and headed on, sure she would be less accommodating to inquiry from strangers the rest of her trip.

My son had wandered up ahead, but was unfortunately still in earshot and reprimanded me for my comment that had missed its mark by the full length of the AT.

Luckily, not five minutes later I was given a chance at partial redemption. Another young thru hiker arrived where we were standing. This time it would be only compliments and no hint of controversy in my remarks.

First, all these hikers seemed remarkably "unscented". As though they were just out for a bit of a stroll, not well over a thousand miles and several months into reaching a goal that took them off the beaten path onto a road less traveled by bathtubs and showers or washers and dryers.

The gods shined on me, as this young lady was delightful, all smiles and sunshine and not in a rush to get past my inquisition. She allowed my son and me nearly 15 minutes of her time before we told her she should catch up to her friend, with whom she was on this quest and meet up with her mom and dad, who lived in the area and were meeting up with her later in the day (where she would spend the night at their home, with all the creature comforts, before returning to the same spot the following day, to continue, step by step, and inch by inch, onward).

So, my angst at my mea culpa was somewhat mollified by the good graces of my do over.

As my son and I finished our day on the mountain and returned to the car, I am sure he hoped I had learned a small lesson in the way I speak to those who don't know, and may not appreciate my particular method of communication. 

And sadly knowing I had not.

To all thru hikers I may meet in future days. I admire you for everything you are doing. And I apologize in advance if I leave you wondering if there is a more remote path where you can enjoy your time in the mountains, without the intrusion of those like me, who may be the very reason you are months removed from the daily noise of society. 

Even the AT not giving full protection from this particular storm.

Absolution

 ("The Myth of the Good Trump Official")

You say you want some absolution

Well, you know 

You can testify

You say you love the Constitution

Well, you know

You can end the lie

But when you lived with such destruction

Don't tell me that you shut your eyes

Don't you know I can see 

All right

Don't you know I can see (all right)

Don't you know I can see (all right)

You say you love the institution

Well, you know

You can make it right

You say he called for revolution

Well, you know

It was our darkest night

But when you stood by and just watched the hate

Oh brother you're too damn late

Don't you know I can see

All right

Don't you know I can see (all right)

Don't you know I can see (all right)

You say he was the real pollution

Well, you know

That is understood

You say we need some resolution

Well, you know

We do need something good

But if you were there for the whole damn ride

Don't raise up your head with pride

Don't you know I can see

All right

Don't you know I can see (all right)

Don't you know I can see (all right)

Not right

Swimming Lessons

 This was definitely not what the doctor ordered.

I stood in the lake, the water just about chest high. I was there for the sole purpose of protecting one little person learning the fine art of kicking her feet and moving her arms while trying not to swallow a fish. Or something like that.

But of course, me unfortunately being me, giving all my focus to one almost four year old guppie was not sufficient. And so I began to attract other similarly aged diminutive persons with swimmies, all who happened to be friends with my ward.

And soon, I was a being with ten arms and legs, charged with giving free rides into the shore line, or spinning the bodies in circles of those who used me as home base or even searching in vain for the whereabouts of those who attached themselves to the side of me I could not see.

Oh yes, about my doctor. He had, slightly less than half a year in my rear view mirror, put my left shoulder back together again, with the warning that Humpty Dumpty should not try to test the outer limits of what his artistry was capable. Kind of forever, but definitely well beyond the present tense.

On the shoreline, I am certain that my wife chalked up my stupidity to, well my stupidity. As to the people who birthed my expanded appendages and stood watching the show, they must have come to the unavoidable conclusion that Papa was more than a few cards short of a full deck.

After an extended while I noticed that the one who I had begun this exercise with was either doing morse code with her teeth or was in full shiver. And so I excused myself from the others to whom I had become so attached, and headed to the beckoning towel.

My daughter, who had left her first born in the care of Papa and crew, soon received numerous messages from those who had witnessed the attack on me, worried that my doctor and I would, in the immediate aftermath of this undertaking, be having a serious discussion about whether I had ever advanced beyond the emotional maturity of the guppies with whom I had interacted.

Luckily, today I can still lift my arm above my head and also remain quite capable of taking a poor fake golf swing without incident.

Which only goes to show that stupidity is not necessarily fatal. Just incurable.

ReplyForward

The President's Precedent

 ("At 79, Biden Is Testing the Limits of Age and the Presidency")

The President's precedent.

What do the following names have in common: Lyndon Johnson, Harry Truman, Calvin Coolidge, Rutherford Hayes, James Buchanan, James Polk? If you answered one and done (some with an asterisk, for they held office more than 4 years) you would be correct. All with an option to seek re-election. All deciding not to.

Franklin Pierce, John Tyler, Millard Fillmore, Andrew Johnson, Chester Arthur. All sitting Presidents who did not even secure their own party's nomination to run for a second term (to be fair, 4 of these 5 had not been nominated for a first term, but had been elevated to their position by reason of the death of the then sitting President).

That makes 11 who did not even make it to the starting line the second time.

In addition, 11 more sitting President's lost  in a bid for re-election.

Thus, as we stare into the great unknown and begin our contemplation of November 2024,  the future of Joe Biden, his party and the possible demise of democracy, we should understand that we are far from the first to consider whether we should continue to dance with the one who brung us. That is, if he decides to dance at all.

The Crowning Blow

 ("Elena Rybakina Wins Wimbledon and Her First Grand Slam Title")

This was, in intended triple entendre, the crowning blow. The champion as Russian as Stolichnaya vodka and nesting dolls.

Born and bred in Russia, but for the fact of a later arriving greatness, Elena Rybakina would today have held her tongue rather than the Wimbledon trophy, unhappy as a member of her homeland's tennis federation that she had been deprived of this opportunity by mere accident of nationality.

This victory demonstrated the absurdity of treating those hoping to participate as political pawns. We have been continuing witness to the tragedy of Brittney Griner. It should serve as warning that Wimbledon does disservice to the cause of democracy if it, in its own fashion, stigmatizes and dehumanizes individuals and treats them as symbols a part of, rather than apart from, the wrongs they wish to confront.

Red, White and Blue. With an Asterisk

 ("The American Flag Belongs to Me, Too, and This Year I'm Taking It Back")

Margaret Renkl did not raise the red, white and blue alone but with an asterisk. For on its own, this flag is now far too often a declaration of hatreds and prejudices, of exclusions and divisions. A statement not of what we are but what we are not.

The Republican party is one of messaging through symbols and slogans. Where is the Democratic equivalent of "Let's Go Brandon", or "Trump 2024"? Republicans wear their politics on their shirts, display them on their lawns and wave them in the faces of those they so vehemently and vociferously oppose. And they have captured July 4th and the flag as their own, not as a matter of pride but provocation.

So Ms. Renkl now flies a rainbow of colors to provide necessary clarification of her intentions, counterpoint to the visceral response and inevitable conclusions of seeing the red, white and blue flapping alone in the wind.

This was not how it was meant to be. But merely exactly how it is in the divided state of America.