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.