The Government We Deserve

("Rules to Vote By" and "Why Do We Re-Elect Them?")

It is the dimwit theory, the "Don't Insult Me With Intelligent Thought". Don't try to persuade with logic, with facts. Don't point to the voting record, the party platform, the statements that are two steps beyond ludicrous. Don't focus on issues like immigration reform, gun control, minimum wage, government shut-down, health care, unemployment, isolationism or intervention, the environment, infrastructure, obstructionism, racial tensions, protecting the downtrodden, reigning in the excesses of the 1% and the too big to fail or even closing Guantanamo. Just doesn't matter.

What matters, for the vast majority of those that decide to take part in the election process, is virtually nothing. Most who bother to pull a lever, punch a hanging chad, fill in a circle, place an "X", or do whatever they do in the polling booth, have not studied, analyzed, questioned or even listened. We are an apathetic and uninformed electorate.

How can anyone in the country be paying attention and still consider a Republican candidate, virtually any Republican candidate, worthy of their trust and their vote? Those running this party rely on voters not connecting the dots from their policy and practices to the effect on these constituent's lives. And the impending Republican control of both the House and Senate is testament to nothing more than our meeting, and possibly exceeding, 

those expectations.

The result of our own shortcomings is that we get the government we deserve, but neither need nor want. And until we stop being dimwits we are destined to more of the same for the increasingly uncomfortable future.

The Family of Mann

 In response to People Magazine's article - "Out of the Shadows"

We were once like most families, proud of the accomplishments of some, snickering a little at the foibles of others, but glad to be counted among its members. It was the home we went to when we needed shelter, and it served as a blanket to keep us warm when the cold of winter descended. The cold is now upon us, having  permeated to the core of our being.

The family of Mann is fractured. Much like the ground along the fault line of an earthquake, below a calm exterior was a festering disease. We were transfixed by our academic excellence and fooled into believing that intellectual strength required coupling with moral integrity. Those who would do us wrong, rob us of our good name, worked in the shadows, hidden from our sight. They preyed upon the unsuspecting, the vulnerable. They ate the meat from their bones, and left behind  pain and suffering of unimaginable proportion.

Horace Mann was not the beneficent god we thought it was. It was not even the uncle who was a bit off but harmless. At its very core there has been revealed a heart of darkness

So much good has been laid to waste by the revelations that continue to surface, continue to remind us never to really place our trust in anyone or anything. All the memories we carried with us over the last half century are now tinged with doubt. Question permeates every past certainty, confusion existing where there once unfettered clarity.

A band of thieves have stolen our pride and left our blanket in tatters. When we speak of Horace Mann these days, we do so in far more subdued tone, often with apology. We distance ourselves from its tragedies rather than revel in its triumphs.

It would be easy to treat this as a problem whose time has passed, the perpetrators having long left the scene, many having long left this earth. But our family would still be riddled with an illness left untreated. We owe it to those who have been most battered and beaten not to forget. If we are ever to put our family back together again, to be made whole, or at least as close to whole as we can, we must confront the sins of the past and do what we can to make things right. Until that day comes to pass, we can never again call ourselves the family of Mann.

And In the End

This was how it had all played out in our heads: the game on the line, the inside out swing, the ball darting into the outfield between first and second base, the arms raised high in triumph, the smile admitting to himself that this was indeed the completion of a job very well done.

It mattered not that this was the most meaningless of all games he had ever played at the Stadium. To those assembled and those watching it had two decades of significance and a weight that fully belied the circumstances.

It would be the last game he ever played at shortstop, and it would be but one more memory for all of us to store, to treasure. It was all over now, his time and that of the group that carried the team to repeated greatness.

Derek spoke of many likening it to a funeral, and in some ways he was right. But this was a moment of triumph and celebration even as it was wrapped in a sadness that this light was being extinguished. Our tears carried meaning on so many levels. But what better way for him to bid us goodbye.

A Politician's Life

("The Vain and the Desperate")

Who indeed would subject him or herself to this process, to the interminable race, to the accusations and innuendos, to the prying eyes, to the ever more intense hunt for the next dollar, to the pettiness and the petulance, to the pretending and the prevaricating, to all that is entailed?

For what earthly reason, to be ultimately thrust into a quagmire, into a world in which reason and logic seem to have little space, where loyalty runs not to ideals but to donors, where the room is full of Hatfields and McCoys and where positive outcome, along with Elvis, seems to have left the building?

For the Republican party, void of any meaningful ideas, existing in a vacuum of deceit and denial, clinging to hatred as the central platform, whose purpose seems to be to do as much harm to as many as possible, it would be nigh impossible to locate a viable candidate for President whose shortcomings were not omnipresent.

And for Hillary, and others on the Democratic side who will soon embark on this all consuming mission to hell, what is the great allure? Two years of words, endless and repetitive, to convince the few who are listening, who care and who have not already aligned with one camp or the other, of the sanctity of their cause?

And at the end of the road, after the dust settles and the single moment of glory has passed, to be embroiled in a task in which there is seemingly no opportunity at home to do anything promised and on foreign soil to be relegated to the role of fireman, trying to extinguish blazes but handed only a small bucket of water, desperately hunting for other fire departments willing to attempt to prevent a conflagration?

Always on a high-wire without a safety net.

Who indeed but the foolish or the foolhardy would wish this life?

Derek and the Last Goodbye

It has all been a prelude, a buildup to this moment. As each actor has left the stage, the crescendo has increased. Now, with the spotlight cast fully upon the last man standing, the roar is deafening.

And the team has done its part, moving out of the way, long since having given up any chance of carrying on to further glories. There is no suspense or meaning to these games other than to be witness to the end of an era. It is as if no one else exists on the diamond. As we cast our eyes upon the field, we feel we are in a final embrace, one last dance with our partner, the power and beauty of two decades of memories cascading before us.

They were considered the four cornerstones of a generation of greatness. But there were truly five. When the center fielder left in 2006, his passing from the scene was duly noted but hardly felt. The team was at the height of its power, the stars were in abundance and his contributions were never as deeply acknowledged as they might have been, due in large measure to his quiet demeanor and the understated elegance with which he went about his craft.

The next to depart, from that class of four who emerged as if born of one moment in the mid-1990's, was the catcher, tough and gritty emblematic of the space he occupied, scrapping and clawing for every inch of turf. And when he walked off the field after the final out of 2011 his glory was large, but the shadow he cast was still dwarfed by a squad good enough to reach the post-season and by his three brothers who still toiled with such unerring success.

In 2013 the unending circus surrounding the third baseman sucked some of the air out of the building.  And the southpaw twirler, who seemed to live in perpetual agony while on the mound, always dissatisfied with his performance, always reaching for a higher level of perfection, pawed the rubber for the last time at season's end.

Gone with him was the greatest of all time at the position at which he held supreme from first pitch to last, a study in absolute contrast to the noise and tumult at the hot corner. Humble and seemingly devoid of ego, the consummate worker, punching the time clock day after day, year after year, focused only at being the best he could be. And in his rare moments of failure, accepting the consequences with a grace and dignity rarely seen. As the team struggled and ultimately did not advance, there was an ability to stand back and appreciate the masterpiece that stood strong and erect, on that raised platform. The league paid tribute and the noise swelled. But in the background there was still one more, whose time was nearly over and who we glanced at even while we stared as the reliever threw his last pitch.

In 2014 there have been no distractions, nothing to take our focus, our energy, our heart in various directions. All the heroes have disappeared, the next generation of star having departed for the west coast. The cast of characters that was paraded before us were almost interchangeable, virtually unknown, and if they were once or possibly future stars, they were not in this year.

There he stood, forever resolute, dedicated to the task at hand, always ready, always eager, always wanting nothing more than to put on the glove, pick up the bat, play the game.

His struggles in this final go round were irrelevant. We were here to pay tribute to a body of work, to an era that had disappeared, to a player who seemed to rise above the rest, to the captain of the ship. We were here to thank him for all that he had accomplished and for everything in which he believed.

In a time when disturbances seemed to overtake the sport, when accusations of wrongdoing  badly damaged its image, when we longed for nothing other than the purity of pursuit, when many beside him were concerned with self promotion and the joy in watching them perform was muted, out of all this mess and above the fray he stood. Implacable and undeterred, the next moment being the only one that mattered, his greatness nothing if there was no glory for his teammates. He was the embodiment of everything we held dear, with steadfast and unwavering dedication, with wonderful talent and wondrous maturity from the first day he put on the pinstripes. He understood that this was about something much more important than himself.

Numbers don't tell his story. They are but figures upon a page but cannot begin to reveal the mark which this man made on those who, for nearly two decades, had the privilege of seeing the sport played the way it was intended.

And as we rise and give our prolonged applause and wait for the last light on the stage to be extinguished, we must consider ourselves most fortunate. Thank you a thousand times over to Bernie, to Andy, to Jorge, to Mariano and finally to truly one of a kind. Derek you allowed us to love baseball and to remember the reason we are so drawn to it. You will be sorely missed.

Taking the Bait

("Take a Deep Breath")

Why did ISIS poke us with a stick? Why would this group provoke us with videos intended to mandate a visceral reply?  Why are they taking the fight to us? Are we being played?

Clearly, the beheadings were a marketing tool, a recruiting poster on steroids. For those disaffected, disillusioned, disenchanted, discouraged and dismayed by the events that have swirled around them creating such havoc, the United States has been cast in the role of malevolence personified. Like a deus ex machina having gone horribly wrong, bringing with it only death and destruction. The videos were the equivalent of spitting in the face of a vengeful, evil god and announcing that,as of that moment, it was no longer in control.

But, are we compelled to take this bait, or do we merely descend to the level of our provocateurs if we throw first our toe, then our foot, and before we realize it,  possibly our entire being back into the morass?

If we have learned lessons over the past 13 years, and it is most difficult in a time of crisis, real or imagined, to step back and do as Mr. Friedman suggests, then it is that embarking on a course in the absence of contemplation and consideration of consequences is not a proper method for governing.

Maybe ISIS is counting on cooler heads prevailing, that the heat of the moment will soon pass, that the humiliation will run its course and all that will remain is the hard reality of the disaster of re-engaging in this region.

There are only tough questions and elusive answers here.

Obama's Choice

It was never that President Obama didn't have a strategy. It was merely that finding the right answer appears more difficult than threading the eye of a needle while falling through space.

The salient points are that we are a nation emotionally and financially drained by fighting battles that have meandered for well more than a decade and left more questions than answers. We are the hated foreign invaders, intruders into a world we don't understand and can't control. We have seemingly merely created vacuums, allowing ample space for ongoing tragedy and trauma.

As we find ourselves reluctantly returning with increased force to a region we don't want to be in, with people who don't want us there, dropping our bombs and praying that all the cards somehow miraculously fall into place, there is ample reason for us to wonder and worry where this will lead.

When we can't tell our enemies from our friends without a scorecard, when we may be aiding President Assad whom we have denounced and demonized for decimating his own population, when we speak of arming rebel forces that we ourselves have labeled as unable to change the course of destiny, when all these matters coalesce, we are left with a seemingly unsolvable riddle.

And when most in Congress are reluctant to take a position, but demand that the President stop dithering, we all understand that for him, and for us, there is no good strategy only the one that appears least bad.

No Age Limits

Sight of the day

I was bike riding past a senior citizen residence when I noticed two very elderly men. They were seated in their sleek red motorized wheelchairs, the fronts facing one another. The top of the two white heads could be seen, the face of each man slumped down towards his chest. Sleeping, of course. But upon a second look, there was an unmistakeable 21st century image, fingers of both men moving furiously on cellphones. It seems the art of ignoring the person sitting directly next to you has no age limits.

The Death of the Death Penalty

("The Innocent on Death Row")

This case involves a confluence of virtually every critical problem relating to death penalty matters: intellectual impairment, long ignored DNA evidence, prosecutorial misconduct and a juvenile defendant. For those who find the implementation of the death penalty fraught with potential disaster, this case serves as the poster child.

The system of justice in this country has not been even remotely equally or fairly implemented. Many young impoverished blacks are subjected to the worst of abuses, their trials (and tribulations)  exposing the pitfalls and reflecting our prejudices.

The fear is that Justice Scalia,and those like him, who found this matter to be a primer for why the imposition of the death sentence is proper and compelling, will be much less likely to admit that it now stands for the proposition that there are a host of salient factors crying out for the death of the death penalty.

A Note from a Friend

I know it is your holiday. I hope all finds you well.

Can you tell me what it feels like to close your eyes without fear, to listen to nothing but the sound of the wind in the air, to look up into a sky not exploding with blood?

I can't remember the smells from the garden anymore. I know it used to be filled with sweetness and  joy. Now there is nothing but the stench of death in this neighborhood.

You have a saying, "there but for the grace of God go I."  What God did this to me, to my people?

But a moment ago I was as you, now I am a rat scurrying, hiding, in the shadows, in the corners. I scavenge for food, for light, for shelter from the bombs that suck all the oxygen from my lungs.

I am being a bad friend. I want to learn what your day was like. Did you go to the beach, ride the waves in the ocean? Is the end of summer particularly hot? Do you have any plans for the evening?

My next door neighbor died two days ago. There was a deafening noise no more than 100 meters from where I was sitting at my desk. In that instant the world turned black and in the next, there was chaos. He was two years younger than me, a good man, always with a ready smile.

I am trapped. The only escape is for you to tell me of a universe where there is love, laughter, beauty, quiet, comfort. Tell me of that place. Paint pictures for me so that I will no longer have to look upon the horrors I stare at, unblinking, unable to shut them out of my mind.

What did you consume for this holiday meal? Was it too many hamburgers and hot dogs? I  know your appetite is large for such a small person. Are you complaining, as you always do, about being too full and needing to lose some weight? I trust you were not in charge of the barbecue, for I recall what a poor cook you are.

I know this will end badly for me. I can feel death moving ever closer, tapping me on the shoulder, warning me to be ready, that it will soon be my turn. I am sorry that so many things I wanted to do, so many things I dreamed of, will not be written in my history. There will be no grandchild to hold, no more celebrations to attend, no feeling of contentment that many days well spent can bring. I am saddened for the future that never was.

Some days I feel numb, I feel nothing. It is at those moments that I would welcome the end, for when there is but emptiness, what reason is there for going on.

Tell me what lies ahead for you. Are there any vacations planned to see your friends on the other coast? Is your son feeling better, your daughter enjoying work? Is your office busy? I know you feared that as you got older you might struggle to find clients.

I close this letter apologizing for burdening you with my problems. I know that many have it worse than I do. At least for me, my wife and my children are all still alive, still able to be touched, still able to remind me that there is something worth living for, worth opening my eyes for.  I do worry that my son's wounded leg may not be healing, as it continues to look ghastly.

Enjoy your holiday.

Your friend

THIS IS A PIECE OF FICTION