Shelter From the Storm

There is connective tissue between Scott Androes ("A Possibly Fatal Mistake") and Donna Dove ("At the Corner of Hope and Worry"). It is of lives that are filled with struggle, emotional and financial. With choices that have to be made between bad and worse. With days spent longing for better days. And with one other thing, no health insurance.

Over 48 million people with a fear they carry with them that this will be the day that the odds catch up to them. That today the left shoulder tear that Donna suffered will get to the point where it demands attention, or that the consequences of not addressing the congestive heart problems of her husband will prove fatal.

Mitt Romney has recently stated that we do not leave anyone in our country without care. He has said that the emergency room is there as a place of last resort and that we don't let people die. Can that possibly be deemed the extent of our moral obligation? Can we allow so many to go untreated today and to live in fear of a more horrific tomorrow? Is this how little compassion we have?

Scott looks out the window of his hospital room and wonders whether his bad decisions will lead to his early and unnecessary death. He knows that, but for charity, this day could be even more terrible. And he understands, that even should he survive, economic devastation from this hospitalization awaits him at the door.

At the diner in rural Ohio, Donna's electric bill consumes her thoughts. The possibility of paying to protect her own health, and that of her husband, is a luxury she can't even afford to consider.

For those like me, who haven't felt the crushing weight of being uninsured, there is no way to empathize. I cannot comprehend what it is to wake up each day staring out at a world where many have deemed you less worthy and more expendable, which in Mr. Romney's words, castigates you for believing yourself a "victim" and "entitled" to the attention and assistance of the government.

There is an overwhelming sadness in learning of the travails of Scott and Donna, one a Harvard graduate, the other a woman who had no taste for school and got pregnant at 16. Though their paths have been different, the story they tell is similar. No one deserves to live with no shelter from the storm. No one needs to die a senseless and untimely death. Their pain robs them of their strength and diminishes our nation.

Of Debates and Dismissiveness

(The Generation War")

Mr Brooks: "A lot of people will look at Biden's performance and see a style of politics that makes complex trade-offs impossible."

Me: "Demonstrable deliberate deceptions and distortions deserve disdain and denunciation."

Of Legends, Heroes and A-Rod

We stood on lines, four deep, waiting for our respective turns at the urinal. In the background, the piped in ruminations of John Sterling, the team's radio announcer, advised of another futile at bat by a player whose multiple post-season failures seemed piled on his shoulders. "Who would you rather have on your team, A-Rod or Manny on steroids?" The question posed by the person standing on my left wearing a number 7 Yankee jersey reflected the hostility and frustration of those throughout the stadium. With the inevitable third strike,  the herd in the men's room let out a collective groan.

I have been a Yankee lifer for well over half a century. In that time I have been eye-witness to compelling moments both during the 162 game grind  (154 in an earlier incarnation) and in the heightened atmosphere that accompanies the post season. Seared in my brain are images of the home run by Chambliss with the crowd pouring on to the field to celebrate his playoff winner against Kansas City, Mr. October and the three magnificent swings against the Dodgers with the balls exploding off his bat, Mr. November and the extra inning home run into where else but right field, a fading Doc Gooden completing a no hitter against a  powerful Seattle line up that included a very young Alex Rodriguez, and a bloodied Jeter emerging from the stands after making "The Catch". I have been around the block a few times.

But last night was possibly more compelling than all of the others. In the giddy aftermath, it certainly felt that way.  Down by a run with 2 outs to go the season, if not hanging in the balance,  was certainly on its way there. When my host  tapped me on the shoulder, pointed to the on-deck circle and merely said "Look", it took a moment for the gravity of what my eyes were telling me to sink in. There was a 40 year old man standing where A-Rod should have been. Years past, in a post season meltdown, the 600 plus man had been unceremoniously dropped to the bottom of the lineup for a World Series game. But even that seemed a less searing indictment than this. This man with the quarter of a billion dollar contract, this man who was supposed to be more than others could be, this man was not out there in the most crucial of times.

With the crack of the bat, Giradi's ability to manage and to make the toughest of decisions, was elevated to almost mythical heights. As the line drive reached the stands and the crowd roared in a combination of disbelief, joy and validation of its lack of  faith in A-Rod, a bald and aging Ibanez became part of Yankee lore. Forever attached to this at bat, and to the quarter billion dollar man.

But still, the game was only tied, and the possibility of this extraordinary event being minimized by a loss in extra innings loomed large. And so we settled in. As the 10th and 11th innings passed without consequence, and Wednesday inched ever closer to Thursday, we waited for Mr. Ibanez to stand once more in the batter's box.

Often we say things almost in jest, knowing the probabilities make the chance of hope turning into reality virtually nonexistent. And so it was as the battle of lefty pitcher against lefty hitter unfolded. The man who replaced A-Rod standing there, in all likelihood hoping for a first pitch fastball. There is a sound that comes from a well struck baseball that resounds. Even in a crowd of over 50,000 animated people, it is a distinct noise. The arc of the ball left no doubt, from the moment it began its transcendent flight, that the game was now concluded. Ibanez rounded third base and flung his helmet far into the night air. His bald pate gleamed and he was soon devoured by the frantic gathering awaiting him at home plate. He was now an official hero.

Somewhere among that throng pounding Ibanez on ever inch of his body in congratulatory ritual was A-Rod. I wonder what he was thinking.

High Anxiety

It has been said that the 1960 election for President of the United States was decided by a sweaty upper lip. A lip that would live in infamy in a later reincarnation.

The first of the televised presidential debates took place in 1960. Black and white images of a pale Richard Nixon appeared on the screen. Nerves, or at least the appearance of nerves, seemed to pour out of his being. In stark contrast, Senator Kennedy, in makeup and with a head of hair that was an open invitation to seduction, was impossibly perfect. 

In an election, close and hotly contested, Mr. Nixon's beads of sweat may well have been his Achilles heel.

I lay on the couch, joyful in my anticipation. It was to be the beginning of the coronation, a night to follow what had been a succession of unexpectedly  happy occurrences. The first of the 2012 debates was to mark the moment when a monumentally ineffective Republican candidate was to receive the spanking that he had coming to him.

Only it turned out that there were 2 impostors on the stage this night. The first, looking like Mr. Romney, but playing a very different character from the "severe conservative" we've all come to know, spent the evening in full-blown renunciation of himself and, coincidentally, his opponent. The other, masquerading as Barack Obama, decided his task was to be merely a disinterested and disoriented observer. While all hell was breaking loose around him, the stand-in for the President virtually disappeared from sight.

I have been in near depression ever since. The knot in my stomach appears, dissipates and then returns with renewed enthusiasm to taunt me. I sigh the kind of sigh that is reserved for someone weighted down by life's complications. I sleep restlessly in the best of times, but now bedtime and reveille are headed on a collision course. I search for answers that elude me.

I hate poll numbers. Seeming to spring out of thin air minutes after one election ends, the calculations on the next cycle begin. There is analysis of  everyone and everything and each one carries significance, at least until it doesn't. As the days to the vote shorten, the frenetic energy devoted to the study of the percentage of this, and the trend of that only multiplies. When times are good, at least I can rest my head on a feathery cushion of positives. But when events turn ugly and the numbers uglier, there is no respite. I can't count sheep when the big bad wolf is stealing my flock in front of my eyes.

Was Denver Obama's Waterloo? Was it his sweaty lip moment? I want the search party to find the missing President and bring him back immediately.  I want the candidates to appear tomorrow at Fordham University for the next close encounter. I want Obama's thrashing of the bane of his existence to commence now, right now, in full view of the entire nation. I want my stomach to stop hurting. I want to get some sleep.

The Closing Statement of the President

I want to apologize to the American public. There is no justification for my failures in Denver. I was listless, uninspired and ill-prepared. I did not anticipate that Mr. Romney would re-invent himself that night, distancing himself not only from the basic tenets of his party, but from his own long professed positions. But the blame begins and ends with me. My remarks were tepid and my vision for the future of this country was nowhere to be found. I was, in the words of combat, missing in action.

I want to tell you who I really am, and equally as important, who my opponent is not. I am someone who has come from very little. I was able to dream the big dreams, the biggest dreams, because I live in a country that allows these thoughts and permits these dreams the chance to become reality. I understand that there must be a reason to believe, there must be a sense that achievement is possible for each individual to survive the travails and do more with his or her life.

Ours is not a nation of takers, of victims, as Mr. Romney suggested in his unvarnished words to a room full of those who share his beliefs. We are doers, and given the chance, we have endless capacity. Those on welfare, on medicare, on medicaid, those young and old who suffer and struggle each day do not deserve our enmity but our compassion. I know that in each of them lies the same burning desire as is the few who have been able to reach the pinnacle in their chosen field. I do not intend now, or ever, to leave any one of them behind. Each person's equal importance is what makes this nation great. That testament to what we are is embedded within the words of our founding documents and is the bedrock of our society. Mr. Romney frames his tax policy, his health insurance goals and his entire philosophy of governing on rejection of that basic principle. His core belief is that those who have the most are the only driving force of this country, and the rest are disposable commodities. If he keeps the rich happy, then in his mind,  his job would be done, and done well. I find such a position untenable and immoral.

I walked into this office four years ago, determined to lead a country that was desperate and searching. Our financial outlook was dismal, as we were hemorrhaging jobs. I spoke once of turning around a great ship, and that the arc of that effort was slow. It has been, slower than I hoped and slower than all of you need. I know that for all of you who are still in such pain, there appears to be no end in sight. And I know that patience, after all this time, seems too big a request. But I ask you to understand that slow and steady progress is all that I can offer and all that I can achieve. There is no magic. There is the alternative, and that is to reverse our course, and head back directly where the trouble came from. And that is Mr. Romney's vision and plan. He would take away from those with outstretched arms and pain in their eyes and give more to those who don't need assistance in derogation of his solemn obligations.

It is not us against them. I don't resent achievement, I applaud it, and believe that our government should provide whatever reasonable latitude can be given to allow greatness to abound. Without that, our country is stifled and headed for mediocrity. But my job is to make certain that there are boundaries that can not be crossed and that abuses of the rights afforded not go unnoticed and unattended. It is a thankless task to challenge those who believe that any restraint is too much restraint. And Mr. Romney, despite the words uttered in Denver, has a fundamental distrust in regulation. He follows in the belief of his predecessors that any regulation is merely an impediment to greatness. And so we had the Wall Street disaster, and so Mr. Romney would lead us back there.

It is a moment of momentous importance abroad. The world as we know it has undergone an enormous transformation since I took office. It is a work in progress, often ugly and almost always uneven and uncertain. It is a time of great flux, and like our economy, it is one that will evolve slowly, no matter how much we wish or demand finality and clarity right now. It will take a deft touch and a deep understanding to deal with the complexities that arise from moment to moment. I have done the hardest work, and made the most difficult choices when the same were needed. Our role in Libya, with our allies able assist, resulted in the prevention of a genocide of untold proportion. Each problem, and there are many, demands more than Mr. Romney would have to offer in his large and unwieldy pronouncements. I work every day with our close friends in Israel to try to inch closer to resolution. Mr. Romney has suggested that it is a problem without answer. I do not believe that.  Under my watch, we have finished our time in Iraq, and are winding down our involvement in Afghanistan. But there are no straight lines to answers, even there. I understand that we alone do not want and deserve a chance at greatness. There are people throughout our world that search each day for that opportunity and I must be ever aware of that reality in finding solutions.

There are no easy answers to governing. It is fraught with peril and disaster awaits any misstep. For me, it has not been the easiest of paths, certainly harder than I anticipated. My adversaries would see me fail, even at the cost of progress for our country. I have had to work to overcome not only the natural obstacles that I should encounter, but the roadblocks that have been placed before me by those whose only goal is to have my job. I have done great things over the past four years and I am most proud of the fact that we have, in the face of unrelenting opposition, been able to achieve what so many before have not. I embrace "Obamacare" and the fact that 30 million less Americans will have to go to sleep at night fearing they are but one illness away from calamity and that the only medical attention to which they are entitled is found in emergency rooms. They can close their eyes knowing that their children will be protected from harm's way in ways they were not yesterday. Mr. Romney wants to undo all that, and for that there is only shame.

I want the American people to know that I let you down on that stage in Denver. I was not what you have a right to expect and demand of me. But I promise you that I have not let you down the last four years and I will not let you down the next four. I love my job and I love the American people. I believe in you and in your greatness and I ask that you continue to believe in me. Thank you, God Bless you and God Bless the United States of America.

The Falling of Leaves

They perform their ritual dance for me, their only audience. From above, they swirl in a cadence that is once frenetic, then gentle. They move towards me, then away, then back again. Suddenly, one taps me on the shoulder, asking  if I am paying attention. Then many join in, all around in a mass of movement and sway. Finally, one by one they leave my side and touch the ground, caressing and covering it in a warming blanket. It is the beginning of the change of seasons.

Growing up, I lived in a corner house. As fall announced its arrival, my task was to gather the leaves in big piles, straining to make one more compact than the others. The rakes showed stark reminders of past battles, their scarred and gnarly fingers having difficulty holding and pulling their squirming foe. The wind served as silent adversary, making a mockery of much of my work in one large breath.

My dad was always there in partnership with me. Looking up from my battles, he was constantly at work. I know he was watching, but was never looking when I glanced in his direction. "Are you having trouble?" He would come over, examine my rake closely and then hand me his weapon of choice. "Try this, I think it may help."

Like enormous dots on the lawn, these piles were moved toward one another until they formed one massive being. In later years, when it was determined that the burning of these beings was environmentally inappropriate, they died a gentler death, being pushed to the curb and carted away. But I still remember those earlier times, when the job was completed in a multi-colored blaze.

I drove up to Massachusetts yesterday, looking for the vibrancy in the colors of the landscape. The change is still in its infancy, and both the hues and my response were muted. In the coming weeks the dance that surrounded me this morning will be repeated often for every person who ventures into the midst of a New England fall. In my travels, I will pass many a family capturing not the leaves but a lasting memory. As for me, fall will forever have a smell and sight that has long since disappeared from the American landscape.

And the Oscar Goes To

 ("Moderate Mitt Returns") "Either out of conviction or political desperation, he broke with the Tea Party orthodoxy and began to redefine the Republican identity".

Let's analyze the statement of Mr. Brooks in its component parts. One possibility is that the Mr. Romney who has been before the American public the last 18 months has been a charlatan, lying to himself and to the public. Pandering to the far right, making statements wholly inconsistent not only with what he uttered on the stage at the debate but from day to day during the campaign, the former governor has been hiding in plain sight since he first announced his candidacy. What does this say about his value as a man, and the values that he will govern by if handed the highest office in the land?

Alternatively, Mr. Brooks suggests Mr. Romney read the reports of his imminent demise and decided that he had made a monumental miscalculation. Rather than apologizing for past errors, he ignored them and created a new person, redefining in 90 minutes not merely the Republican identity but his own.

This was a man on the witness stand, demonstrating that he had either repeatedly and contemptuously lied to the American people for an extended period of time,  or that he was lying to them now, or both. And somehow, Mr. Brooks found in this a true and admirable candidate. I am disappointed in Mr. Brooks for giving Mr. Romney credit for what David Axelrod described as an Oscar winning performance in Denver. My fear is that the American public may well, like Mr. Brooks, have been taken in by this charade.

Undebatable Disaster

It should have been a glorious night. The Yankees pounded the hated and downtrodden Red Sox, clinching the division title, the best record in the American League and home field advantage until the World Series. And that should have been merely the second most important reason for me to smile. But I was left, at evening's end, shaken not stirred.

It was the worst of all possible debate outcomes. Mitt Romney, abandoning all the extreme right wing talking points and presenting himself as the moderate  he never could be based on his adherence to the extreme ideology of his party. And the professor he faced showed none of the passion, nor the adroitness that I expected, permitting himself to be boxed into the corner, often defensive and seemingly helpless. How could that happen when there was so much opportunity to attack?

Here was the former governor extolling the virtues of a health care plan he had fathered but distanced himself from the entire campaign. And the President merely applauded him for his past good deeds. Here was Mr. Romney misrepresenting that his tax plan was revenue neutral and would not cast additional burden on the lower and middle class, and a President who seemed stunned and unable to prove this nonsense inaccurate. Here was the 47% man, the etch a sketch man, this man who had spoken so inconsistently and so incoherently getting a free pass and being permitted to present an unfettered image of himself as a champion of the masses.

It was an unmitigated disaster. Here was Obama, stumbling and often searching for his words, while Romney peppered him with statistics on everything from green energy to education that the President was unable or unwilling to explain or defend. Here was Obama never showing himself as the warrior for the people, for those most in need of our government's care and attention. Here was a President not even able to distinguish his ideas for the future of Social Security from that of his opponent. Here was a President in free fall.

It was supposed to be a glorious time, when the intelligence and power of the President, coupled with the strength of his positions, would crush a Republican adversary reeling virtually from the start of his own party's primaries. Mr. Romney was full of holes and ripe for the picking. And yet, as the debate concluded, my happiness at the Yankee's success was dwarfed by the shocking events that had unfolded in Denver for 90 baffling and brutal minutes. The reelection was there for the President's taking, but at least on this night it slipped through his fingers. Not much of a 20th wedding celebration for him.

The Closing Statement

(In response to David Brooks "The Opening Statement")

The Closing Statement

Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to apologize for my candidacy. I have treated all of you with disrespect and for that I deserve neither your continued attention or your vote. If I were you, I'd give the other guy four more years.

I am not entitled to etch a sketch the last months in which I have been a man masquerading as many things I would like to think I am not.  These debates, in which I spit out memorized text from speech writers who would try to reinvent me, can not undo all that has come before. Let me tell you what I have done wrong.

I have aligned myself with a party which has a flawed vision of politics and whose policies are antithetical to what my religion teaches me. I have become someone who is willing to abandon the poor, the sick, the elderly. I praise only those who are self sufficient and demean those in need. That is not what I was taught as a young man and not what I preached to those who came to me as a leader with a supposedly strong moral compass.

I have shown contempt for millions among us who came here seeking a better life for themselves and their families. I have vowed to make their world so unhappy that they flee our shores. I have characterized as merely  inartful vile remarks aimed at a young woman whose only sin was expressing her position on an issue of women's rights.

I have tried to dismiss the efforts of a President who has faced nothing but roadblocks in his attempts to undo the disaster he was handed. I know that my party has been to blame, in large part, for past failures and present stagnation, but I ignore this merely to garner your support.

I have decried as unworkable health care reform that is in many aspects identical to the plan that was the centerpiece of my term as governor. Instead of embracing the millions of people whose lives would be improved by these good works, I have been willing to leave them unattended.

I have hidden from you the truth about my private sector record and my willingness to gut any business in the name of profit for me and mine. I have refused to provide you with my tax returns as I don't want you to understand how I have accumulated much of my wealth by manipulating the system.

I have taken to posturing about what I would do in various foreign arenas when I know that almost none of my big stick talk is true, or proper. I understand that the world is far too complex a place, and our own country far too tired of combat, to follow up on my threats to make everyone who is not with us a target. Along the way I have spoken derogatorily about the worth of a nation of people and castigated the efforts of those organizing games that, for a brief moment,try to unite us all.

I have abandoned truth and reality in search of this highest office. I have been a fraud and a chameleon. I have been unhappy and uncomfortable in my own skin and it has shown, time and time again. I have been less than I can and should be. I have been a disappointment to myself as much as I have to my party. I apologize for everything that I was not. I don't deserve to be President of the United States. Thank you.

The Cutting Room Floor

Earlier this week, I wrote to the New York Times. Again. And, as has happened with a regularity that is astonishing to me, and anyone who knows the limits of my mental acuity, I was advised that what I had written might soon appear, in the print  and/or online version of the paper.

Professional editing of my words began. After several egregious errors on my part were caught and corrected, the final version was approved  for publication.

Last night was my bride's 40th high school reunion. It is hard to believe by looking at her, but that's because there is a picture of an aging Dorian Gray hidden in her closet.  We had long since decided that I didn't need to spend $100 to eat a meal at the local inn and socialize with her former classmates. Plus, the evening before had been spent by me in conversation with many of these same people at a local bar.

With my son out of the house for the evening, I was left alone to stare at the computer screen incessantly, waiting for the Sunday version of the paper to appear online. I was about to gain additional recognition in my obsessive search for validation. My plans to read an article on Mr.Romney's Mormonism dissolved as I was unable to concentrate on anything but my contemplated one person celebration.

And there it was. In black and white, and maybe a splash of color around the edges. My thoughts on someone else's thoughts and then a response by the author in which my name was mentioned in a positive manner. Third party congratulations in possibly the most highly regarded newspaper in the world. My ego was satiated, at least for a brief moment.

I rushed to inform all those who were spending their Saturday evening waiting anxiously to read my thoughts of my latest accomplishment. I  just didn't bother to qualify my success with any caveat. "This piece appears in the New York Times"  I peacocked on my blog.

Only, it kind of didn't. At 6:30 this morning, I dressed and rushed out the door. We don't get the papers delivered on the weekends, and so with daylight just on the horizon, I headed in pursuit of glory. At the newspaper store, I groaned, so audibly that the proprietor asked me if everything was ok. I proceeded to regale him with tales of my self anointed greatness, and my disappointment that my thoughts were nowhere to be found in hard print. I had been left on the cutting room floor. He said something to mollify me, but what it was barely registered.

And so, to those I unintentionally misled about the scope of my grandeur, this is my mea culpa.

I have another issue that now arises. When I tell anyone who will listen, or is unable to get away from me quickly enough to avoid my thoughts of imagined immortality, of the numerical level of my achievement, does an on-line only inclusion come with an asterisk?