Saturday, August 27, 2016


I sat on the edge of the unmade bed. It was evening dark, ushering in shadows dripping in despair, complementing the mood of hopelessness which was engulfing me ,more and more as the light in the house grew dimmer with the advance of a clock, had there been one.

I was in my house or what would be for another day on which a sale would be consummated. My house. So many years of my family bonding together, sharing the divine warmth of everyone sleeping under the same roof, comforting each other even during sleep.

It was that time in life when size of the house was deemed unnecessary and it seemed financially advisable  to sell.

I wanted to kiss every inch of its floors and reminisce about the wonderful events of which it would forever be a depository.

The memories of the house were permeated with love and warmth and hugging and crying and laughter and all the good things that life could entail. It was a magic house, a fine and splendid magic house. It was a thing of beauty, tangibly and ethereally. Its warmth had not changed since my first encounter with it.

I was driving into work when a temporary detour caused me to drive by the house which sported a 

"FOR SALE BY OWNER" SIGN. I wrote down the phone number and thought of nothing else all the day long. The next day, my alpha brain in high drive, I knocked on the magic door and introduced myself to the Madam, a lovely charming woman. I told her why I was there and she gave me a cook's tour. It was love at first sight.

Every room beckoned with warmth, as if the sun would never go down and its purpose was my relaxation. The price was beyond my means but I knew I had to reach for it JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO TRY TO GO FOR IT since I had fallen in love.

Today, even 55 years later, my son and daughter will tell the present owners of their connection to their home and they are greeted with friendship and allowed to examine the premises. I'm not strong enough for that. I'd never make it. Let my dreams nourish me.

This post was not meant to be sad but happy endings are not always manageable.

And my memories are non-tarnishable.

My warm and happy memories.

Sunday, August 21, 2016


The words of Ryan Lochte to a not-so-impartial Matt Lauer rang of the truth. He sincerely acknowledged his missteps in a straightforward manner and missed no one with the broad sweep of his apologies.This is not, however, a benediction  of his captors demanding money at gunpoint.

He should have stayed with his companions but this is not a crime. It was a victimless error in judgement with booze paving the way, but when confronted with a loaded gun in a locus somewhat less reliable than the U.S. SUPREME COURT, getting out of there pronto-like gets my vote every time.

Why doesn't Lauer procure an interview with the gun carrier, affording us a peek of the other side?

We all make mistakes as we maneuver through our cocoon of human frailties. Stay tuned for developing evidence more fully capturing the atmosphere of what went down. The gun-toter v. the drunk converter of property aint no fair freeway from where I sit. If Lochte had sustained serious bodily injury, the sway of media presumptions would be 180 degrees from where they are now.

Locate looked sincerely chastened  and I for one buy it. The booze led him astray but he's not using this as an excuse for not rushing the gun holder and causing life threatening injury, or worse. No shots were fired. No punches were thrown. Lets try being cool here.

He says he has learned his lesson.

He deserves a chance to prove it.

I say he already has.


Stop the presses, put your ear to the ground and listen. There's a change in the machinations of our planet. Whether this is caused by the mood of the electorate or whether the voters are being influenced by a change in the rhythms is immaterial as far as the prognosis of the new thrust of the Trump mood.

The savvy pros have finally put their hands on Trump's shoulders and administered a "no more outrageous crap----you read the lines we give you" or we walk away and let you return to your suicide run exposing your ineptness for the office you seek. And although its relatively early, IT WORKS! Speaking to minorities with words of reason which are delivered to him thirty seconds in teleprompter time, Trump's new shtick is a manifestation of everybody realizing that he can win this thing if he no longer carries his gun which shoots his feet and permeates his campaign with a cesspool aroma.


Two things have happened concurrently: Trump nearly committed suicide during the week that was and the Elephant Starkers realized that somewhere in this empty head was the potential for a winner. And, don't look now, every day makes the stretched-out E-MAIL fiasco and the shadows of Benghazi more onerous and threatening to Ms. Clinton.

This is going down to the wire, folks, with the first debate being crucial.

Anything can happen (George W.)

The Trump sons will resign from the Brown Shirt Party,

Ms. Clinton will stop dodging these smoke and mirror accusations against her and meet them head-on, which she can do in dissipatory fashion
and will keep her husband away from airport tarmac secret meetings to discuss family matters and exchange photos of grandkids.    


Saturday, August 6, 2016


How did it come to pass that Donald Trump is the Republican nominee for President? Better suited for a comic movie, the notion is permeated with danger effecting our and future generations. But the door out is open, the road to redemption is simply resolved. Return to the origin and retrace steps taken but in a 180 fashion.   REVERSE COURSE.

Mob hysteria is both powerful and dangerous. The line dividing mass protests and public chaos is difficult to observe, let alone follow. But Humpty Dumpty provides a blueprint for redemption.

Mr. Trump is imploding and his followers shake their heads more in defeat than in a realization of how close they came to a brush with the devil. Had Trump prevailed, his supporters would have become the vanquished, ruled over,domineeringly, by those who had been looked to for redemption.

Does Hillary Clinton have baggage? Of course, but in any comparison test imaginable,
 the tail of the other guy passes the bad line first.

It aint over yet but a solution is in sight.

A formal discussion on a particular topic in a public meeting in which opposing arguments are put forward.

Grab the chips and the salsa sauce. The creation at hand is upon us.