INSPIRATION

November 3, 2025 //

It’s nice when people acknowledge who inspired them. A man recalls the insights of the small town historian who taught him to understand the world. A sculptor thanks her art teacher for introducing her to beauty. A scientist recalls the first thrill of discovery at the elbow of his high school chemistry teacher. Now that I spend hours choosing words as an aspiring novelist, I credit an English teacher, Mr. Elliot, as the most inspiring instructor I never had. (That is not a typo.)

Due to the state of Philadelphia’s public schools in 1968, and my father’s disinclination to move, my parents enrolled me in a private school for seventh grade. After considering the local choices, many of which were religious, they selected Friends’ Academy. Nominally Quaker, the school was effectively non-denominational. The administration strove to promote every liberal ideal, including open-mindedness and inclusivity. Who could object to that during the tumultuous Vietnam War years of 1968-1974, when I attended? In practice, openness to all ideas meant that my classmates were encouraged at every opportunity to be non-conformists; however, in their non-conformity, they achieved near-total conformity. In retrospect, I was the one who was “out there,” wearing my hair short and my shoes on, choosing baseball over protests, and attending classes alone on school-sanctioned “cut-days.”

I felt that my parents had paid for me to attend school, not to walk aimlessly around the quadrangle holding a sign. I felt apart from my classmates, proud not to succumb to peer pressure. On the social level, for all its openness, I found Friends’ Academy oppressive. Nonetheless, I welcomed the school’s influence on my intellectual life. Environmentalism resonated with me thanks to a groundbreaking (in 1969) recycling program. Small classes encouraged immersion in subjects like music theory and art that propelled lifelong interests. Surrounded by wealthy classmates, I learned to detect hypocrisy, observing the conspicuous consumption of classmates picked up each day in luxury cars with Gene McCarthy bumper stickers.

The majority of the teachers at Friends’ Academy were superb. I recall the teacher of a course called “Propaganda.” Ms. Prager lasted only one year on her tiny salary, but left me with a lifetime of skeptical political insights. Mr. Golden taught medieval history so vividly that one could almost feel the tip of the lance when he described jousting. Mr. Groff, dressed daily in his frayed 1938 varsity jacket, made participation on Friends’ Academy’s mediocre teams seem more meaningful than suiting up for the Phillies.

What about Mr. Elliot, the man who influenced me more than any other? Ironically, despite an avowed inclination towards egalitarianism, Friends’ Academy made class assignments as though it were a monarchy. Each grade was divided into three sections. Section 1 students were deemed truly outstanding in the worlds of intellect and, often, family wealth. Most had attended Friends’ Academy since kindergarten. Section 2, where I was placed, consisted of capable students who lacked overwhelming brains or money. Section 3 consisted of those who lacked brainpower but who still held appeal in terms of wealth, sports ability, or legacy.

I believe each student in Sections 2 or 3 was keenly aware of the characteristics of his or her group and the absolute impossibility of upward mobility. Though some teachers taught classes at more than one level, the most experienced and legendary teachers taught only Section 1. Mr. Elliot was, perhaps, the most accomplished of these “masters,” with a collection of awards, publications, and honorary degrees worthy of a famous university professor. His appearance was striking, too, with bushy black eyebrows and a full head of hair atop an oversized head, balanced on a short, barrel-chested body. His voice was a growl with hints of England tinged with fluency in Russian, the other language he taught. (At Friends’ Academy, one could study Latin, Greek, German, French or Russian, but not Spanish – it was considered too easy).

From my teenage perspective, I considered Mr. Elliot to be ancient, though he was probably only around forty at the time. Picture a swarthy and serious Robin Williams, his voice booming through the hallways. Section 1 students reveled in describing lectures where he’d recited Chaucer from memory or costumed himself as a peasant to perform Chekhov in the original Russian. Recounting Mr. Elliot anecdotes at lunch was an unsubtle marker of placement in Section 1.

My exposure to Mr. Elliot was indirect. My eleventh-grade German class met in his homeroom three hours each week, while his classes were elsewhere, no doubt reenacting scenes from Ibsen or building sets in the style of the original Shakespearean playhouse. While Frau Springer tried to interest me in German grammar (more words for “the” than Eskimoes have for snow), I focused on Mr. Elliot’s aphorisms written in capital letters on construction paper tacked onto the classroom walls. Each had the gravity of the Ten Commandments. “Do not dangle participles.” “Use parallel construction.” “A semi-colon cannot appear twice in an essay.” Basically, Strunk & White’s “Elements of Style” was reduced by Mr. Elliot to simple rules.

One sheet that I immediately memorized was titled “The Black List of words to never be written.” Included were: “Really, very, more, most, get, got, seems, might, good, better.” Other precious pearls of Mr. Elliot knowledge I memorized during German class were “necessary” vocabulary words. He spread lists of SAT words in threesomes around the walls, such as “trite, banal, hackneyed” and “adamant, obdurate, indurate.” I memorized these words to the extent that I can annoy family members to this day. I can be “annoying, vexing, and bothersome.”

I used to imagine what it would be like to have Mr. Elliot as my English teacher. I pictured a world of brilliant insights exploding like fireworks. I do not claim the students in Section 1 were unworthy of their selection or that I was improperly left out. Could I, or would I, have published a novel by tenth grade, as one of the “geniuses” did? Did I choose to memorize the entire timetable of the London subway system, as did another? No way. I lack sufficient curiosity and was resistant to learning a broad section of subjects. If a book or lecture did not interest me, I shut down. Literature, music, and history commanded attention; science, math, and foreign languages did not. I recall when my eleventh-grade English teacher arrived in class one day with Mr. Elliot in tow, introducing the elder luminary as our guest lecturer on War and Peace.“The novel represents the dual pinnacles of Mr. Elliot’s interests in Russian and English,” he said.

My classmates seemed unfazed by the opportunity to share the Section 1 experience, but I looked forward to savoring an hour with Mr. Elliot. “Please give him your full attention,” implored the young teacher. I sensed his fear that we would disgrace him. Mr. Elliot strode to the front and immediately launched a rousing explanation of the author’s complex narrative that passed largely over our heads. After pausing for a moment, the Great Man posed a question. By luck, I thought I knew the answer. I rarely raised my hand in class, and I was especially reluctant to draw attention from the great man. Yet, everyone else sat like lumps of clay. Excruciating silence enveloped the room, and I could almost feel Mr. Elliot’s inner thoughts as he confronted the dullness of students not in Section 1. Finally, I raised my arm in stages. Mr. Elliot looked at me.

“Yes?” he boomed. “Will we have enlightenment from the student in the blue shirt?”

“I think…” I began.

“Stand up when you respond,” said Mr. Elliot.

I rose self-consciously, aware of shuffling around me from surprised classmates. “I think…” I began again.

“Don’t ‘think’,” interrupted Mr. Elliot. “You either know the answer or you do not.”

Duly prodded and with a burst of adrenaline, I gathered the entire answer in my mind and delivered a clear and well-formed paragraph. I waited a moment for my insight to be lauded. I was proud of how it had unfurled from my lips. Mr. Elliot, I was certain, was impressed. I anticipated his broad smile. Doubtless, he was gathering the right combination of adjectives to describe my answer, perhaps: “cogent, lucid, illuminating.” Instead, his face contorted in a mask of anger. Not looking at me, he pivoted to gaze at the entire class and sputtered: “I do not accept someone quoting from Cliff’s Notes in response to my question. In order to achieve anything, you must do your own thinking.”

I felt mortified, humiliated, and embarrassed. I noticed my teacher shaking his head sadly. Mr. Elliot proceeded to the next portion of his lecture, while I sat down, red-faced and burning with indignation. I wasn’t a perfect student; however, I liked reading novels, and I hadn’t used Cliff’s Notes or any other shortcut. I may have been the only student in Section 2 who’d read every word. My disillusionment with Mr. Elliot and shame at my inability to defend myself were crushing. The only positive thing about being humiliated in front of a class of teenagers is that they seem to care so little. I went to lunch after class in a daze. One friend said: “Wow, he really nailed you.” I started to explain: “I read every page….” No one listened. The discussion had already moved on to the daily dissection of the Allman Brothers, the Eagles, and Van Morrison. The private injustice done to me was already forgotten, except by me.

I didn’t encounter Mr. Elliot again. But I took satisfaction for the rest of the school year in taking his words and rules from his walls and making them mine. Eventually, the focus on quality words and writing Mr. Elliot taught so succinctly (concisely, pithily, sententiously) guided me through the SAT’s, the LSAT’s, law school, the bar exam, my career, parenting. and writing. Mr. Elliot turned out not to be my hero, but he was my inspiration. Exoneration, revenge, vindication.

Tags education, fiction, short-story, teaching, writing

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PERCEPTIONS CHANGE

July 12, 2025 //

How quickly perceptions change! Just over a year ago, I still felt satisfaction at the sight of a Tesla. I hadn’t bought one myself due to longstanding discomfort with its founder’s quirkiness and unpredictability. I happily quenched my desire to drive an electric car with a Mustang Mach-E and, subsequently, a Kia EV-6. Still, seeing a Tesla on the road reassured me. It meant, I thought, that the transformation of the American automotive fleet was underway and would only gain momentum. No longer would we be beholden to filthy Exxon and the like. They (whoever that is) say the arc of history turns towards progress. A Tesla meant progress.

Now I’m aware Tesla’s founder is not merely eccentric and unpredictable but also has neo-Nazi sympathies. Furthermore, he played a significant role in electing the psychopath who is called “president.” Finally, he reveled in destroying the careers of thousands of civil servants, most of whom work with diligence and dedication.

Currently, my stomach churns with disgust every time I see a Tesla. And that happens often because I live just minutes from the Research Triangle Park in North Carolina. The scientists and tech experts there are among the first to adopt new technology. Many are from other countries and seem blissfully unaware or unconcerned about the ongoing harm to the American political and scientific systems. I fear they won’t be so blissful if their Green Cards start to be revoked.

Harvard University also represents a shift in my perception. Growing up, when I thought about prestigious schools, I favored Penn and Yale because my brother, Barry, attended both. I opted for a smaller college. Not a fan of rejection, then or now, I didn’t apply to any Ivy League schools.

Later, I didn’t think of Harvard much at all. It occupied a vague area of my consciousness associated with stuffiness. When I visited the campus once as an adult, it struck me as traffic-filled and unattractive, its students cocooned in their sense of superiority. (Okay, I may also have felt a pang of jealousy.)

About six years ago, my son, Sam, joined a program at Harvard as a post-doc. My perception changed somewhat. In the privacy of my home, I enjoyed using the “Harvard Dad” mug he gave me. Still, I felt unattached emotionally to the institution. If people asked after Sam, disdaining pretension, I’d say he was pursuing research in Boston. Only if they pressed for details would I reveal the Harvard connection.

Recently, my thinking has shifted considerably. I bought a Harvard T-shirt and wear it proudly around the neighborhood and at the gym. The formerly unsympathetic institution, under assault as it is, is worthy of any slight boost I can provide. Paul Simon once wrote: “Seasons change with the scenery.” I paraphrase loosely to conclude, “Perceptions change with the presidency.”

Tags education, electric cars, harvard, life, perceptions, politics, tesla

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NATURE CALLS

May 8, 2025 //

Over the past week, I have witnessed nature in three different forms: at a raptor preserve, a zoo, and on my front lawn. All three involve cognitive dissonance that is unresolvable without interviewing the animals. That, unfortunately, is impossible.

The birds of prey at the Carolina Raptor Center, just outside Charlotte, amazed me, but their cages are so small. Still, if they are “rescues” who cannot survive in the wild, aren’t they better off in captivity? When my wife, Katie, and I arrived at the Center, which is over forty years old, we heard a continual, unworldly screech. It seems the red-legged seriema (look it up) is highly communicative when agitated. And since he felt himself overdue for some free flying time, he screeched… and screeched… and screeched. He also paced incessantly. Yet, he is fed regularly, has no enemies to deal with, and is cared for by medical professionals exceeding any Blue Cross Advantage plan I might be able to find for myself. He truly has concierge care, as reflected in his likely life span, which is more than double that of seriemas in the wild.

Being uneducated in the psychology of rare raptors, I initially assumed the seriema’s seeming unhappiness was representative. Later, viewing a rare vulture named Zeus, I learned that some raptors prefer to remain in their cages and turn down the opportunity for unrestricted flight when offered. It seems they like not scavenging for food and, instead, having it delivered as though by DoorDash.

What to think?

On the way home from our getaway to Charlotte, we chose to visit the North Carolina Zoo. Doubtless, owing to some shenanigans by some state legislator at some point, the zoo is nestled in Asheboro, far from… anywhere. Once we managed to arrive (and it was only on our agenda because of its relative accessibility from the route between Charlotte and Durham), we noted the site to be impressive and expansive. It is so expansive a visitor can legitimately claim exhaustion after walking from the far-flung parking lot to the possible sighting of the first actual animal.

In our two hours at the zoo, we saw hundreds of screaming, youthful homo sapiens. They climbed on jungle gyms, raced between lunch facilities, and jostled for position to buy souvenirs. The zoo is so assiduous about creating natural habitats, and animals are so expert at guarding their privacy one barely sees any actual animals. While we were there, for instance, we witnessed a solitary polar bear pacing. We also saw an arctic fox seeking to cower in a shaded corner. Finally, we saw an alligator basking happily (I guess) in the tropical sunshine of early May in North Carolina (It was 89 degrees). I assume the alligator was alive, though it was hard to tell. His or her aliveness was the subject of intense, enthusiastic, and loud debate from the aforementioned children. Are these animals better off at the zoo, with food, water, and shelter provided, or would they be happier taking their chances in northern Canada and Florida, respectively?

Finally, my front yard features two bluebird boxes, numerous trees, and a pond across the street. It’s joyous to see Mom and Dad bluebirds build a nest together, sit on the eggs, feed the hatchlings, and then, after about thirty-five days, if luck holds, see the babies fledge in a riot of flapping feathers and what appears to be understandable panic. However, this pastorale is not the whole story. There is warfare at each stage against the swallows and chickadees who compete, usually unsuccessfully, to secure one of the boxes for their nest. Also, there is a mockingbird who considers our front lawn and its trees to be his domain. He sings amazing tunes most days but takes time off to dive-bomb the bluebirds, sometimes allowing the nursery to proceed peacefully and sometimes not. He, as justice (or nature) would have it, is tormented by crows who are, in turn, harried by hawks.

Meanwhile, the swallows or chickadees sometimes attain a short-term victory of sorts. They start nest-building in one box or the other. Swallows, or at least our swallows, are lousy at it. Their nest is a riot of random straw with blades dropped randomly on the grass around the box. On the other hand, chickadees construct a gorgeous nest with downy feathers in the middle, ready for eggs. Unfortunately for them, once they finish building, the bluebirds, who seem to feel pride of ownership, concentrate on driving them away. They are so good at patrolling “their” front lawn that in eight years, no chickadee or swallow has yet found the conditions conducive to laying eggs. Most likely, bluebirds will alternate between the two boxes to give birth and raise three nest-fulls this summer. Over eight years, our total number of bluebird grandchildren is about 100.

What to conclude? Nature is variable and thrilling, beautiful and tragic. Man’s role in all of it is, at best, well-intentioned. At worst… let’s not get into it. Trying to take a week off politics.

Tags bluebirds, Nature, photography, raptors, zoos

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SPRING HAS SPRUNG

March 26, 2025 //

In my unceasing drive to find positive things to think about following the apocalypse of last November, I note that our gardens are doing spectacularly. The daffodils and tulips are just finishing, and the Mexican petunias are preparing for their show. (No tariff jokes, please). By the time they are done, whatever lilies have survived the assault of the killer rabbits will hold the stage. Meanwhile, in the world of the vegetable garden, sugar snap peas are racing for the sky, and the first green glimmers of beets are apparent. Lettuce will be consumable by this weekend, and tiny shoots of what will eventually be monster-sized squash plants are emerging. Maybe THIS will be the year their fruits won’t shrivel after growing that first tantalizing two inches. (No jokes of ANY kind, please).

Several high school classmates recently wrote on Facebook about their efforts to “resist.” I admire their efforts and the well-meaning persistence of their vision for America. I, too, manned the proverbial barricades last fall. Living in the “swing” state of North Carolina, I gladly spent each Saturday morning canvassing in Durham. My wife, Katie, joined me. The experience was rife with cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, the group that assembled downtown for our neighborhood assignments showed the enthusiasm of youngsters at a Springsteen concert. On the other hand, nearly all the participants were of the generation that experienced “Born to Run” as a brand new song.

Trudging around the neighborhoods, clipboard and phone in hand, I was struck by several things that probably didn’t afflict earlier generations of canvassers. One, nearly every doorway has a Ring or other camera-utilizing doorway. Though I don’t see myself as particularly scary-looking, 80-90% of households did not respond to my knock or ring. Of those who did respond, though they were listed as “Democrats,” there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm and interest in voting. A few (usually male) were even hostile to our candidate. I will leave it to political and psychological analysts more knowledgeable than myself to speculate why.

In the end, Durham came through with its usual 79-21 margin for the “good guys.” (“Less bad guys,” for those cynics out there). However, the turnout was disappointing and several percent lower than in 2020. The hoped-for margins necessary to overwhelm the non-urban parts of the State failed to materialize. This relative lack of interest puzzles me, and I wonder if there is regret in the minds of those who didn’t show up. Or is there simply obliviousness?

Walking around the block today, I met a twenty-something neighbor, freshly unemployed from her probationary job at the EPA. She was working on something newly deemed subversive, modeling measures to confront climate change. She told me her family is unsympathetic to her plight. As “one issue” voters, they are delighted with how things are proceeding. It’s easy to guess what that issue is. They call themselves “pro-life.” This means they support any politician and any judge who votes to prevent women from exercising choice. Being open-minded (I do try, at least), I accept that some people really don’t like abortion rights. However, the politicians and judges they crave are far less likely to support sane gun provisions, environmental protections, and any restrictions on the death penalty. Don’t those three things count as “pro-life,” too? In their totality, don’t they balance out? (Yes, I am apparently a naif).

What to do moving forward? I expect to eventually return to the barricade. However, this is a season of recovery in my household. We have sworn off televised news and only peruse the Times once each day to see what the creepy clown car is up to. Katie is painting flowers and greeting cards. I have been writing middle-grade novels. The first will be published in about a month and will appeal, I hope, to any 7-10-year-old reader who has ever played or wanted to play soccer. It should also appeal to any 7-10-year-old reader who has NEVER wanted to play soccer or any other sport since my protagonist is such a person, at least in the beginning. Who’s got children or grandchildren?! It’ll be available on Amazon and Kindle.

Tags soccer, voting, writing

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THERE IS NO PLANET B

January 1, 2025 //

THERE IS NO PLANET B

I recall the time in 2019 when 15-year-old Greta Thunberg spoke at the United Nations and lambasted the “adults in the room” for their failures. At the time, I found Greta’s bluntness off-putting. I preferred a more mature and polished presentation of the need for action. Al Gore, for instance. I’ve since concluded: “Greta is right.” In a couple of weeks, our nation will reenter a fantasy world of denial and obfuscation. So sad.

*****

My personal introduction to environmental concern arose in 8^th grade (1970) when my school commenced a recycling program. Actually, to call it a “program” overstates reality. A box marked “paper” was placed near a dumpster in a distant corner of the faculty parking lot. If a person were motivated to gather newspapers, and able to motivate their carpool-driving parent(s) to detour to the box, a tiny contribution to the world’s salvation could be achieved.

I diligently collected the newspapers, and my parents cooperated. The activity satisfied my desire to “do something” but didn’t go further. My only other environmental impulse from that era was to object to my mother’s tendency to drive thirty minutes to take a walk. The concept bothered me as vaguely “defeating the purpose.” However, it wasn’t clear what “purpose” I was supporting. Concepts like wasting gas or creating emissions hadn’t occurred to me. Unlike many teens, I just didn’t enjoy driving.

*****

For most of the intervening years until 2000, environmental destruction remained, for me, vaguely disturbing. Of course, I supported “conservation” and even made the occasional contribution to the Sierra Club or World Wildlife Fund. They sent me t-shirts and calendars in return. But I certainly didn’t expect climate changes to occur in my lifetime.

Now, I look at the world differently. I not only concern myself with the several decades I might experience but the six or eight or ten my grandchildren can anticipate. Yet, even in my own lifespan, there are shocking changes taking place. Without recounting their now-famous names, it’s common to see “500-year hurricanes” or “1,000-year floods” on an annual basis. Twenty of the twenty-three warmest years on record have occurred since 2000.

*****

As recently as 1999 I mindlessly bought a car that got 19 MPG. As the new millennium proceeded, I began to question my daily lifestyle a little more. Tricked by industry propaganda to believe waste was my fault as much as theirs my recycling efforts were increased. To the dismay of my children I became fanatical about “turning off the lights.” Admittedly, my motivation was partially economic, but I also turned off unnecessary lights at work, where I didn’t pay the electric bill.

“An Inconvenient Truth” struck a chord in 2007, right around the time I also saw “March of the Penguins.” Between the two documentaries, I recognized mankind is blithely ruining the earth not only for our selves, and future generations, but also for every other creature. Most infuriating, a huge segment of society, including one of our two political parties and their media shills, actively discourage progress in this regard. They seek to undermine long-established clean air and clean water policies that were originally signed by President Nixon! Doesn’t everyone breathe air and drink water? Don’t people throughout the political spectrum have children and grandchildren?

I took my first concrete action in 2008 when I traded my gas guzzler for an early hybrid. It wasn’t easy, however. The salesman didn’t know how to turn on the silent car and, in his embarrassment, tried to sell me something more conventional, something cheaper.

I found it immensely satisfying to leap from 19 MPG to 40 MPG and wondered what else I could do. In 2011, I added solar panels to the roof, thus creating our own electricity. Every day, in the beginning, I raced to the computer to see how much the sun had produced. A dozen years later, I don’t check production every day, but it’s still satisfying.

*****

These days, with Katie’s agreement, my efforts have moved towards the obvious (refusing straws and plastic bottles) and the slightly less obvious, such as: bringing our own reuseable takeout containers to restaurants and our own utensils if we know they only offer plastic. We’re fanatical about using our own bags at stores and even our HANDS when we buy just a few items. It’s amazing how confused and even offended some cashiers appear when we refuse their plastic bag. We’ve nearly cut out red meat, which is another win-win; less meat consumption leads to less earth and animal abuse and is almost certainly healthier. We compost our leftover food, a staggering (to me) half a ton a year.

Friends have reacted to our behavior in a variety of ways. Some appear not to notice. A few congratulate us for our efforts and say they’re willing to change, too. The majority, however, fall somewhere in between. They vaguely “do a few things” and “help out” but say things like: “It’s just so hard to remember to bring my own bags. I can’t be bothered.” With some exceptions, none have purchased a more efficient car with the environment in mind or purchased solar panels.

Until recently, my response to: “it’s too much trouble,” or “it’s too difficult to remember” emanated from the (relatively small) empathetic part of my brain. I nodded and said: “I understand.” But now my thoughts (if not yet my spoken response) well up from somewhere more primitive. “Come on. It’s not so difficult. You’re not stupid. You can put a few reuseable bags in your car and remember to use them. DO SOMETHING!”

*****

I read the foregoing with full awareness it’s self-righteous. That exemplar of moral clarity, Dick Cheney, once dismissed energy saving efforts as matters of “personal virtue,” an unnecessary indulgence. To that, I can only ask: “What is wrong with a little virtue?” It’s available to everyone. For free.

Greta feels the situation is urgent. I agree with her, practically and morally. That same Dick Cheney, in fraudulently pushing our nation into the Iraq war, once argued: “If there’s just a one percent chance Saddam has weapons of mass destruction, we have to do something and do it soon.” Regarding the changes mankind is wreaking upon the earth and its climate, does anyone doubt there is more than a one percent chance it will end in catastrophe?

Tags climate, eco-friendly, environment, Greta Thunberg, health, health, Human Nature, recycling, sustainability, writing

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SOUR GRAPES

November 17, 2024 //

On November 5, 2024, over seventy million Americans proved themselves to be morons. In spite of all they saw from 2016-2020, including an insurrection, they voted for an insane, malignant grifter to be the world’s most powerful person. They chose to reinstall and impose upon our daily consciousness not only Orange Caligula-in-chief, but also his horrible, thieving family of gargoyles.

My personal definition of the term “moron” isn’t meant in the early twentieth century sense which described a person whose intelligence fell in the IQ scale somewhere between imbecile and idiot. Certainly, there is idiocy and imbecility aplenty but I consider it moronic to care so little about the values upon which our country is based. No doubt there is much to criticize and be disappointed about on the progressive side of the political spectrum but, at least, that side is still trying to achieve American ideals.

After the 2016 election I tried hard to “understand” how it happened. I tried (though generally failed) to excuse the result by telling myself some combination of the following: 1. A few million votes were “protest” votes by people who didn’t actually think Caligula would win; 2. Some of his voters truly had been long ignored by the powers-that-be, so their vote was somehow not or, at least, not exclusively, based upon a toxic mix of ignorance and bigotry; and, 3. Hillary was not a dynamic campaigner and she neglected to visit such crucial states as Wisconsin and Michigan, so she and her campaign shared responsibility.

But these excuses no longer apply. Despite limited time, Kamala campaigned energetically, if imperfectly, and left no stone unturned. Her running mate, Tim Walz, also worked feverishly and dynamically, in contrast to the charisma-challenged non-entity known as Tim Kaine, who ran with Clinton. (How many people could have produced his name quickly enough to win at Jeopardy)?

The aforementioned seventy-plus million have no excuses. Most are low-information haters, happy to dump on people they somehow perceive as below them on the social ladder. Some, however, are not ignorant and may not even be bigots, but vote purely based upon their perceived financial interests. These are the millionaires and billionaires who crave their tax cuts above any and all other considerations. Relatively speaking, they don’t care about equality based on race or gender, or the environment, or sane gun laws, or qualified and impartial judges, or America’s role in the world, or America’s tradition of, at least, TRYING to attain, in reality, the ideal: “All men are created equal.” These are well-educated, sometimes super-well-educated graduates of Ivy-level schools who simply feel the addition of, or preservation of, several thousand additional dollars each year is worth whatever muck the nation and the world will be dragged through.

For years, I wondered how republicans could live with themselves. I wondered, “Don’t these people have grandchildren? Don’t they care about the future?” Recently, however, I’ve read studies showing people really do NOT think much about the future, only the present and immediate decade or two ahead. Not only republicans, but progressives, too, don’t care as much about future generations as I thought.

But crises are coming at us now, in real time, not in some distant future. Climate-change deniers as well as thinking people are being flooded now, not 30 years from now. Insurance rates are skyrocketing now in places like Florida and North Carolina where the republican-dominated legislatures disallow consideration of future flooding or sea level rise in building codes. Mass murders are occurring now. Reproductive rights, even for blonde people in Texas, are in crisis now.

My screed could continue for pages and pages but, it’s exhausting and fruitless to contemplate so much hate, so much ignorance, so much short-sightedness. I refuse to beat around the bush anymore lest some feelings be hurt. I despise the cult members and the creature they’ve let loose upon us once again. When the world is unlivable in fifteen or twenty years, due to the climate, political and social chaos about to envelop us, if I’m still around to see it, “I told you so” may well be my final words.

Tags donald-trump, history, news, politics, trump

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USEFUL IDIOTS

June 21, 2024 //

USEFUL IDIOTS

A century ago, the leader of the Russian revolution, Vladimir Lenin, is said to have assessed the members of the American Communist Party and found them inadequate. Though these well-intentioned and righteous believers in the cause of “comradeship” often alienated many of their own families, neighbors and employers to express their idealistic support for the Soviets, Lenin believed they lacked the hard edge, the mental toughness, and the willingness to lose their lives, if necessary, to advance his authoritarian goals. Still, Lenin appreciated the fact that the American communists aggravated the U.S. government and sowed discord. Thus, though the historical record is unclear as to the exact origin of the term “useful idiots,” Lenin is said to have deemed them as such, whether or not he actually used the phrase.

****

At least initially, American communists only saw the righteousness of the Bolshevik cause. Equality! Brotherhood! The common good! It took several decades for many of his western supporters to realize Lenin and his successor, Stalin, were actually creating a repressive police state. Some supporters never recognized their complicity in supporting such a tragic result.

The inadvertent advance of results progressives would surely abhor, if they foresaw them, has emerged several additional times in more recent American politics. In 1968 the left wing of the Democratic Party supported the Yippees, hippies and Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) in their anti-Vietnam war fervor to disrupt the Chicago convention. Is there any progressive, including me, who did not revere the Chicago Seven, the groups’ leaders who were prosecuted in a travesty of a trial? Who didn’t enjoy the incredible anger they aroused in Mayor Daley, a cartoon villain personified? Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, Tom Hayden and the rest were heroes, right?

In the end, however, what did the convention disruptors accomplish? Probably, their actions in Chicago contributed directly to Nixon’s victory over the anti-war Hubert Humphrey, and the subsequent extension of the war for five more years, including secret bombing campaigns and massacres that stained America’s reputation. Would their efforts, perhaps, have been better spent getting out the vote for Humphrey? If Nixon, a consummate cynic, considered his well-intentioned opposition, he surely would have agreed to their designation as “useful idiots.”

*****

The 2000 election presented a clear choice between a dim-witted tool of the oil industry, George W. Bush, and Vice-President Al Gore, a sober-minded progressive with a special concern for the environment. The popular vote went for Gore, but in our ridiculous and obsolete electoral college system, which renders “one man, one vote” a joke, the election ended in a virtual tie, finally thrown by the so-called “Supreme Court” to Bush.

What made the election so close? Ralph Nader, the dictionary definition of a self-righteous do-gooder, took 2.74 percent of the vote. Nader, his left-leaning anti-corporate purity intact, has never apologized for the result, nor even acknowledged that he and his voters served as useful idiots to bring about the Bush presidency. Does anyone sincerely believe, if Nader had dropped out of the race and endorsed Gore, any of his voters would have supported Bush?

Imagine where the world might be, climate-wise and Iraq War-wise, if Gore had been inaugurated. Like a good non-cynic, of course, Gore’s basic dignity led him to end his legal fight “for the good of the country.” How quaint does that seem now?

*****

2016 brought a new iteration of naifs, the Bernie Bros. These well-intentioned liberals harkened back in some ways to the original members of the Communist Party. Worker solidarity became a “thing” again. And “Tax the rich!” Full disclosure: early in the election season, I hosted a debate watch party in support of Bernie. My guests and I chuckled all evening as he made mincemeat of Hilary Clinton.

I soon perceived the futility of Bernie’s efforts, however, AND the long-term damage he was doing to Clinton. I quit wearing his “Political Revolution” tee-shirt to the gym and tried to talk up Clinton. Despite my sympathy for the cause(s) Bernie espoused, I belatedly anticipated the catastrophe that ultimately occurred, the victory of Orange Caligula, via the dastardly electoral college. I don’t know how useful, but, yes, I was an idiot.

*****

This brings us to the present, the Gaza demonstrators. A legion of idealistic young students, doubtless egged on by professional agitators and support from folks like the latest totalitarian Vladimir, Putin, are convulsing college campuses. They attack Joe Biden for his support of Israel as though he is a right-wing member of Netanyahu’s war cabinet. Never mind that only a tiny percentage of these students could have found Gaza on a map before October 7. Never mind that hostage-taking is sub-human. Never mind Hamas’s positions on women’s rights (bad) or, Allah-forbid, LGBTQ rights. (“Which building is better for throwing them off?)”

Let’s pose a couple of rational questions: 1. Would a permanent cease-fire that leaves Hamas in control achieve anything beyond setting the stage for the next war in six weeks, or six months? 2. Does any Muslim person think Orange Caligula will be more favorably disposed towards their issues? Towards immigrants? Towards even obtaining a visa to visit?

PLEASE, well-meaning students and activists and Muslim voters in Michigan and elsewhere: recognize that Biden and Blinken are trying to achieve the only arrangement that could possibly solve this situation long-term. They are pursuing the one-in-a-thousand-chance-of-success framework of non-Iranian Gulf States and Egypt administering the Gaza Strip, while creating a Muslim-led peacekeeping force, and promoting a rational, fair and reasonably non-corrupt rebuilding process.

While contending with the extreme difficulty of the above scenario, Biden is also beset by the infuriating intransigence of the vile Netanyahu and his rightwing nut-jobs. Biden deserves support, and get-out-the-vote efforts, not withering attacks. His election opponent’s plan likely involves Jared Kushner-designed waterfront hotels after the remaining population of Gaza is liquidated.

PLEASE, idealistic and sincere activists, don’t be USEFUL IDIOTS and end up electing a democracy and earth-threatening totalitarian instead of an uninspiring but decent human being. It’s not a great bumper sticker, but the activists roiling college campuses should use their energy to promote the following idea: “Physical feebleness is not great. Insanity is far worse.”

Tags history, joe-biden, politics, russia, trump

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EXERCISE

May 2, 2024 //

Straining to complete a final set of lifts at the gym I soak up encouragement from my personal trainer, Ahmed, a twenty-something-year-old body builder of Moroccan extraction. Without his presence, I know I’d have quit at number 8 or 9. Not only that, but I’d surely have chosen to lift a lighter load.

“Go, go, go! Ten, eleven AND twelve!” he exclaims, as I shakily place the barbell back on the stand, spent.

Not many contexts allow a retired professional, a person of private education and reasonable wealth, to be ordered around by a high school grad, a kid struggling to pay his rent, a person whose world view is limited, at best.

“Next we work on your abs,” Ahmed says, guiding me to a medieval-looking contraption. “Hold here,” he says, handing me grips. “Feet on this,” he directs. “Now, BEND!”

I feel my innards rebel. “Could this really be good for me?” I wonder. But I comply. After a set I feel good. I feel satisfied. I feel a sense of accomplishment, albeit with some trembling around the ribs.

The gym charges me $70 an hour to use Ahmed one hour each week. After the first several sessions, when everything was new to me, he hasn’t taught me much. He mostly sits at my feet or stands at my side and counts to ten or fifteen, as needed. He offers encouragement. He watches. He occasionally makes a small change to my form.

Sometimes, Ahmed asks me things I assume everyone already knows, like “How often are presidential elections?” “Does a grapefruit taste different from an orange?”

However, when I think about it, I realize I ask him things that are just as basic in his realm, like “Why do my legs seem to gain more strength than my arms?” Ahmed patiently explains it has to do with the size of the muscles. “How is working with barbells different from dumbbells?” He explains is has something to do with isolating each arm or leg (dumbbells) instead of letting them work together. (barbells)

I recall college days when my soccer team herded into the weight room for a portion of practice one day each week. We complained. We stalled. We fooled around and lifted much less than we could have. And it was FREE! How inconceivable to PAY to be put through a workout. A classic instance, perhaps, of “youth wasted on the young.”

*****

Ahmed sips energy drinks while work together. His diet seems to consist of caffeine and whey.

“Did you party when you were young?” he asks, while I catch my breath.

“Not really,” I say, not wanting to reveal the true answer of “never.”

“College must have been wild,” he says, wistful.

“A long time ago,” I say, wistful in a different way.

*****

The end of my six-month contract to work with Ahmed is approaching. I’d signed up with the goal of forestalling the annual one percent loss of muscle mass that is associated with aging. I also wanted to work on flexibility and balance. The latter two goals have receded in favor of Ahmed’s emphasis, namely: “You’re gonna have GUNS, man!” referring, I think, to my modestly growing biceps.

I could probably continue to progress and complete workouts without Ahmed. But how can I cancel him? He is at the gym seven days a week. He’s ALWAYS there. He’d be hurt. I’d have to switch to another gym. He offers me fist-bumps whenever I see him.

“We’re gonna get you on the cover of a magazine,” he enthuses.

“AARP?” I ask.

“What’s that?” asks Ahmed.

Tags aging, fitness

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IMPROVISATION

April 23, 2024 //

IMPROVISATION

Writing presents challenges – what story to tell? in what order? what to emphasize? It’s hard. It can be frustrating. But at least it’s done in private. One can take one’s time, revise, work it out or, failing that, quit. Imagine being an improv performer or jazz musician, needing to access ideas in front of a live audience.

I’m way cooler today, more “with it” than I was last week. I attended a jazz club over the weekend. And it wasn’t Dixieland or watered-down Herb Alpert-type jazz. It was the real deal, largely unmelodic and untethered to conventional timing. Three performers appeared before about fifty audience members on a stage in a dimly-lit space in a warehouse-like building in Durham. Very noir. There was a pianist, a bassist and a drummer. They wore sunglasses and hats even though it was dark and we were inside. They played together. I know they were collaborating because each piece began with a barely perceptible nod from the bassist, and each piece finished at the same moment, when he subtly caught the others’ eyes again and stilled his hands.

In between, it seemed to me, a classical music afficionado, like total chaos. First one riffed, then another. Then they handed the reins to the third. And, so it went. Audience members more cutting-edge than I kept time with their toes, or moved their heads knowingly. A look of pure ecstasy on the faces of the performers, who SEEMED to be making it up as they went along, but who were probably not, matched the expressions of many folks around the room.

As to me, while I completely admired and appreciated the artistry, skill and inventiveness of the performers, I didn’t really “get it.” I wondered when the cacophony might end. I furtively checked my watch.

Musical tastes are highly subjective. I imagine they are formed by some combination of background, childhood exposure, subsequent experiences and temperament. Who knows?! What I do know is: I came, I heard, and I failed to conquer. Apparently, I am STILL not cool.

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POST-PANDEMIC RESTAURANT DINING

February 12, 2024 //

It’s been nearly four years since the world shut down for Covid. I remember enjoying our last restaurant meal in 2020 before the shutdown around March 10. My wife, Katie, and I joined another couple for Indian food in Durham and, concerned with news reports, asked to sit as far from other tables as possible. We also refused water glasses touched by the waiter and drank from our own bottle instead. I guess we seemed nutty in that moment. A week later, we seemed clairvoyant. Now, four years later, who knows?

In fits and starts, we resumed dining out in mid-2021, then on and off for another year or so, following the vicissitudes of viral surges. With mild weather in North Carolina, we took full advantage of outdoor dining options. Now, in 2024, a return to indoor dining is relatively complete. However, the experience is changed in numerous ways.

First, the prices. Somehow, breakfast now costs what lunch used to cost; lunch costs what dinner used to cost; and, dinner costs what a week’s groceries used to cost. And tips? We formerly paid fifteen-eighteen percent. Now, we feel like cheapskates if we don’t leave twenty. And twenty-five-thirty percent is not unheard of if the server presents a compelling personal story, e.g., “I’m saving up money to resume my courses in environmental science, or dog grooming, or early education at Chatham County Community College.”

The other way to earn a thirty percent tip from us is to provide “great service,” defined as remembering to leave out the onions when clearly told “no onions” in the salad and/or, cheerily agreeing AND REMEMBERING to bring an iced tea that is half sweetened and half unsweetened and, who doesn’t roll his or her eyes when we refuse a straw. All the foregoing requests are achieved in our experience, about fifty percent of the time. I’m sure it used to be better!

*****

Another change in our restaurant experience is our relationship with fellow diners. Formerly, we paid little attention to the tables around us. Now, we at least subconsciously gravitate towards the emptier regions of a restaurant and feel claustrophobic if all the surrounding tables are occupied. If a person at a nearby table coughs, we used to barely notice. Now, one cough earns a glance, a second a glare and a third, a downright death-stare, followed by a feverish (no pun intended) survey of the room to see if there’s a safe table to move to.

*****

How awful it must be to own a restaurant! Even before the pandemic we felt like jinxes to half the restaurants we enjoyed. Few survived our enthusiastic patronage. Half the remaining ones disappeared between 2020 and the present. New ones come and go before we can even try them. Or, like a brand new Popeyes around the corner, which we thought we’d enjoy as a fast-food alternative to the politically conservative-inclined Chick-Fil-A, they turn out to be so terrible in terms of food, service, and atmosphere, that the latter retains our business. (Good waffle fries and clean and friendly service outweigh social concepts like marriage equality, right? I’d like to say “no,” but….)

*****

With all those concerns, it’s a wonder we ever brave the anxiety. Yet, it’s one of life’s pleasures to occasionally eat somewhere DIFFERENT and to each be able to sample whatever appeals to us individually and not to have to prepare and clean up. It’s to be hoped the inflationary challenges relent and our now-baked-in leeriness of other diners and servers subsides. After all, what American isn’t feeling better and better about the wisdom and judgment of fellow citizens these days as we round into election season?

Oops.

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