Category Archives: Essays

My Long, Slow March to Sobriety

When I saw the two orbs of light some distance ahead of me, I knew what that meant.  ‘That’s a car!’ I told myself.  And it’s in my lane!  No!  I’m in the wrong lane!  Goddamn!

It was a Saturday night, sometime around 1988, and I was happily enjoying alcohol.  In other words, I was drunk off my ass.  I learned the phrase “enjoying alcohol” when I joined a fraternity a few years earlier.  As I previously wrote, that was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.  Even now, at age 61, I still feel it was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

Dumb in that it led me to that point: driving while heavily intoxicated.  I was on my way home following an after-work party of some kind.  I’d brought a jug of white wine to the affair, and – except for giving a small amount to someone else – I downed every drop of the beverage.  Once I realized that car was headed towards me (or me towards it), I quickly moved into the correct lane.  I was fortunate.  Even in that disoriented state, I’d become aware something was wrong.

I’d have many more nights like that – not driving in the wrong lane; rather, having consumed too much alcohol.  I’ve lost many weekends and more than a few week days because of my addiction.

And yes, it’s an addiction.  I admitted that years ago.  But it was a matter of time before I sought to address it.  That matter of time has taken years though.  Late last year I had my regular doctor to prescribe acamprosate, a medicine designed to reduce alcohol cravings.  Like most anything regarding healthcare, it’s merely a crutch; an item utilized to help someone move to the next stage of…whatever.  I’ve also admitted something else – I’ll never get over my alcohol cravings.  I can only minimize my consumption.  Going “cold turkey” – whatever that’s supposed to mean – isn’t practical for me.  Or possible.  Once addicted, always addicted.  In this case, it really does come down to will power.  I know that’s such a cliché.  My mother told me she began smoking cigarettes in the 1950s.  Her father told her it’s okay to have a habit…as long as the habit doesn’t have you.  My grandfather had given up the nicotine habit years earlier, while still living in México City, when someone referred him to a local Indian soothsayer for help.  She composed a tea-like concoction for him, which made him extremely nauseous.  He said he vomited for several consecutive days.  Afterwards, he never craved cigarettes again.  I thought about that off and on as I continued my battle against alcohol.

There are too many situations to detail here.  One Saturday night around 1990 a female friend and I visited a Dallas nightclub that sold minimum-price mixed drinks for a short time after opening.  We each consumed so much that, when we exited the club and made our way to my car, we passed out and slept for a few hours.  When I awoke, it was just before 5 a.m. local time.

One weekday night around 1996, I decided to visit a bar after work, instead of coming home and going to the gym, as I’d originally planned.  I had a few Bacardi and Cokes before returning to my quaint apartment in North Dallas.  Then, for some reason I still can’t explain, I suddenly had the urge to kill myself.  It was an overwhelming sensation.  I needed to die.  My life wasn’t worth continuing.  Damn!  So close to the turn of the century!  I kept thinking I should walk to a pay phone at a nearby convenience store and call for help – if only to have someone talk me out of that madness.  But I didn’t.  I managed to calm myself down.

That madness has occurred periodically over the ensuing years.  I confessed years ago that I definitely have a problem with alcohol.  Taking my own life to compensate for it has provided some respite for it.  Taking acamprosate isn’t like taking an antibiotic – a life-dependent medication – it’s more like a vitamin.  I should take it regularly – but it’s not THAT important.

It guess it should be.

I’m drinking red wine as I write this essay.  To anyone who has an addiction, understand it will never really leave you.  The key element truly is will power…the will to live and experience what this life has to give.  I’ve dealt with this – and so can anyone else.  You, too.

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And Life Continues

As many of you might remember, one of my best friends, Robert, died last October.  Late on December 23, I learned that another long-time, close friend, Carl, died earlier that day.  We had met in 1990 at the bank where we both worked.  We bonded over such mundane things as rock music and being Texas natives.

Last month I was equally startled to find out another longtime friend, Randy, had died following a freak accident at home; he fell down some stairs and never regained consciousness.  He passed away just days before his birthday.  We had met through a local Toastmasters group in 2001.  A veteran of the U.S. Post Office, Randy had finally retired a few years ago.

Thus, since October, I’ve lost three friends – and my already small social circle has decreased even further.  Damn!

As my parents often said, it’s hell getting old!  And here’s another adage: aging isn’t for wimps!

But, as I’ve discussed with a few friends over the past couple of years, I’m at that age where I lose relatives and friends to death and not because I owe them money.  It’s part of life.

In the late 1990s I saw a program on TV about people pushing the centenarian point in their lives and what their longevity secrets were.  None seemed to possess any mystical key to putting mileage on their personal odometers, but they all had one unique attribute that can’t be measured in facts and statistics.  They were able to accept the death of loved ones with few questions.  It hurt, of course – but they understood such things happen.  Our present realm is often brutal and cold.  People die.

But people certainly live.  And we can’t truly live if we break down every time someone we know and love leaves permanently.

Last year I came across an online editorial that noted millennials are referring to the 1980s and 90s as the “late 1900s”.  Well…they are!  And, as I told a close friend, I’m glad I lived through them!  So did he – who will be 60 next month.

I told that same friend, as well as a few others, that I’m happier now than I have been in years.  I have the same feeling that I did around the turn of the century, when the world seemed wide open and the future belonged to everyone with dreams.

For the most part, it still does.

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Gallery of Nitwits

Well, just like the Earth didn’t self-obstruct when Barack Obama won his two elections, it hasn’t 75 7jpj56exploded now that Donald Trump has returned to the White House.  But at least there was never any (real) question that Obama actually won.  And I’m still feeling dismal.

It’s tough to remain faithful to the democratic process and the American vision of equality and happiness when someone like Trump keeps succeeding.  But this is life on planet Earth and it’s imperfect.  In fact, it’s downright screwy!

I don’t care what anyone says.  In my adult life, I’ve never seen anyone as incompetent or unqualified to claim the title of U.S. President than Donald Trump.  As I’ve stated before, I was embarrassed with George W. Bush in the White House.  But I’m incredibly disgusted with this former real estate magnate / pathetic reality TV star / tax cheat / draft dodger / womanizer in the same role.  U.S. politics has truly descended into madness.

Trump’s cabinet appointments have proven equally unfit for such prestigious and high-profile positions.   Former Congressman Matt Gaetz was the first of Trump’s appointments to come under intense scrutiny – and the first to withdraw his nomination.  Trump had wanted Gaetz to be his Attorney General, the nation’s top law enforcement official, despite not having any experience in the legal field – except as a litigant.

Trump’s second choice for the role, Pam Bondi, is Florida’s former attorney general and a corporate lobbyist.  Like the rest of Trump’s nominees, she’s a devout Trump supporter and apologist, but she actually made it through her confirmation hearing in one piece and is now overseeing the U.S. Justice Department.

For Defense Secretary, Trump picked Pete Hegseth, a former military veteran and FOX New TV host.  He also made it through his confirmation hearing – despite tales of his excessive alcohol consumption and sexual harassment allegations.  In this latter respect, he’s Trump “Light”.

Three other Trump nominees – Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., for Health and Human Services Secretary, Kash Patel for FBI Director, and Tulsi Gabbard for Director of National Intelligence – are facing tougher paths.  Kennedy, son of the late and legendary former U.S. Attorney General, ran as an independent candidate in last year’s presidential race.  But his past comments questioning the efficacy of vaccines, including COVID-19, have come back to haunt worse than one of Trump’s ex-wives.  He’d once declared that AIDS in Africa “is an entirely different disease from Western AIDS” and claimed that work done by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is akin to that of Nazi death camps.  He also propagated a popular conspiracy theory that vaccines cause autism in children.

Patel said recently that, if chosen as FBI Director, he’d terminate as many of the agency’s employees as possible and shut down its headquarters building, before reopening it as a museum to the “deep state”.  That “deep state” reference is common among right-wing conspiracy theorists, especially after FBI investigations into Trump’s antics during his first term in office.

Gabbard, a former Democratic congresswoman from Hawaii and a military veteran, may have the toughest road of all of them.  She has insinuated that Russia had some justification for invading Ukraine three years ago; denouncing the administration of Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky as a “corrupt autocracy”.  She backed Russia’s unfounded claims that the U.S. and Ukraine have collaborated to engage in clandestine biological warfare.

One of my closest friends, Preston*, is a Trump voter who had told me last year that he was concerned – if Vice-President Kamala Harris won the presidency – she’d send U.S. troops into Ukraine.  He has two young adult sons who could face military conscription, if a military draft was enacted – which hasn’t occurred since the early 1970s.  I can identify with that sentiment.  In 1991, I feared something similar would happen with the Persian Gulf War, when I was in my mid-20s.  Preston believes wholeheartedly in Trump (which I don’t hold against him), but I’m worried now that Trump could send U.S. troops into the Middle East to help Israel fight against Iran.  Both those countries have nuclear weapons.

Another disquieting possibility is that Trump will enact the classic Republican tax cuts – that bullshit “trickle-down” economics regimen every GOP official has pushed onto the American people for over a century; the kind that has always shoved the U.S. into financial despair.  It happened with the Great Depression of the 1930s, the savings and loan crisis of the early 1990s, and the Great Recession less than two decades ago.  Trump’s round of tax cuts and deregulation measures during his first term only exacerbated the trauma of the COVID-19 pandemic.  I fear it’s going to happen again, and the U.S. will find itself in more economic distress.

But don’t blame people like me.  I didn’t vote for either Trump or Harris, but – as with Hillary Clinton in 2016 – I have to concede Harris would have been the lesser of two evils.  That’s never a pleasant position in which voters should find themselves, but it’s how I view politics in the U.S.

Now we’ll just have to see what shenanigans occur with Trump 2.0.  Fasten your seatbelts.

*Name changed

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Self-Inflicted

“When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”

Sinclair Lewis, 1935

I had a certain sensation deep inside of me; the same kind of feeling when I know something dramatic – either good or bad – is about to happen.  This time it was bad, and I almost felt sick.  Donald Trump has been reelected to the U.S. presidency.  He becomes only the second president in U.S. history to win a second term that didn’t immediately follow the first.  He also has the dubious distinction of being the first indicted criminal to be elected.  Little could be stranger or sadder for the American people.  I suppose, though, that too many people drank that proverbial Kool-Aid offered by the Republican despot; a man who openly admires the likes of Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong-Un; who has advocated violence against others; who has threatened to imprison anyone who disagrees with him; who incited a riot nearly four years ago; and who has demonstrated no true respect for average, working Americans.

I am embarrassed by and disgusted with many of my fellow Americans who helped put Trump into office.  The Democratic Party, however, really has no one but themselves to blame for this chaos.  Their leadership stood by as Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders ran for president in 2020.  With all due respect to those two gentlemen, their time had come and gone.  The window to run for and win the U.S. presidency is small.  I felt Biden and Sanders would have better served the country by giving speeches and writing books about the value and importance of democracy and how people like Trump pose the worst threat to our constitutional freedoms.

For the Democrats, the 2020 presidential race began with the most diverse slate of candidates – and ended with the same tired old figures that traditionally represented both parties: old White men.  Now understand I’m a mostly White male and have no qualms about it.  But this nation boasts too varied a population to rely upon the same types of people to lead us.

And it’s not that the U.S. isn’t ready for a female president.  We’re way past ready.  It’s just that the Democrats (and the Republicans for that matter) have never chosen the right women to lead them.  I’ve always said Hillary Clinton was too divisive a figure.  While I loved Bill “Who’s Your Daddy” Clinton, I personally never cared for Hillary.  And, although Kamala Harris made history by becoming the first female vice-president in U.S. history, she didn’t do enough to separate herself from Biden.

In 1993 Canada elected its first female prime minister, Kim Campbell, and highly patriarchal and staunchly Roman Catholic México just elected its first female (and Jewish) president, Claudia Scheinbaum.  Thus far, eighteen other women either have been elected or ascended to the highest office in their respective countries in the Western Hemisphere:

Jeanine Áñez, Bolivia, 2019-20

Rosalía Arteaga, Ecuador, 1997

Michelle Bachelet, Chile, 2006-10 and 2014-18

Dina Boluarte, Peru, since 2022

Sylvanie Burton, Dominica, since 2023

Xiomara Castro, Honduras, since 2022

Violeta Chamorro, Nicaragua, 1990-97

Eugenia Charles, Dominican Republic, 1980-95

Laura Chinchilla, Costa Rica, 2010-14

Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, Argentina, 2007-15

Lidia Gueiler Tejadam, Bolivia, 1979-80

Mireya Moscoso, Panama, 1999-2004

Mia Mottley, Barbados, since 2018

Ertha Pascal-Trouillot, Haiti, 1990-91 (acting president)

Michèle Pierre-Louis, Haiti, 2008-09

Dilma Rousseff, Brazil, 2014-16

Portia Simpson-Miller, Jamaica, 2006-07 and 2012-16

Claudette Werleigh, Haiti, 1995-96

Trump does not represent me – never has and never will.  He has proclaimed total disrespect for people who aren’t exactly like him.  And I’m certainly not like him.  I’m not a wealthy, full-blooded Caucasian womanizer who cheated on his taxes and has disdain for the American military.  I feel that he’s a genuine threat to free speech and the right to vote, but – like most conservatives – has the full support of gun rights advocates.  This latter band of extremists has always placed the value of firearms above free speech and the right to vote – and certainly above the lives of human beings.

One of my concerns with Trump’s return to the White House is that he will implement the so-called Project 2025 – a federal policy agenda created by the Heritage Foundation, a far-right conservative outfit that is a borderline hate group.  Many officials in Trump’s first administration took part in the project’s creation, which demands a complete overhaul of the government based on staunchly conservative ideology.  That philosophy features opposition to the usual causes: abortion and reproductive freedom and queer rights, but also immigration and racial equity.  Moreover, Project 2025 calls for unwarranted surveillance on specific individuals; using force to quell protestors; and targeting journalists who they deem enemies of the state.  This might sound familiar to those schooled in global political history.  They’re the same kind of tactics the Nazis and the former Soviet Union used on its own civilians.  Argentina pursued the same agenda during its “Dirty War”, and North Korea is doing it now.

I don’t know what’s next for America, but I see nothing good on the horizon.  I’m certain my conservative friends and relatives will assume I’m being paranoid, even hysterical.  Yet I felt similar sensations of foreboding when George W. Bush became president in 2000.  And I was right.  The U.S. ended up both in war and a recession.

I’m almost certain it will happen again.

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Elon Musk Can Kiss My Hairy Ass and Then Go Home

Elon Musk, the South African-born multi-billionaire who has founded several companies, including Tesla and Space X, has jumped into the 2024 presidential race with a curious stunt in support of Donald Trump.  He’s offering USD 1 million to anyone who signs his pledge to support free speech and the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.  Pennsylvania State Attorney General Michelle Henry filed suit against Musk; stating the giveaway is technically a lottery not sanctioned by state officials.  But Pennsylvania State Judge Angelo Foglietta stopped the litigation by refusing to block the Musk’s antics.  Instead, he deferred the matter to a federal court and noted that Henry’s suit probably won’t be resolved before Election Day, next Tuesday.

I could care less whether this foreign-born tax cheat wants to engage in such capers.  One million dollars to any average person is attractive, including myself.  But my vote is more important than that.  So is everyone else’s.

It seems every major election in the U.S. since 2000 has gotten more and more weird.  I remain cynical, as my displeasure with government at all levels in this country grows.  Both major political parties have become increasingly dominated by extremists.  Regardless of the office they’re seeking, candidates have always played initially to their base; those unmovable die-hards who will vote for one side no matter what.  Then, once the candidate has secured the nomination, they expand their outreach to persuade as many others as possible.

Over the past decade, however, Donald Trump has preached to one group and only one group: his faithful (and fanatical) acolytes.  He mocks them, in a way, behind their collective backs; the same way false prophets ridicule their blind minions.

From a political standpoint, I consider myself left of center, but I’ve voted consistently Democrat since 1992.  Then came 2016 and I went rogue by voting for Jill Stein of the Green Party.  I didn’t care for Trump and I never liked Hillary Clinton.  Now I absolutely despise Trump and don’t care for Vice-President Kamala Harris.  Recently various European chapters of the Green Party have begged Stein to withdraw from the presidential race and support Harris.  At this point, though, it may be too late.

I’m not – and never have been – persuaded by editorial or celebrity endorsements of a particular candidate.  Musk can keep his money – and settle in comfortably at one of Trump’s estates.  I’ll vote my conscious, for whatever that’s worth in these chaotic days.  Besides, official Election Day, November 5, will be my 61st birthday.  I won’t spend it thinking about politicians.

Image: Gary McCoy

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Another Friend Gone

Robert in 1997

My father planted pink spider lilies decades ago in our front yard, but at some point years later, he decided to dig them up.  Shortly before his oldest sister, Amparo, died in February 1998, he was surprised to see several of those plants had re-surfaced.  Over the next several years we both noticed that a number of those pink spider lilies would inexplicably pop up in various spots across the front yard.  And then someone we knew – a relative, a friend, a neighbor – would die soon afterwards.  That was an omen, he told me – someone we knew was going to die.  Those lilies sprung up across the front yard shortly before my father’s death in June of 2016 and again before my mother’s death four years later.  They even arose before my dog Wolfgang died in October of 2016.  They came up again in early 2022 just weeks before my friend, Paul, died and again the following year, just before another friend, David, died unexpectedly.

A few weeks ago I spotted a few of those blooms near the front door.  And now, for the third time in as many years, I’ve lost a close friend.  Robert Souza died early Wednesday morning, the 16th.  He turned 62 last month.  A Massachusetts native, he’d moved to Texas in 1983 to attend some kind of religious school.  That didn’t seem to work out, but he always retained some degree of spiritual faith.  Oddly, despite living in Texas for so long, he still had that uniquely Bostonian accent.  We met through mutual friends in February 1994 and found we had a few things in common: muscle cars, rock music and animals.

Robert had been through a lot personally, including some serious health problems, and even an attempted carjacking/robbery in 1997 where he took six bullets.  I wrote about that in 2013.  Despite everything, he always managed to get through it.  This latest bout with severe pneumonia, however, proved insurmountable.

I’m afraid Robert’s death will mark the end for his mother – a retired nurse in her 80s who still lives in Massachusetts.  She lost her young son, George, to ALS five years ago.  Robert returned to Massachusetts for the funeral and stayed longer with his mother.  Knowing all about his health concerns, she just wanted him to be with her for a little while.  Now this.

After my friend David died in 2023, Robert and I discussed how we had reached the point in our lives where we lose people we know and love.  I often joked that he was too mean to die; that he needed to soften up a little before God accepts him into the Kingdom.  I guess he softened up without me realizing it!

My friend Paul who died of liver cancer in 2022 had told me years earlier of strange things surrounding him and his family.  He lost his father, two nephews and his older brother over a six-year period.  And in the weeks preceding each death he noticed a slew of black birds nearby.  One even flew alongside him as he drove down a highway.  Alarmed, he told me, he’d honked several times, but the bird continued flying beside his car.  Even when he slowed or sped up, the bird remained a constant presence.  Only when he exited did it fly away.  The experience left him shaken, he recounted.  Shortly afterwards his brother died.

A few days before my mother passed away I had a close family friend stay with her, while I went to the store.  When I exited the building and approached my truck I was startled to see a small group of black birds gathered atop my truck.  They remained, even when I got into the vehicle – literally close enough for me to touch them – and departed only when I started the engine.  Earlier this week I went to the same store and – as I approached the entrance – noticed a single black bird on the ground ahead of me, just outside the automatic doors.  It turned in my direction, and I slowed my pace.  A few steps closer and the bird flew away.

Now I can only say I love you, my friend Robert, and I hope to see you on the other side.

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Glassed

Around the turn of the century, I saw news that a women’s college here in the U.S. had contemplated admitting men within a year or two.  The shock and outrage from the female student body was as palpable as it was vociferous.  Ironically the institution had a male chancellor at the time.  He tried explaining to the crowd that the college was trying to maintain its viability, but his voice was suffocated by the intense hysteria.  You would have thought the incoming male students would be selected from a sex offender registry.  I’m sure those young women had long since bought into the feminist myth that all men are naturally prone to violence, especially sexual assault.  Almost immediately, however, the college rescinded its decision, much to the delight of the students.  That same male chancellor made the announcement by unfurling a banner that bore the term “For Women Again”.  The crowd erupted into cheers of relief; some even popping open bottles of champagne.

At the bank where I worked at the time, the subject arose during a lunch conversation.  I was the only man in the small group, and my female colleagues collectively agreed that they understood the reticence of that college’s students to admit men.  But, of course, I had to opine by highlighting the obvious anger those young women expressed at the initial announcement.  “I wonder what those little girls will do when they enter the adult world and have real problems.  And there’ll be men all over the place, and there’s not a goddamn thing they can do about it.”

I suppose my constituents weren’t surprised by the statement, but to some extent, they had to concur.  There was a time when the genders were explicitly separated, and everyone seemed fine with it.  Men did this, and women did that.  And things functioned relatively well.

But I pointed out that, if women want true equality, they have to accept that men are part of that equation.  In many ways, for centuries, men have excluded women from the decision-making process; claiming there was a “place” for them.  Women have fought back and demanded a place at that proverbial decision-making table.

Oddly one of the women sitting with me in that lunch room didn’t believe women should be in positions of power, such as the U.S. presidency.  “We have too many emotional and hormonal problems!” she said, much to the shock and chagrin of the other women.  She wasn’t the first woman from whom I’d heard that.  But this was 2000, and I was certain such beliefs had been relegated to ancient times – like dial phones.

A few years before that particular conversation a similar debate arose among me and some female colleagues at the bank; another one about gender parity.  I noted that, if women wanted true equality with men, they needed to start registering for Selective Service – like the men have to do.  In the U.S., Selective Service is the most blatant form of sexism.  The current system was reinstated in 1980 by then-President Jimmy Carter.  Every male in the U.S. born since January 1, 1960 has to register for it within 30 days of their 18th birthday.  In the face of a never-ending Cold War and the sudden Iranian hostage crisis, it was a call-back to an older time in America.  There’s no penalty for late registration, but there are plenty of punishments for failure to register – including jail time and a six-figure fine; no admittance to college; and no financial aid.  The issue was a big one when I was in high school and it became a concern during the 1991 Persian Gulf War.

In the aforementioned workplace conversation, one of my female colleagues – the mother of a single college-aged son – responded, “When men get pregnant,” before storming off.  Another woman concurred with a laugh.  But I pointed out that men have to register for Selective Service; otherwise, face some serious legal repercussions.  Women, on the other hand, don’t have to have children if they don’t want.  There is no law that compels women to get pregnant.  My female cohorts couldn’t offer a logical reply.

All of that came back to me last week, when Vice-President Kamala Harris accepted the Democratic Party’s nomination as presidential candidate.  She’s only the second woman and the first non-White woman to be so honored.  This year’s presidential campaign has literally turned out to be the oddest in decades; certainly the most unusual in my lifetime.  And at the age of 60, I don’t have too many first time experiences left.

I started coming of age in the 1970s, just as the contemporary feminist movement was making more concerted inroads into a patriarchal American society.  I recall how just being male seemed to become anathemic.  Many women demanded full and complete equality with men in every aspect of civilization.  Yet, by the 1990s, I noticed some women (and men) expected a double standard.

Women can’t reasonably demand to be treated as equals to men in business and politics, yet still expect to be placed in the same category as infants and children when it comes to their health and welfare.  In other words, don’t insist on being given the chance to be the CEO of a major corporation, a governor, a Supreme Court justice, or president of the United States and still want to be the first ones in the lifeboat when the ship hits the ice berg.

If you want equality, I’ll give you equality.  But, remember the old saying: be careful what you wish for; you might just get it.  When it comes to progressive attitudes, I sometimes think of the 1967 film “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner”.  Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn portray a liberal San Francisco couple whose all-inclusive ideology is tested when their daughter (Katherine Houghton) introduces her fiancé (Sidney Poitier) to them.  While the movie is rife with stereotypes, the general message is essential: how sincerely should people value and hold onto their beliefs.  The presidency of the United States has often been deemed the ultimate “glass ceiling” for women.  As we march further into the 21st century, members of every previously-marginalized group need to consider how much shattered glass they want on the floor of progress.

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Maelstrom

Donald Trump gets shot at an outdoor rally; Joe Biden ends his presidential campaign; and the 2024 Summer Olympics launch in Paris with opening ceremonies conducted down the Seine and Lady Gaga greeting crowds in French (when has an American ever visited a foreign country and spoken the local language?).

Oh and this summer in the Northern Hemisphere is already smashing temperature records, plus we’re experiencing a COVID resurgence.  I thought 2020 was chaotic (and it truly was), but 2024 has proven even more unusual.  When I saw news that Trump had been shot by a would-be assassin, I simply responded the same way conservatives have reacted to school shootings: I offered my thoughts and prayers.  At least Trump survived.

Vice-President Kamala Harris has scooped up the embers of the Democratic torch and hurtled forwards towards November 5, Election Day here in the U.S. (and my 61st birthday).  A good birthday present for me would be a completely different candidate to win the race, but I’m smart enough to realize that just won’t happen.  I may go rogue and vote Green Party, as I did in 2016.  If enough people followed suit, it could probably cost Harris the election, but it could also cost Trump.  Die-hard Hillary Clinton supporters blamed folks like me for siphoning votes from her and essentially handing them to Trump.  No, I told them!  I didn’t cost Clinton the election.  She cost herself the election!

But that was almost an entire decade ago, and – unlike many social conservatives – time marches onward.  Harris made history when she became the first female and first non-White Vice-President.  For many women, the U.S. presidency is the ultimate glass ceiling.  But I have to note that, in this country, only men have to register for Selective Service and we have no law that bans male circumcision.  So what constitutes gender equity?  Many liberals and some moderates have already invested a lot of hope in Harris to save democracy from the hands of the despotic Trump.

Right-wing extremists have already painted Trump as a martyr for surviving the assassination attempt.  Tears fell from the eyes of some at the Republican National Convention last week, as their beloved self-anointed prophet recounted the sting of what might have been a fragment of glass that struck his right ear instead of an actual bullet.  Meanwhile, congressional hearings are still trying to determine how a geeky 20-year-old managed to climb atop the roof of a building within firing range of the former president – and why.  The latter question may speak to the sensitive issue of mental instability, but also attests to the pernicious gun culture in the United States.  But at least Democrats in Congress are expressing their collective shock at the assassination attempt, unlike their Republican counterparts who dismissed the riots of January 6, 2021 as “trespassing” and, of course, extend those ubiquitous “thoughts and prayers” after each mass shooting.

Thus, the political pandemonium that is American democracy continues.  I only hope none of it contains any firearms.

Image: Gary Larson, © 1988

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Slow Motion Debacle

Anyone who watched the debate last Thursday between President Joe Biden and former President Donald Trump surely has a variety of words to describe it.  Mine are sad, pathetic, hopeless and frightening.  And those are the highlight adjectives!

I didn’t see it.  I had to do some writing and other work on my personal computer.  Plus, my genitals needed some extra attention, and I just couldn’t ignore them to watch two cantankerous old men exchange pithy barbs.  One good feature about the debate is that the microphone for whichever of the two candidates not speaking was muted.  I know that was incorporated strictly after the fiasco of the first Trump-Biden debate in 2020 – the one where a frustrated Biden blurted to Trump, “Would you shut up, man!”

If only both men could be muted now, I think we’d all be better off.  Americans – and people across the globe – pretty much know where they stand on particular issues.  Or where they don’t stand.

I recall the questions surrounding the health of Ronald Reagan when he ran for president in 1980; he was 69 at the time, and the voting populace (along with the media) verbalized their concerns about his welfare.  For the most part, seniority is respected and appreciated in certain fields.  Politics isn’t necessarily one of them, but experience does hold a certain value.  Reagan made the most of his age, even joking about it on occasion.  He held the distinction of being the oldest president until Trump.  In November of 2022, Biden crossed a new threshold when he became the nation’s first octogenarian Chief Executive.  And here we are.

I’ve always said the Democratic Party’s biggest mistake in the 2020 election cycle was to let Biden and Bernie Sanders run for president.  After leaving the White House as vice-president in 2017, I feel that Biden should have retired into the realm of a senior statesman; giving speeches, writing books and propagating democracy every reasonable chance he had.  The Democrats began the 2020 campaign with the most diverse collection of candidates, including more women than had ever attempted to run for president at one time and an openly queer man in their ranks.  Then they ended up just like the Republican Party – with two old White men at the top, Biden and Sanders.  Of course, one of those Democratic candidates, Kamala Harris, has become the nation’s first female and non-White vice-president, and another, Pete Buttigieg, has become the first openly queer cabinet official.

Like many people, I’d often mock older individuals in my youth.  Now I’m 60 and I know how that feels.  I don’t consider myself “old” in the traditional sense; my body has definitely aged, but I won’t let my mind collapse into senility.  But even I know this nation is in trouble with the likes of Biden and Trump as the primary presidential candidates.  And yes, it is because of their age.

The U.S. is rapidly approaching the 250th anniversary of its official birth as a nation.  Right now the future just doesn’t look too bright for us.

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Graying Wolf

“Damn!  You’re old as shit!”  That’s what Dan*, a friend and former colleague, texted to me last year after I’d informed him that I’d just turned 60.

“And you’re so ugly you almost hurt my feelings!” I replied with a laughing emoji.

Dan and I have always had that kind of friendship – if one of us didn’t insult the other, we might think we were mad.  It’s a man thing actually.

I’ve had those so-called “senior moments” where I walk into a room and wonder why.  I find myself occasionally losing my balance and stumbling or literally bumping into something.  A bruise just below my left knee hasn’t healed after several months.  It’s like a dark, small-scale version of Jupiter’s “Great Red Spot”.  A night light in my bedroom is one that I used to turn off at 10 p.m. because I generally have to sleep in total darkness.  Now I keep it on 24/7.

Albeit a former gymnast and taekwondo practitioner, I can no longer do deep knee bends.  My left knee in particular seems to get caught whenever I bend it.  In March of 2021, a close friend posted a picture on Facebook of himself squatting beside a vintage vehicle.  His wife and daughter had treated him to a vintage car show for his birthday.  I congratulated him and then added, ‘BTW, how long did it take u to stand back up from that squatting position? LOL!’

Earlier this year I wrote how I moved my Uncle Wes* and his cat, Leo, into my home.  Wes had just turned 84, and – after a hard life – his body is slowly giving out on him.  I don’t know how much longer he has, but I’m glad I can provide him a safe home in these final days.  And then I look in the mirror and think, ‘Damn!  With any luck (if you can call it that) I’ll be his age.’

My father was 83 when he died in 2016, and my mother was 87 when shed passed away four years later.  I have a few other relatives who have made it into their 80s.  My paternal grandmother died in 2001 at 97.  Aside from their longevity, all of them had one other thing in common: they had loved ones caring for them as they aged.

I did get some good news recently, though.  I had visited a local urologist, mainly for general male-specific healthcare, but also because I’d noticed a significant decline in energy and focus over the past couple of years.  I attributed the latter simply to age, but I wondered if I needed testosterone replacement therapy; a growing practice for older men.  I had some blood drawn at the urologist’s office and then visited the doctor again to discuss the results.

And the results were phenomenal.  I measured 534 ng/DL (nanograms per deciliter) of testosterone, which puts me in the 35-40 age range.  Most men my age fall into the 300 spectrum.  I won’t necessarily reclaim my lost title of “Stud Burger” (or maybe I will), but to say I’m as healthy as a 35-year-old feels pretty good.  The urologist doesn’t want to put me on any kind of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) as that could eventually hurt me more than help.

So the only possible cause of my fatigue is the result of another blood test by my regular doctor more than a month ago: low sodium levels.  I grew up in the 1970s and 80s, when high cholesterol and too much salt in one’s diet became alarm bells of concern.  I remember talk in the early 80s of actually trying to ban salt in processed foods.  It was met with the same response Ronald Reagan got when he tried to get the state of California to label ketchup as a vegetable.

A couple of months ago I was discussing age with a close friend who’s a few years younger than me.  I highlighted my concerns about my own aging; that I have no siblings (and therefore no nieces or nephews) and no children.  Going back to what I stated above: I’m getting older alone.

“I hear you, brother,” he responded.  He’s mostly in the same position, although he has a sister.

Regardless I have to say that I’d rather get to be this age – and experience the myriad agonies that come with it – than to die as a very young man.  I lost a close friend to AIDS in 1993; he was almost 32.  During my tenure working at a retail store in the 1980s, two of my teenage colleagues were killed in auto wrecks.  I look at photos of young military men and women who died in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars and recollect what I was doing at their age.

So I’m doing okay.  Gray hair or not – I’m at a good place in life.

*Named changed

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