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The Orange Snollygoster

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Worse than the Green Grinch

who bamboozled Whoville

the Orange Snollygoster hates

Red-White-and-Blueville

Unlike the Green Grinch

who sled in the snow

his ego is endless

and his heart doesn’t grow

Apathetic and petty

his mouth always shootin

a brain like spaghetti

a puppet of Putin

In need of a fixer

for his damn nasty deeds

he drinks an elixir

of hatred and greed

he lies so often

he broke the fact checker!

he’s a crook and a pig

in love with his Pecker

The Orange Snollygoster

lines his own pockets

he cuts down the trees

and fires off rockets

peddling fear for political gain

the Orange Snollygoster

should be held in disdain

But for some, he’s savior

a call to the past

when white was a rite

in a system of caste

they latch on to fear

like a babe to a breast

strut in red hats

and pound on their chest

We need to resist

the Orange Snollygoster

a fraud and a cheat

a presidential impostor

we need to fight against

this historic disaster

vote American values

and become our own master

Here today, gone….

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Embrace your temporariness.

All of us are about 2.5 generations away from true non-existence.

As the final memory of us fades to black and we transition from the warmth of humanity to the cold breathless inanimate, our existence gets relegated to the flat and dimensionless world of dusty photos, handwritten notes, and password-protected social media pages. Such is our fate.

We will not be reunited with loved ones on puffy white clouds — that’s a Peter Pan-level fantasy, and the sooner we let it go, the truer to ourselves we can be.

We are all short-timers, so lets seize that realization and use it as fuel for making a positive impact in the NOW — for caring and making the world a better place TODAY, so those who come after us, can have a happy and peaceful existence. Is there a more noble endeavor?

The Malleable Beliefs of Evangelicals

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What happens when your political idol’s actions and words diametrically oppose what your religion promotes?

Do you stand firm by your faith, or do you bend to political idolatry?

Is it worse to be ostracized by your church or shunned by your political, social group?

Oh, the pain and discomfort of internal conflict!

But wait, there’s another way!

With the advent of Republican Jesus, you can stand by your religion AND swear allegiance to a demagogue who espouses the opposite views of your lord and savior!

Isn’t America Great?

Republican Jesus is no less wonderous than the birth of Original Jesus (or Extra Crispy Jesus, for that matter).

People have been bending religion to fit their world and political view since the beginning of time. All gods are man-made. When you start with that fact, everything you see in today’s Evangelical community regarding politics makes perfect sense. And let’s face it, it becomes easier to bend and contort one’s religious views in a world where god is less visible than ever before.

Fuck being uncomfortable with contradiction; let’s be Christ-like and Un-Christ-like in the same breath! Once you start, it’s easy! After that, it’s a brand-new, all-encompassing, carpet-bomb-the-caravan-and-fuck-the-disenfranchised religious freedom!

Step 1. Cherry-pick your favorite bits and pieces from that book written in iron-age ignorance.

Step 2. Infuse it with a political ideology that suits your worldview.

Step 3. Well, you get the gist.

Before the first charlatan saw religion as a money maker and a kingmaker, religion’s primary purpose was personal and somewhat benign (at least initially).

Religion eased our fear of death and explained the unexplainable. In the hardware store of life, you could find religion in the aisle for caulking and other “gap fillers.”

Now that politicians know just how fluid the beliefs of Evangelicals are, they are taking full advantage. And the President is leading the way.

To politicians, malleable faith has become the low-hanging fruit of our electorate. Evangelicals’ susceptibility to authoritarianism and an innate fear of different people represents political opportunity, money, and votes at the ballot box.

Today’s Evangelicals are evolving (how ironic!) before our very eyes. In a swirling tsunami of hypocrisy and verbal gymnastics, Evangelical leaders dismiss adultery, kidnapping, and murder, so long as political bed-mates deliver favors unto them or to their America. And the Evangelical flock follows blindly. Their relationship with the President is like a loveless marriage – purely transactional in nature.

They give him support; he packs the court.

All the contradictions of the President’s behavior to their faith get dismissed or obfuscated.

I suspect, like the rest of us, Evangelicals understand if Donald Trump (or either of his sons) knocked up the help, there’d be an abortion doctor on the doorstep faster than you can say “fetus.”

But Evangelicals have struck a Faustian bargain with the Orange Devil, simultaneously turning their heads and supporting his un-christlike policies.

Anyone with an ounce of intellect (and intellectual honesty) knows Trump is less Christian than a salamander or a turd. Instead, Trump uses his relationship with Evangelicals in a quest for power and money.

To the skeptic and realist, all of this is as clear as day.

Our best hope for turning this shit show around are young people, who are generally less religious than their parents, and who see the marriage of politics and religion for what it really is, a marriage of convenience that benefits the few and endangers the rest.

Let’s hope they get out and vote because the longer this goes on, the harder it is to stop.

Tired of the AR-15 yet?

Memo to gun rights enthusiasts:

We’re not living in the land of the Walking Dead. We’re not trying to survive the Zombie Apocalypse.

If someone breaks into your house, it’s probably not a gang of crazies looking to kill and eat an entire family. It’s more likely a desperate schmuck looking for cash or something to hock. A decent home security system can provide the deterrence and protection you need in most cases. But if a criminal persists, I suspect a 12-gauge shotgun or a handgun is sufficient protection.

Do people really “need” their AR-15? Of course, they don’t. Any citizen who argues they “need” an AR-15 is full of shit. But here’s the thing – they LOVE their AR-15. They enjoy firing it, and more to the point, they enjoy the feeling they get when they fire it. They get pumped like John Rambo on crack when they fire their AR-15.

A round exploding through the barrel – the synaptic crackle and pop – the release of endorphins – the sense of control, the validation of masculinity, and the empowering dissipation of weakness and insecurity, all in one-fell-swoop.

Why would any law-abiding citizen give up all that pleasure?

I understand the tired argument that guns and ammunition are “inanimate objects,” in and of themselves, not dangerous. But if we know that one inanimate object is being used consistently in mass shootings and that banning the sale of that object would not cause harm to society, why the hesitation?

The NRA continues to use fear (nothing loosens purse strings like fear), patriotism, and (appallingly) God, to peddle guns and pad the bottom line of gun manufacturers.

The gun lobby fills the coffers of members of Congress to push the false message that the AR-15 makes citizens safer and that it’s a valuable insurance policy against tyranny. And let’s face it, ideologically ensconced, fact-challenged Americans don’t need much convincing from the NRA.

Combine NRA efforts with an American mentality of wanting what we want, when we want it (also known as the big “FUCK YOU, I LOVE MY GUNS!”) – and we have what we have today.

Will banning the AR-15 and similar weapons end mass shootings? Unfortunately, no. The mass shooting issue is complicated and multifaceted. We need to do more than regulate weapons to prevent these tragedies. But banning these weapons will mean less carnage and fewer casualties per shooting. I know that’s not much, but in my opinion, it’s a baby step in the right direction.

Feat of Feet

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The other day, I was thinking about feet as I slipped a pair of socks over mine.

I stared down and wondered about feet and death.

I don’t know how (or why) these disparate thoughts found one another, but I let them dance footloose and fancy-free inside my head.

I thought about feet at the end of a hospital bed — life’s curtain call.

I imagined sensing a final feeling of pins and needles dancing its way across the soles of my feet, mere seconds ahead of a fluttering pulse – the waning pitter-patter prelude to blood pooling and breath ceasing.

I envisioned my feet – blue, bloodless, and stone-like. Toes pointed upward, and heels resting on a cool coroner’s table.

Finally, I imagined the pant cuff of a neatly pressed suit, respectfully pushed up the leg, in a room so full of silence the walls bend outward — a faceless mortician, attentive and methodical, ties my finest dress shoes, tersely knotting them, before carefully evening-out the laces — for whom, I don’t know.

Feet are our passport to purpose.

All of us should stand up, push down, feel the unforgiving world press into the soles of our feet, and revel in the pain as we hike the hills of life.

Feel the crunch of crystalline snow through the soles of your boots, rise above fallen arches, and be thankful for blistered toes and calloused heels.

R.I.P Tom Petty

Some artists stick with you, through good times and bad, like a trusted friend you’ve never met.

I remember the first time I heard Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. It was 1979, and I was a junior in high school — the song was Refuge. As soon as I heard that song, it resonated with me. I loved the musical snarl and punch, Petty’s drawl and attitude, and everything about it.

It’s a curious thing how we connect to artists – musicians specifically. For me and Tom Petty, it was a convergence of things — a perfect storm of his aggressive-edged rock and roll and my teen angst, bottled-up energy, insecurity, and the malaise of adolescence.

When I first heard Refuge in 1979, it felt like a chemical reaction in my mind. For three minutes and twenty-two seconds, I felt clarity, like the song physically pushed shit aside in my head – so it was just me and the music – I remember there was something pure about the experience. I suppose that’s why I kept returning to Tom Petty for 38 years – and he never disappointed. That’s what was so special about Tom Petty – he grew as an artist and aged gracefully, which allowed me to grow with him – as much as I loved Refugee as a teenager, listening to that song as an adult was mainly a way of reconnecting to my youth. As Tom matured, he became a master songwriter, tapping into the complexities of human relationships – doing so with sparse, straightforward language – clarity.

When I heard Tom Petty had died, I cried — sitting alone in front of my laptop. With a conference call a little over an hour away, I got up, found my iPod, connected it to a Bluetooth speaker, turned up the volume, hit shuffle, and cried a little more.

Later that afternoon, I went into my son’s room. He was staring blankly at his laptop. I touched him on the shoulder, and he broke — we both did — had a real good cry – together.

From adolescence to fatherhood, Tom Petty was an integral part of my life; he was my go-to artist — always a drop of the needle away, a CD shuffle away, or an iPod click away — he never failed to lift me and help me through.

R.I.P. Tom Petty.

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Public access, private thoughts

I was walking down Tuckerman Avenue earlier today, when I came across this sign:

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Public access to the shore is the way the public can legally reach and enjoy coastal areas and resources.

Feeling adventurous, I decided to take the path less traveled (at least for me).

On my trek from curbside Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline, I couldn’t help but think, this public access is not very accessible. The path was overgrown, uneven and rocky in most parts, muddy and narrow in others. At one point, I had to crouch to make my way through a tunnel of shrubbery, the ground beneath my feet, a treacherous gully (can a gully be treacherous?).

As I made my way down the path, I imagined an animated discussion between Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, with an exasperated Clark shouting “Turn around Lew, she’s impassable” and “It’s risky business, this path to the shoreline, I fear we may lose some people!” – but I soldiered on.

If you ask me, accessible should mean accessible to a wide spectrum of people. If your Nana can safely walk the path with a less than 50 % chance of fracturing a hip, then I say its accessible. I’m not sure the path from Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline passes the Nana test.

Once I made it to the shore, I headed in the direction of Sachuaest beach, hoping to make my way to Purgatory chasm and to the lower end of Tuckerman Ave — and eventually back to my car, which I had parked at the local YMCA.

I’ve lived on Aquidneck Island for nearly half a century and this was the first time walking this particular shoreline – its really quite beautiful.

The rocky terrain was not easy and it was slippery in parts. I was reminded several times that mother nature doesn’t give a shit when you say “I got this” — having slipped twice on slimy seaweed-covered rocks.

I ran out of walkable terrain before I could reach Purgatory Chasm, so I had to double back. But all-in-all, it was a productive, mind-clearing walk, and a nice reminder of how fortunate I am to have ended up on Aquidneck Island.

Resist

The orange one

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With sheer vanity he glows

like a bulb on a tree

It’s always “I, I, I”

or “Me, ME, ME”!

He’s a whiny wall-building

science denier

A thin-skinned, fear-mongering

Orange faced liar

He’s the tear in the fabric

that holds us together

He’s the bend in the hose,

and the blood on the feather

He’s an embarrassing blowhard

shallow and loud

A stain on the world stage

all cocky and proud

He’s the America we hoped

no longer existed,

Bigoted, intolerant, fearful, and twisted

With a stroke of the pen,

He poisons the water,

He willfully separates

Mother from daughter

He belittles anyone

who dares to oppose him

He stomps up and down

and screams America chose him!

With no sense of history

spewing nothing but junk

He’s an arrogant gasbag

a scoundrel, a skunk.

Now it’s up us

to form the resistance

To push back on the orange

with steadfast persistence

Engage in the process

hold his feet to the fire

Because facts are the enemy

of the orange faced liar

Riffs, memory, and a sense of self

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I remember this day.

According to the timestamp on the video, it was more than six years ago. Two months shy of your 15th birthday.

It was late in the afternoon – I recall getting off the couch to the buzz of your amplifier… By the time I reached your room, you had already programmed the loop — I walked in with my camera, sat on your bedroom floor, and started recording.

You play for almost 12 minutes, at times oblivious to my presence — passionately engaged in the endeavor, beautifully lost in your music — but every now and then (as shown in this clip), you play a riff or come across a note that surprises and delights you.

I love that.

I remember posting the video later that day to YouTube — the entire 12 minutes — and how mad you were at me for doing so. I took the video down immediately. As I recollect, I was angry at myself — and I remember feeling agitated at how everything had turned out.

Looking back, I realize that day was a bit of a crossroads for us, a realization that you were coming into your own, and sharing that video without your permission was a clear case of parental overreach — an infringement on your sense of self.

I’m not sure I ever apologized in a meaningful way.

Sorry about that, Jake. 🙂

For years I had no idea where the 12-minute video was. First, I was disappointed at myself for misplacing it – an irritating reminder of how scatterbrained I can be. Then, I began to think it was gone forever, that perhaps I deleted it inadvertently.

Only a few weeks back, I came across the full video on an external storage device.

Thanks for letting me share a snippet some six years later, on your birthday.

Dad.

Free Play Gone

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Some 48 years ago, my parents (perhaps over a glass of wine and bottle of scotch) decided to move the family to Aquidneck Island — where I was raised, not far from the ocean, in a neighborhood of shabbily constructed raised ranches — where on warm summer days, squinty-eyed kids staggered zombie-like from their garages or front doors, pop-tarted, sugar-smacked, and ready to roll.

We played ball (whiffle, base, foot, basket, and stick) in our backyards or in the street — we rode bikes everywhere, we “red rovered, red rovered,” and kicked the can against a near-perfect backdrop of New England sunsets and warm summer breezes, to a generous and harmonious soundtrack of crickets, peepers, and nightingales.

We hunted salamanders in the woods and flash-lighted our way to collecting night crawlers for fishing expeditions at the town reservoir, to which we walked unattended by adults, poles over our shoulders, the sun warm on our backs, our conversations held together with lite laughter and kinship.

The entire summer, we hardly interacted with Mom or Dad except at dinner time, which was had around the dining room table without exception.

And so it was on Aquidneck Island I stayed, met my wife, and raised 2 good boys and 4 dogs — the latest, a pocket-sized pit bull, full of spittle and spunk, who envelops me in rhythmic doggy snores as I write this piece.

What strikes me most on this stroll down memory lane is the magnitude of change in parenting over a single generation. Our generation, handicapped by socioeconomic conditions requiring two working parents, and a feeling of fear and mistrust (largely unwarranted), the flames of which were fanned by continuous exposure to 24-hour cable news, which made us believe we could never leave our kids alone, that they had to be within earshot or eyesight 24 hours a day, less someone steals them away forever — and so it was by these phenomena, that free play, that priceless gift and ever-important ingredient in child development, was killed.

Gone are the days when kids gathered at a park or in someone’s backyard to organize on their own and “get a game going” — sadly, this has been replaced by regularly scheduled league games on sun-splashed well-manicured fields with perfectly chalked sidelines and clipboard-carrying, whistle-blowing, score book-keeping adults shouting out instructions while pacing in front of tight-jawed fathers in sunglasses and Bermuda shorts (newspapers tucked firmly under their arms), while antsy, floppy-hatted moms in folding chairs with cup holders, try to capture every moment of play on their iPads or cell phones.

We’ve forgotten the value of neighborhood free play on uneven surfaces where the end zones were marked by a rock and a tree. The sidelines were guesstimated according to natural or not-so-natural boundaries and, most importantly, where kids worked out the teams and the rules and addressed issues that arose without “expert” interference by adults.

As my children enter adulthood, I wonder about the absence of free play and the implications of an overly-scheduled, overly-structured, and, quite frankly, overly-parented childhood.