Happy Presidents' Day, my friends...

Happy Presidents' Day, my friends!!! Is it just me, or do these fine men seem just a little more tired, more exhausted, with just a hint of grief around their eyes... I wish I could photoshop them with their backs turned on the idiot to the east...

What is going on in this country right now is unpresidented in our sometimes-illustrious history.

Lies.  Lies about the media, about crowd sizes, about so many things.  Constant vacations to Florida, lining his pockets with profits at government expense.  Maintaining separate households.

#Sweden.  #Bowling Green.  Talking to the Russkies.  Citizens from 7 countries who have never attacked us banned, while the biggest offender, Saudi Arabia, lies there unfettered.

The only thing that will make this week better than last- perhaps, just perhaps- is that it is only a 4-day workweek...

I Almost Died- Yet Again!

I almost died- yet again.  Concussion.

I was ok with discovering for sure that my father was not my father after all, for a week or so- until I absolutely was not.

The overwhelming grief that came with the thorough understanding that I had been blamed and treated harshly by a man for something I had no control over finally did me in.

I know, at the conscience level, that he did the best he could, but that was not very therapeutic for me.

Nor for him.  I was a daily reminder of a sad chapter of his life, early in a marriage full of hope, and carefree love.  And also of frustration at not getting pregnant.

So, I turned heavy back to the fruit of the grape.  Waking up early, waiting both for the stores to open, and being sober enough to drive.  Desperate, turmoiled, hopeless, and helpless.

The name of the novel I am writing is “Crosses to Bare”.  The cross on the vodka bottle.  The cross of Catholicism.  The Maltese Cross, and the things I have seen.  The “cross” symbol of being a “man”.  The cross of the prescription bottles, for dealing with the things I was heretofore medicating with alcohol.

I staggered outside to feed the nameless cat that had adopted me, and I, literally, hit the bricks hard with my forehead.  Concussion.  Blood everywhere, not to be stopped, and soon followed by a plethora of bloody rags, inside and out. 

I have always been pretty conscientious about my driving UI, but not perfect by any means.

Too drunk to drive, too afraid to call what up here is termed the Aid Car.  I didn’t want my brothers and sisters to see me like this, so far fallen from what I once was.

The blood was mixed with tears.  I texted some friends to come to my aid, yet again, but they were all travelling a distance from home, out of reach.  Frankly, there were some I didn’t text out of false pride.

Eventually, I texted my oldest son.  He was breakfasting with some nurses, and they were the ones who put me on to the likely concussion.

I swallowed my pride, and dialed 911.  The response was quick, the service was excellent, and the boys took good care of me.  Pretty quickly, I was under care in the ER at Evergreen Monroe.  All the tests were negative, and I suffered no permanent damage.  But even after a $100 taxi ride home, I wasn’t quite done.

This was not my first ambulance ride, of course.  I once did three in three days, and three emergency rooms, with a total bill of $75,000.  Horrible…

What the hell was going on?  I should have been fine, this kind of anger encopunter in my life was what AA had been training me to deal with for 6 years!

More red wine.  More?  Hell, up to eight bottles a day.

Non-alcoholics do not understand the grip this thing can get on us, how deeply it can sink its claws into us.  That’s the tragedy I want to capture in the novel, albeit also an arson mystery about revenge- without whining or self-pity.  I hope I can do it.

Since my first taste of wine as a child was my mother’s wine coolers with Thunderbird, white wine does not cross these lips- unless it is a lovely sauvignon blanc.  Other than that, Cab and Merlot, or sometimes mead or port.  Now I know I am even more Scottish than I thought, and my ancestors were big fans of mead.

I started drinking vodka on the rocks in the Evergreen Room, as a tribute in absentia to Herb Caen, but I switched from vodka to wine a couple years ago, or I would be dead.

I started drinking at 48, which is almost unheard of in my circles.  I then was a drinker, but not a professional alcoholic until after the gastric bypass.  There is a higher-than-average percentage of GB patients that are alcoholics for a reason- no food to mix with the alcohol, straight to the blood-rich intestines where it gets sucked into the bloodstream.

Brutal- as we say, incomprehensible demoralization.

“All the things I thought I knew, I’m learning again.”

Professional alcoholic?  Yup.  We describe the 4th of July, Saint Patrick’s Day, and New Year’s Eve as “Amateur Nights”, and we stay home.

So, I am back on track, have over 60 days now, and had a medication tweak that seems to be helping.

This time to paraphrase Henley, “I got the e-mail that I didn’t want to “hear”, but I knew that it would come…”.  With 70 days of sobriety, the thought of me moving closer to home pushed her over the edge.  I understand.

Heartbreak.  Regrets.  Guilt.  Anger.

So now, I am “single”, although not officially, and faced with perhaps spending the rest of my life here on earth alone.  Again, though, that’s what I have been training for, aussi. 

Life on life’s terms…

I don’t know if I ever had any game, let alone whether or not I have any left.  My health is good, though, and I am optimistic, of course.

Knowing what I know about my heritage, I will change my name to “Stone-McCrobie”.  Besides being historically accurate, it will allow my good friend Norb Kumagai to keep calling me the “hyphen-tatted one!”

The literature says we will be talking about things spiritual, physical, psychological, etc, and that certainly the case with me- I had things going on I had no idea about, as I believe many alcoholics and/or addicts experience also.  I think that finally all those things are exposed, and are being treated.  

Perhaps- just perhaps- the Yellow Brick Road is lying at my feet, finally.  Certainly, my journey has been “better” than so very many, and shorter than most- albeit very tough on those around me, and for that I am grateful.  And that Glenda is hot, n’est pas?

Follow the Yellow Brick Road- “Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore…”

What, the Puck?

I have had a lifelong love-affair with hockey.

And why not?  It’s a pure sport, one of the originals- physical, yet requiring finesse and agility, almost non-stop, a reasonable number of players, substitutions on the fly- me thinks it is a better from of soccer, only on ice at on a smaller scale.

The Affair began in upstate NY years ago, playing on the annual ice rink in the Pelkey yard, a long block away, and south, from my house.

“Uncle” George would spread that old-style rolled aluminimum edging in a big circle, creating a mini-rink.  The Lake effect cold would quickly finish the project once her filled it with water.  The wind was his only enemy, but it made us better skaters if the surface was wind-sculptured.

My first pair of skates were double-bladed, but not the tradiotional double blades.  The gap was only about ¾ of an inch, but centered of course.

The advantage was they very much acted like regular skates when I turned, but the snow did lodge often between the blades.

My second pair of skates came from the rink, at SUNY-Oswego.  We were so poor we couldn’t afford new skates, so my grandmother took me out to the igloo to rifle, with permission, through the lost and found.  I was pretty big as a child, and I remember the blades ended up curving outward on me eventually.

In 1965 we moved to the Sacramento area.  What a hockey shock.  There was one battered arena in Del Paso heights, and that was it.  One couldn’t find anything in the way of hockey gear in the sporting goods stores, but I did not want to give up my passion.

So.  Golf ball.  A goalie stick cut out of plywood, and a spine added for strength.  Make-shift goals.  Softball mask, with wires woven into it to keep the golf ball out, and some old football practice cushions as leg pads.  I found an old blocker at the roller rink, and used a baseball glove on my left hand.  No arm pads.  No cup.  No leg pads above the knee.

Golf balls make lovely bruises.  I particularly liked the dimples left by them, with the bruises looking much like fried eggs on various parts of my portly body.

We managed to scrape up some hockey sticks, both the street and ice version, that had migrated west, and were now available at garage sales.  We also used field hockey sticks.

When I was a sophomore, I met Nick.  He was from Boston, and loved hockey.  I also met the Ernst brothers, there were three of them, and their father was the principal at El Camino High School in Carmichael- and summer floor hockey was born, with unlimited access to the EC gymnasium.

It was hot, and it was a blast.  I played goalie at one end, and a black guy named Wiley played at the 

other end.  He was an unorthodox goalie, and was a little better than I, but we were close enough to be very competitive.  It was fabulous, and we played many, many games in between summer soccer practices and matches.

Then, in 1991, The soon-to-be San Jose Sharks came to the Cow Palace, and I gained another love of my life!

There is no sporting event in the world like a professional hockey game in person.  Most of the players are not high-priced superstars stuck on themselves, and they play their hearts out simply for the love of the game.  Hockey arenas are necessarily small and intimate, and you can “feel” the game throughout.

I have been fortunate to attend many games in person- with my children, my wife, and close friends- especially, Earl, Randy, and Dennis.

Sadly, things have changed over the years in the way of fan base.

Sure, the “Dog Pound” is still in the upper deck, with all their obnoxiousness, their tawdry cheers, and the occasional visits from security personnel.

When we first started, much of the games were spent standing, out of the sheer joy of having hockey, and seeing it in person on the west coast.

Slowly, though, the fans became complacent- despite very good season records and numerous playoff appearances.

But no Stanley Cup.  Boos started showing up- sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly.

One of the best presents I ever got was a Sharks jersey, personalized with “Battalion 37”.  Now, sometimes, when I am standing up cheering, I hear, “Hey, Battalion!  Sit down!”

It’s sad- there is little of the sheer thrill of the game left.

So the shallowness that pervades modern America has come to the Shark Tank.  Oh, well, it’s not surprising, n’est pas?

But not me- not ever…

#Freeday Friday

It was my intention to write my first-ever column solely with my Dragon Naturally-Speaking software, but I do not have a good enough microphone with me here at the Ranch.  There is one on order, of course.

For the last eight years, Facebook has transitioned from a friendly novelty, very exciting, to a mostly-political forum.  I am as guilty as many, less so than some.

Did we on the Left start it?  No, even before he was elected and/or sworn in, the attacks on BHO started- and Trump led the birth-certificate witch hunt.

Certainly, we did take W to task vociferously over his wars, and, in this case, foresight and hindsight being in agreement, we were correct.  However, when the half-black guy came along, the attacks were personal, and despicable.

Me thinks we need a rest from this, a weekly respite, perhaps?

Compliments of NYULOCAL.com

We need a break from “Bigly”, “Hugely”, “I am such good friends with…”, “alternative facts”, and the “crooked news” comments with which we bombard each other.

And of course, those on the Right have ceased complaining suddenly and almost immediately about the huge costs of POTUS’ travel, the $200k daily costs of the First Lady and Last Son living separately, the inherent conflicts of interest in patronizing Trump properties and golf courses, holding meetings at the old Post Office.  We have heard no complaints about the attacks on Federal judges, or about the impetus to make the “nuclear option” the normal routine of business in the Senate.Friday is the obvious choice.  After all, we can almost certainly assume that this new POTUS will have a 4-day workweek, leaving Fridays open as a lead-in for his travel and golf-laden weekends.

The complete silence over Saudi Arabia being left off the List of Seven is despicable, as Trump lines his pockets with his business interests.  And the religious objections over abandoning refugees has been, well, absent.

However, I digress!

Friday = #Freeday!

I think it would work out quite nicely.

TGIF!

In Spanish, it could be Freeiernes!  In French, Freendredi.  In Latin, Dies Freeneris.  In German, Freetag.   In Italian, Freenerdi, close to the French.

In Canada?  Eh?day. 

Oh, goodness!  Despair!  What ever would we talk about?

How about harkening back to Facebook 1.0?  That seems very appealing to me, I look back to it very fondly, just as I remember my days-off with my young children, look fondly back on my Atari 2600 video game system, my Gamecube (I still have two of them!), and my Tandy 1000 SX computer, my first personal foray into the digital, or perhaps, diskital world.

I wish my original foray had been walking into Bill Gates’ garage, and handing over $5k to him, but, alas, it was not to be so.

(Yes, I was there for Pong- we had one at the Fire Station in 1977)

So, where would we go, where would we find a day of peace and tranquility?

Music, of course, must lead the list.  YouTube, et al, is an unlimited resource for the best, the worst, the subtle, the sublime.  It would be almost-impossible to beat the lyrics of Heart of the Matter, by Henley, but you would be welcome to go for it!

Pictures.  School, nature, sports, pets, family, historic sights and sites.

  

Movies, and TV- so many classic moments to choose from and share.

Jokes, puns, pranks, Punks, and “Here, hold my beer and watch this!” moments.

Perhaps a monthly
A Haiku Only Friday?
For serenity?

And books- what we have read, what we are reading, and what we have missed.  Thumbs up, thumbs down.

I would like for this to catch on- not out of any arrogance of authorship, but because I would love to have a weekly break from the hyperbole, whatever it ultimately looks like, or whomever might be the successful author!

PS- Thanks to one of my editors, Debra, for suggesting this idea as a full column.  I was skeptical, but, as usual, she was correct! 

I Suffer Fools Poorly...

I recently deleted a guy from Facebook for being a moron. I never should have friended him at all, but at the time he was a staff member where I was staying, and I wanted to keep tabs on him. Unfortunately, the standards for being a staff member are not what they could be.

He described me as a “liberal fuck” (thank you!), and stated that he had been watching me whine, bitch and complain about the election.

We started out discussing the Women’s March, and he said he would not send his wife or daughters off to war, not because he didn’t believe in equal rights, but because he didn’t want them killed.

Ummm. “SEND” a wife or daughter? He’s from the South, so I assume he means he wouldn’t pluck them from being barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen, and let them pursue a legitimate career of their own free will?

I see.

I don’t often whine, far too often wined, but I am in stark terror for our country.

A much better candidate with experience, but also with skeletons, and mostly because of the Russians and the director of the FBI (who has been retained in his job), won the popular vote by three million votes, but lost the vote in the Electoral College. That’s the system we have, but if electoral college votes were apportioned by population, the results would have been different, and we would not be embarked on this dangerous and embarrassing course.

No less than the abominable Chris Christie has said publicly that POTUS has not been well-served by those around him, as he trots out all these nominees. Well, when one surrounds oneself with idiots, one gets idiotic results, n’est pas?

I suggested that we wait and see, that a campaign — particularly one so long on cheerleading and short on substance — did not necessarily translate to the pragmatism of governing. Many of Trumpty Dumpty’s supporters said the very same thing.

I waited. I was (necessarily) blind, but now I see.

I did not pre-judge him, despite all the signs that would have allowed me to do so. I am not angry at the election now — I am angry at what he is doing to the country.

However, I could be angry at the voters. My oldest son said it best, perhaps: “Well… I hope you’ll all join me in not allowing America’s D students to elect our President again. Who else could have looked at the W Presidency and said ‘let’s double-down?'”

That apple perhaps never left the tree. Brings a tear to my eye very often…

Back to current events.

~  A man who was denied a Federal judgeship because of his bigotry is poised to become the Attorney General of the United States.

~  A woman who is the antithesis of public education is set to become the Secretary of Education.

~  An ignorant conspiracy-theorist is set to take a place on the NSC, displacing two national security professionals.

~  Overall, a cabinet of rich, white, corporate males is set to run the country, despite Ike’s warning about the military/industrial complex.

Opposing Trump and what he stands for is not a political decision — it is a moral decision.

For instance — the Muslim ban on travel to the US. Seven countries. The vast majority of terrorists who have attacked the US have been from Saudi Arabia. Of course, Saudi Arabia is therefore #1 on the travel ban, right? Wrong. Unlisted. I am sure the fact that Trump has significant business interests in Saudi Arabia has nothing to do with it.

So, now the Democrat and Bernie are forced to assume the mantle of the Party of No. I hope they learned their lessons well over the last eight years.

Of course we all remember when the GOP leaders in the house and senate stated that their number one goal was to make sure Obama failed. I don’t think that’s in their oath of office, which they swore on their beloved Bible.

Remember Merrick Garland? Undebated, let alone voted upon, for SCOTUS?

Ah, yes.

And I don’t even want to consider those idiots who say their health care is provided by the ACA but we should get rid of Obamacare.

The aforementioned “D” students.

And the outrage over Executive Orders seems to have disappeared now that it’s not the Kenyan bastard making them, huh?

In short order (two days!), Trump has alienated Australia, Canada, Mexico and South Korea.

Why does he use Twitter so much? Obviously, 140 characters are the limits of his thought processes when he doesn’t have a speechwriter pulling his strings.

Courtesy of RedState

I apologize to those who doubted my suggestion that we wait and see. I was wrong, you were right.