The topic was how Trump wrapped up America as a very nice present for Putin. What a clever metaphor. How did he ever come up with it at Christmas time? He brings up some VERY IMPORTANT points.
Did you know that Trump lies about everything? Have you heard that he’s eroding our institutions and that Republicans are absolutely going along for the ride, or that the Republican tax scam is guaranteed not to make America great again or ever? Are you aware he’s destroying our trust in government agencies, gutting the State Department, disparaging the FBI etc?
Friedman manages to tell us more about how we’re heading down the wrong track in case we’ve been comatose since November 2016.
Like did you realize how screwed the blue states will be when they lose state tax deductions? Bet you haven’t been mulling that one over for weeks as you’ve been camped out playing scribbage in Susan Collins’ office?
But does Friedman blame Putin for all this? Or Trump for that matter? The word collusion doesn’t seem to be in his vocabulary. He does call what Putin did a “hack” but says it was done on the cheap. Some ads on Facebook, a few gazillion fake-twitter accounts. The word kompromat isn’t mentioned, nor are any of the recently or soon to be indicted. In Friedmanlandia, Putin just made a lucky “investment.” and never could have imagined his good fortune, kind of like marrying into money maybe. It’s not like he was a master spy working for the KGB for a hundred years and actually planned any of this!
But Friedman does blame someone for the wrong track we’ve taken. There is someone at fault, someone who was even more important to Trump’s victory than Putin, someone who is to blame for all that followed. Who would that be? Could it be Steve Bannon? Or soon-to-be-fall guy and fired-from-the-family Jared Kushner? Of course not, silly! It’s Hillary Clinton.
Hillary, he tells us early on is way “more responsible” for Trump’s victory than small-time investor Vladimir Putin!
Gee, if only she had warned us that Trump was Putin’s puppet. If only she had won three million more votes than Trump. If only the New York Times hadn’t equated her emails with Trump’s lies, lack of experience, bankruptcies, general sliminess, and oh yeah those connections to Russia they barely mentioned. Let’s hope that after this Mueller fiasco ends (on Friday) they appoint a new special prosecutor to examine her role in Trump’s victory, and then they should lock her up!
I’m sitting around on a bleak Sunday afternoon. The sky is white and it’s unusually cold for Labor Day Weekend. The better-half is away on one of his work-related do-gooding trips to a developing country.
Usually, I use his away time to get shit done, by which I mean household crafty stuff like redoing the kitchen floor in green paper,
or hacking an IKEA table by gluing pages from an iconic 70’s veggie cookbook on it and “marblizing” it with more green paper,
or creating a faux-slate floor on the terrace using (wait for it) leftover package paper!
Sometimes I write snarky blog posts that people actually pay me a pittance for, or fiction that people can buy on the cheap. It’s not that the better-half’s presence keeps me from writing. He’s at work most of the time anyway. But being alone, not feeling a need to plan dinner with someone, or do the dishes, or anticipate conversations about my day, helps me focus on the writing. Plus there is some feeling that because he is out in the world “doing” something, and being his best self, I should at least make an effort to do that thing I used to think I was put on this earth to do.
But yesterday I “did” nothing. And today? Not very much. Am I depressed or worried? Well, I’m ALWAYS depressed and worried. The things I should be doing to alleviate those “feelings” or conditions seem impossible at the moment. But I’m not not contemplating ways to end my life. My mind has not been taken over by thoughts of some horrific looming catastrophic – although given the current political situation, such thoughts, while not helpful, might not be unrealistic.
But I’m not out womanning the baricades, nor is my lack of social life an issue. People are harder than math! What keeps me from brooding that my solitude is NOT healthy, that my disconnectedness is hardly an achievement, that I can and should be an active participant, if not the major character in my own life story?
It’s the cats. They love me. I know this not only because a Facebook quiz tells me so. I know this because the little bastards constantly show me and tell me how much they love me. The one we still refer to as the feral – though that’s probably not his real backstory – insists on nuzzling next to my chest even as sit typing these words. His purr is as loud as a fancy Italian milk steaming machine.
The others are nearby, sleeping, but liable to stir if I move. The old one comes to me less, but if I’m out of his sight for too long, he’ll look for me, and harangue me until I follow him. His love requires work. He wants to be brushed, to be fed, to be told repeatedly what a good boy he is while his tummy is rubbed. (And yes, some cats are totally into that. But do NOT try it on the feral. He’d tear you to shreds.)
The middle-child cat is the one who most loves to share the bed with the humans. Do not let anyone tell you that cats don’t know their names. He runs to me when I call him. He’ll allow the others on the bed if I’m watching, but he won’t let them get too close. They’ll stay by my feet.
The husband and I are those people – the couple without children who’ve replaced human larvae with pets, but they are more than surrogate kids to me. They are best friends, companions, and more. I now make sure a dining chair is pulled out to make it easier for the senior cat to climb down to the floor from his favorite spot on the kitchen table. I cook his special chronic renal deficiency diet because the commercially available prescriptions just aren’t good enough. With all the eldercare I give him, he has become a parental replacement.
Their care regulates me. Keeps me grounded. Jump out the window and end it all? Who’d feed them? And besides unless I stood on the ledge and shut the window before I jumped, which doesn’t seem possible, they might follow me and I wouldn’t want that to happen. Besides the husband has made it clear that if anything were to happen to me, he wouldn’t cook for them.
They are entertainment when I’m bored with traveling the world wide web, and reading is tiresome. They are even something I can share with my virtual friends and followers on social media. The feral likes to go out and see his fans in the neighborhood. Yes, he is that cat on the leash, which you either think is totally something you’d like to do or just weird depending on whether or not you live with a cat. He forces me to go outside where I must answer – always sweetly – the same questions again and again:
“No, I didn’t train him to do this.” “Yes, I do think he likes going outside. You can’t make a cat do anything they don’t want to do.” “Just an alley cat. I found him out here. No special breed.”
People say dogs give unconditional love and cats are in it for the food. That’s not it. Both animals love us because we are kind to them, because we take care of them. Both would give us up if we turned on them. Cats maybe sooner than dogs. But here’s the thing: Humans don’t love other humans because they are kind. We don’t love other humans because they take care of us.
Humans are ungrateful savages. Dogs and cats are better than this. Even the least pedigreed has had love bred into them. And while that love may involve a contract of sorts – feed me, change my litter box, allow me to experience the warmth of sleeping next to your belly – it is not a love that judges.
My cats don’t really give a shit about my salary. They don’t care if my last novel was “agented” or self-published. They don’t care how many followers I have on twitter or which celebrities are among them. It doesn’t matter to them if my family disowned me, if my lovers leave, if my body odor offends most of my own species. My weight is meaningless to them, unless I drop dead and they have to scavenge my fat.
The need to connect is part of being human. It’s why artists of all kinds do what they do. But we don’t necessarily need to connect with other humans. That’s why AI has inspired so much science fiction. In the future, the perfect companion may not be human at all. And we won’t just have robotic spouses or children. Think of a future where you could be the friends with the coolest people who ever lived, or at least facsimiles thereof. Well, until that comes along, a warm furry wannabe vermin catcher will have to do.
If I didn’t have my cats to give me a feeling of love and connection, would I go back to writing because creating something, telling myself a story, is one of the best ways I’ve found to both harness the chaos in my mind, and give me that sense of connection to others (even if those others consist of an audience which is almost entirely imaginary)? Would I be attempting to make plans with friends, even if picking up the phone or texting makes me feel horribly self-conscious, and I’m certain people sense my desperation? Would I get done the many things in the house that I need to get done despite the anxiety and second guessing that comes from “doing” almost anything?
Would I be more functional or less functional without my animal companions?
New Yorkers love to get awayfrom the city, especially on long weekends during the summer, but if you didn’t make plans, it’s not too late to have a fun three-day weekend. There a lots of interesting places to explore within the five boroughs of New York City, and there are plenty of easy day trips outside of the city that don’t require finding a “last minute” car rental.
Here are five ideas for outdoor excersions that will feel like mini-vacations.
Explore Manhattan’s Northern Tip
You can start by catching the A train to 207th Street. From there you can visit Fort Tryon Park. The park offers beautiful Hudson River views on winding paths. This is also where you can find visit The Cloisters. You can then walk to Inwood Hill Park, which offers hiking trails with old growth trees. There is also a Nature Center there where you can learn more about the local ecology. Sometimes there are additional activities sponsored by the Parks Department, such as kayaking.
Along the route from Fort Tryon Park to Inwood Hill Park there are other attractions like the Dykeman Farmhouse Museum – the only remaining Dutch colonial house in New York (circa 1764). There are several good restaurants in the neighborhood. I would recommend Indian Road Cafe and Bocaditos Bistro.
Adjacent to Inwood Hill Park is a small park, Isham Park. In Isham Park, you will find Bruce’s Garden. This is beautiful community flower garden named for Bruce Reynolds, a local policeman who was killed on 9/11.
I was shocked to discover I hadn’t posted here since March. I feel like the dad who went out for cigarettes and wound up on the bum in Oakland. Really, I’d meant to come back. There has been some writing since then although not enough to justify my existence by any means. You can find some of my snarky recaps and other snark about my mother television here. As you may also know, I’ve been gigging it teaching ESL and doing some writing coaching, so there’s a language blog here, which may be entertaining even for native speakers, assuming you’re obsessed by the difference between “got” and “gotten” or you live in an actual democracy and are still trying to figure out how the electoral college works.
As to the reason for my “silence” — don’t get me started. It’s a crisis of confidence that’s been coming on a long time, a feeling that I’m shouting in an empty room, etc. You know the scene in Peter Pan where Peter shamelessly makes us applaud to save Tinkerbell, that’s got to be some kind of metaphor for the arts. No one writes for themselves alone.
This week on The Americans, Elizabeth proves once again how much self-awareness she lacks (all of it). Stan and Aderholt might want to rethink their recruiting techniques. The noose tightens around Oleg, and we get a surprise blast from the past. Catch my recap of The Midges, season 5, episode 3 at The Agony Booth.
And when you’re done with that, you can also relive the joy you felt when Peter Quinn hit Dar Adal upside the head with a gun on Homeland, season 6, episode 9 by reading my ‘cap of that episode.
But that’s not all! This very week, I also posted about Whatever Happened to Baby Janeand other Feud related films that show older women behaving very, very badly. All this posting over there, may explain why I’ve been neglecting this blog!