A Cautionary Tale for Us All

https://www.google.com/amp/www.sandiegouniontribune.com/news/homelessness/sd-me-homeless-lawsuit-20170920-story,amp.html

I realize there’s a lot to take in from the above article about full time RV living by necessity vs. by choice but living in an RV carries with it many of the same liabilities that homeowners and renters in buildings have as well.

Namely, if you can’t pay your rent/mortgage/lease, etc. you will be in violation of the terms of your agreement and out you'll go.

For all intents and purposes, Sophie and I are renters. We rent space, called a “lot” at the privately owned campground where we stay. 

The rent I pay, combined with my already-meager living expenses consumes every penny I have coming in. I'm quite proud of being able to accomplish this, given the flat-out challenge it's always been. Throw in a major head trauma, some mild TBIs, four-plus decades of epileptic seizures and an awful mathematical aptitude and you can understand this, too.

I’ve no savings though, on the bright side, my debt level isn’t increasing, either. It’s like the fiduciary version of what I tell Sophie when she’s out in the wild, exercising her prey-driven side: “If you can catch it, you can eat it.” 

In other words, when we (meaning me) must decide between paying for extra propane-or, as we recently did, use an electric heater when our propane heater was broken-or buy additional food or toiletries or do laundry or buy a new bag for our mini Shop Vac or any other ancillary need, the item most necessary for survival prevails.

Most people don’t get this, as if renting an apartment or paying a mortgage is somehow better, or less risky. Not so, and I think they know this. For them, I think theirs is a case of blissful ignorance for to acknowledge the similarities is to admit the truth of this.

Homeowners often have the option of taking out a loan against their home, depending on how much they’ve already paid into it, to cover/help cover the cost of a catastrophic loss. Though they'll cover the loss quickly, they'll also forestall the date of repayment, with interest.

A medical emergency, job loss, separation or divorce, and more are such examples of losses that may not be readily recoverable.

While I own my own home outright, I must still cover the cost of gas,  insurance, propane and other related costs.

Since I budget down to the penny each month, any inopportune cost becomes catastrophic: Mechanical concerns, e.g. engine, transmission, tires, etc., appliances such as the refrigerator I just needed to replace, and more. 

Thankfully, I had a neighbor who had bought a small electric fridge for her mother, who’d planned to put it in her elderly mother’s new house. Her mother went into a nursing home instead, and I gratefully bought it from her, paying her back a little bit each month. 

The fridge only cost $80 but it classified as a catastrophic expense for us. That, in itself, is a prime example of how we must forego one thing in order to pay for another.

But ours, like most traditional, brick-and-mortar households I believe, is operating at a deficit. It’s just that Sophie and I are not using credit to pay for unexpected expenses. 

The end result is the same, no matter which lifestyle we live: it all must be paid for in the end. 

Our scale of economy is what differs, that's all: What I classify as a major expense may be trivial to another person, or perhaps it'd be devastating.

But I know my economic scale is about as low as I can imagine it going. Basic things like washing, for example-shaving, scrubbing my face and upper body, haircuts and more-I do as infrequently as possible.

In fact, I purposely schedule appointments one week apart so that I can both be sure to have a reason to clean myself up a little while also avoid falling into a rut for being unable to do it more. It can, and has happened, and it can be an awful feeling.

As a daily, all-weather bicycle commuter, riding to work in my able-bodied years, I’m no stranger to quick, all-body clean-ups in front of the sink. It’s always been a fact of life for me, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

However, I’m not in the restroom at work, and I really miss my shower, and my laundry machine and some other things we consider “creature comforts.”

But I've long since learned the only creature comfort I need is the one I already have-Sophie, my service dog. She doesn’t mind if I don’t shower every day or even every week, which is good. In anticipation of colder weather and higher propane costs, I’ve severely cut back on running the water heater which, of course, means fewer showers. 

You get the idea. Like homeowners and renters and even people in cardboard boxes or tents out on the sidewalk, I sacrifice what I can, where I can in order to live another day.

The howling wolf of fate, however, is always at the door. If the property owners here raise the lot rent by more than ten dollars, for example, I’ll have to find another place to go. It's happened once before, without notice. So, while we’ll have a home, I’ll have no place to park it and we will, in effect, become mobile fugitives, always looking for the next place to park so I can grab some shuteye.

All I want to emphasize is that, like anyone, I’ve got a better bead on my cost of living than on anyone else’s and, just as you likely know of your own budget, I know well what will sink us for a while, and what will put us under for good.

"Living in an RV is not a long-term solution," I’ve read many times over. But life itself isn’t permanent anyway, and many of us have learned to do a great deal more with a great deal less than we ever thought possible.

When it comes down to it, the single greatest assets we have are the ones we love. Though they haven’t an actual dollar value they are priceless just the same.

Anyone who doesn’t understand this as the true measure of wealth will likely never understand what the term “value” truly means beyond that of a supermarket coupon.

“For better or for worse” are words best recognized as part of our traditional marriage vows, and for good reason. Life’s an adventure, and that very term leaves a great deal of wiggle room for interpretation.

Though we don’t yet know what will constitute an “adventure” as newlyweds, we most certainly know one when we see it. The same is true for life in an RV.

That said, I’m grateful that the life I share with Sophie in our RV is an adventure. And, like the roads we’ve driven and have yet to drive, I’m hoping the speed bumps will be few.

However, for better or for worse, we’ll avoid as many of them as possible and the rest we’ll navigate as best we can. It’s a metaphor for life, and the literal measure of ours. And so we go!

Today’s Politics to Tomorrow’s Adults

As a kid growing up during the Nixon administration I can recall a great deal of vociferous sparring in support of and in condemnation against the key players.

Like any kid, it was all I knew, so I thought that’s how things always were when it came to grownups and this thing they called “politics,” whatever that was.

Thankfully, I was simply too innocent to know how truly special Tricky Dick Nixon was.

That said, I can’t help but wonder how today’s kids will one day look back on this, the Tricky Trump administration, as their own initiation into their birthright of Democratic American Politics.

It’s an insidious stressor that can invade and permeate the otherwise clean, breathable air with the toxic vitriol relentlessly chugging forth from Trump’s sooty mouth.

How upset will they recall being the first time they saw one or both parents raise their voices-to each other, to the neighbor, to the tv, to them- out of a sense of frustration and helplessness?

Given the stakes, everything may have been riding on the nuances of that day’s political developments, even the family’s very cohesion and outright safety.

Be it the Nixon administration or the Trump administration, the dynamics and the consequences they carry are far more divisive in nature cooperative in spirit. And this is by design.

I’m willing to bet many poor and middle class families, not to mention migrant and minority ones have felt the pinch of this political edginess for at least twelve months now.

My family today consists entirely of me, a fifty-two year old man on SSDI and Sophie, my loving and loyal service dog. She’s 9 ½ years old, and we’ve been together for nine of them.

Despite all the additional intricacies in having the pitter patter of more (human) feet around the house, ours is already plenty complex.

Yet, despite our relatively simple existence, our home nonetheless stands to be profoundly affected by anyone’s measure.

What, you may wonder, could someone in my position know about the state of the nation such as it is today?

Simple. My family survived the Nixon administration and, despite my innocence hen, I still vaguely remember the feel of those days on my childhood.

It’s an esoteric thing that today’s kids-tomorrow’s adults-will one day understand when they, too, have that look in the rear view mirror as I am having now.

This in mind, the similarities are eerily similar, and ought not be understated or, more importantly, underestimated. It’s with this in mind that I’ve jotted down these thoughts. For me, they are nothing short of make-or-break.

Medicare and food stamps support for millions, myself included, are now on the chopping block. If those get cut, then we get cut along with it. As one advocate so aptly put it “...the children, the elderly, the disabled and the poor- all of American society’s most vulnerable citizens- stand to lose everything.

This, in order to finance the trillion-and-a-half dollar deficit created by tax “reform” legislation that provides unconscionably gratuitous tax cuts to the ultra wealthy at the expense of the average Joe, and astonishingly liberal tax breaks to big corporations at the expense of startups and sole-proprietorships.

Like millions of Americans, I’ve watched this develop into a political situation that less resembles democracy and more outright class warfare.

It’s identifiable by the relentless hostile attitudes and actions by a government perpetrated upon its own citizens by their elected representatives.

These behaviors are, in turn, supported by nebulous catch phrases directed toward chanting mobs carrying isolationist and racial overtones, convinced of their righteous belief that theirs is the one true leader.

Any potential challenger to this great leader is met with fervid chants of “Lock her up!” Meanwhile, the leader’s own questionable actions, in a sane world would raise doubts about his true intentions.

But somehow, a newly cited form of American English called, aptly enough, “alternative facts” explains away any conceivable scenario of nefariousness. In other words, the old platitude “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit” still applies.

Today, an otherwise unelectable individual occupies the White House and, wouldn’t you know it, he remains as surprised as anyone about it. His longshot, fifteen minutes of fame has somehow turned into four years.

As of today, it’s been eleven months and, as expected, he’s accomplished exactly what many thought he would; nothing.

Unless, of course, you include his campaign of divisiveness between Americans and their elected leaders, and also between the leaders themselves. All the golfing and tweeting and tv watching leaves little time for governing.

Any efforts to that effect seem driven by an apparently tireless pursuit of a nationalist and white supremacist agenda, bent on reversing every imaginable accomplishment of the previous administration.

This divisiveness is by design, for it leads many voting Americans to try to figure out who among them could have supported such a blindly oppressive and openly greedy leader.


But it’s not good American citizenship to come out and openly ask “Did you vote for this grumpy old fart?” or words to that effect. It’s not just bad manners, but an affront on the sanctity of our secret ballot.

Instead, I have cleverly figured out how to identify these voters without coming across as rude or un-American; I just listen to other Americans.

Those who still preach the gospel of Trumpism aren’t hard to identify at all, and I’m not concerned about them. They are a lost cause, a down-the-road wacko lot that will never know what they’ll never know.

And then there are the Trump voters who, knowing they’ve made a mistake will bide their time until they might slyly interject some verbal atonement into a conversation.

Then, slowly but surely, gaining ever more confidence like a plane rolling down the runway, they’ll reveal themselves. Then they’ll ascend into the heavens toward their true redemption.

Though I am embellishing a little here, such a catharsis is not unusual for Trump supporters. They’ve suddenly become unencumbered by a horrible secret they’d long sought to be free of. They’ve grown a conscience, or have re-righted their moral compass, and are now free to move forward once again, wiser for their experience.

But first they must accomplish this. I’ve noted certain innocuous words that test the waters for a redemptive response often come up. Murmuring something like “I think he should’ve been impeached a long time ago” is one example.

These words are typically spoken with a fearful undertone, as if an outright admission would expose them. Then, their ultimate fear will ensue, dubious privilege of being drawn and quartered, or lynched in the town square.

And that’s without the bag over his head so as to make an awful example of what will befall others like him. Sounds dramatic but, hey, that’s life in a democracy a lá Trump.

Trump’s propaganda machine implies that citizens must not trust each other and even openly states that the FBI is the secret police and the KGB, too. “Divide and conquer,” the saying goes, and Americans, as a whole, are well on our way.

Still, I look for the silver lining and, sadly, it comes in the form of an “-ation:” Resignation, incarceration or even assassination.

For me, though anticipating, even hoping for something awful to happen to someone in order for me to feel safer about my circumstances is wrong. It’s simply not how I think, yet there it is, and I’m but one of many people caught up in an inner conflict with our true values..

Outwardly, I see this manifested in some interesting ways. Perhaps the most peculiar of these is hearing some of my typically mild-mannered friends become animated, then angry enough to be driven to use the f-word in polite conversation.

As with the notion of alternative facts, the term “polite” is both malleable and relative to whatever you want it to be. Inasmuch as the “good dishes and silverware” are reserved for special dinners, passing an f-bomb is as common as the salt and pepper at the table.

And I’m not talking about the muttered, under-the-breath kind of use, but the all-caps, bold and italic version. Not that the tone behind the use of the word matters, it’s that the word is used at all.

Likewise, I realize I’ve suddenly got the same inclination and, you know, it’s often out of my mouth before I realize it. Immediately afterward I think “Wait-did I just say that?” and the answer is always a resounding “Damn right, I did!”

I’m not making excuses or trying to avoid responsibility for my newly rediscovered potty mouth. Rather, falling into the habit of speaking without thinking is a recipe for further danger, as it can naturally lead to habitually acting without thinking. And that’s not me.

The current administration has proven its ability to bring out the best of the worst in society and, if approval ratings are any indication, many of us have learned our lesson. Now we must live with the consequences of that lesson.

Suddenly, the Mitt Romneys of the world never looked so good. What I wouldn’t do for a little articulation borne of a truly mature and literate brain, especially if it ideologically opposes my perspectives.

My brain could use some cerebral calisthenics to help it recover from the monosyllabic slave to the ceaseless barrage of 140 character, typically one-way “dialogue.”

That is, Trump’s tweeting is a real time display of his constantly derailing train of thought, a dark world into which all are invited but none are welcome. His “for” or “against” mindset leaves no room for “together.” And it’s evident in how we interact with each other.

The current administration has degraded our collective style of communicating, from sugar-coating reality to ease our mutual distress to the outright profanity we may use to vent our collective frustration.

However it occurs is a subject for future study. What matters now is that we fix this problem. Healing the manner in which we communicate will go a long way to bridging and repairing the divide that’s made our differences so apparent.

It’s not as if the president is incapable of this. His proclamation that he’s a “smart person with a good education from one of the best schools,” yadda yadda yadda. acknowledges this.

But it doesn’t require “all the best words,” as he puts it, to enthusiastically convey a point in a civil manner that will get the same positive results. It only requires the desire to do so.

Therefore, a certain defiance is required to drop the diplomatic tongue in favor of a monosyllabic vernacular with the sole purpose of stirring discontent. And the current American president is nothing if not defiant.

He’s long been aware his bitter expressions, properly directed, will distract from the true issue awaiting his attention. But these issues will not be ignored.

Words like “cuts to Medicare,” “trillion dollar debt,” “obstruction of justice” and, of course, “Russia probe” he hopes, will continue to go unnoticed over cries of “Build the Wall!” and “Lock Her Up!”

With each passing day, the reckoning for Trump and his “crooked” administration draws nearer. After all the bluster that’s spouted incessantly from the insecure misogynist, “Lock him up!” has a decidedly nice ring to it.

And, since the world is so used to seeing his sneering leathery, orange visage, he’ll find his own citrusy mug the perfect complement to his new prison jumpsuit.

But until that joyous time, only one question exists for those of us on the sidelines. We’ve done what we can and now must watch the wheels of democracy right the ship once again. But can we ride it out to the end?

Inasmuch as I survived Nixon, will I also survive Trump? I’d like to think I can.

Imagine all of the Americans who have lived full lives with a legitimate pride in their minds and a fond place in their hearts for their country before they passed away.

Imagine those whose lives met a premature end in service to the country they loved enough to risk making “the ultimate sacrifice.”

The very last, unfortunate impression these Americans may have had of their country is its degradation into something far less than what they’ve known it to be.

And what about the decorated servicemen and women who salute the president as he steps off the plane or the helicopter?They must honor a cowardly misogynist who’s proud of his ability to dodge the draft during Vietnam, referring to venereal disease as his “own, personal Vietnam.“

In effect, their respectful decorum is met with the same disdain by the president as he might express upon finding he’d stepped in chewing gum.

I don’t mean any disrespect to anyone alive or deceased in saying that the ultimate sacrifice today is saluting the current commander-in-chief.

Like trying to put your left shoe on your right foot and/or vice versa, or having to buy a pair of gloves or shoes when you need only one just feels nherently wrong.

Though taken in the right light it can be a point of humor, for instance I donate all of my widowed left-hand gloves to charity, hoping they’ll find their way to a right-hand amputee.

And so it goes with the current president, who blurted out within a month of taking office that his new job “was a lot harder than I thought” and that “ I miss my old life.”

To continue the metaphor, such people don’t always fit their position hand in glove. And though the glove may fit the hand, it may not be a good one.

The only remedy Americans have for this problem, then is to find a different hand or a different glove or both.In not yet having that warm glove, my fingers have grown numb as January 20th quickly approaches.

I’ve held on longer than I thought, largely due to my current state of indentured servitude to my country for vastly different reasons than most soldiers.

And just as July in Canada, with its relatively fresh-faced PM sounds appealing, Mexico sounds equally good this time of year.

Sure, let ‘em build that wall. Anyway, as a lifelong nonconformist, it’ll come as no surprise to people who know me that I am going to Mexico to get my green card.

Looks like those four years of high school Spanish in Señor Barkley’s class will pay some dividends after all.

How about you? Are you considering a change, even a teeny-tiny, temporary one? Well, ¡conmigo!

Mexico, I promise, is big enough for us all and a good thing, too. It may well become America’s last refuge once the Little Rocket Man gets his deadly toys to make it to the US mainland.

It’ll take a hell of a lot more than Rosie the Riveter and a cellar full of canned vegetables and beef jerky to survive Kim’s own special brand of “fire and fury, the likes of which (we Americans) have never seen.”

But who’d be foolish enough to make such a provocative statement to a baby-faced authoritarian who has never grown out of his “terrible twos?”

Well, observant Americans have come to learn something about a leader who’s not only old enough to wear diapers again, but acts as if he’s never grown out of them?

As I said, mature dialogue will make all the difference, and millions of Americans, using their grownup brains and outdoor voices can topple this government before it brings down the world.

America and Americans have shown their mettle in surviving the Red Coats,  the Reds, and Richard Nixon.

With persistence I believe we can survive the Reds again, and it can only be done by overthrowing their puppet government led by, of all people, the American president

Trump may turn out to be the single best bipartisan effort. Ever.

Sorry, Obama. And sorry to you, too, Bushes and Clinton. Thought you were retired, did you? Maybe time to throw on the ol’ dungarees, plop that ol’ ten gallon gourd cover on overhead and get out the chainsaw in time to cut some Christmas firewood?

And you, Mr. Clinton? Thought you had time to kick back after last year’s campaign and relax with your new grandbaby? Madame Secretary, your work isn’t finished yet, either. It’s time for you both, in function at least, to become part of this current administration.

And you, Mr. Obama, the time for relaxing in the sun with your family on Mr. Branson‘s private island is over. Hope you’re ready – it’s back to work for everyone.

Michelle, your work was reprised by a fashion model with the imagination only to plagiarize your initial speech as First Lady.

She’s seen as arm-candy, not meant to be heard, a prized possession of a domineering husband with a penchant for “locker room talk.” She’s a woman afraid, too afraid to crack a smile next to her husband as they step off Air Force One, and too afraid not to.

You and Barack and Malia and Sasha are fit to set an American example, for yours is a family rooted solidly in wise principle and sound character. It’s a sight all Americans with short memories-like mine-can take heart in.

If America was smart enough to choose this for itself before, it can be smart enough to choose it again. But now we find ourselves in a collective state of fight or flight. And the time for flight is done.

Donald Trump has made it clear, through his incompetence and sheer personal awfulness that he is not fit to be president. Initially at least, it was a job he didn’t anticipate and even openly stated he did not want.

So what to do now?

Just as the state of California circumvents Trump’s mindless disregard for climate change by sticking to the protocols it has established for its own cities so, too, must former living presidents join hands and unite in once again governing America.

Forget about “pivots,“ “changes of heart,“ or anything else that restates the mistaken notion that Trump will change. It isn’t real, and it isn’t funny. Change he won’t, change he hasn’t, and change he simply cannot.

The lessons of past presidents, living and otherwise, as well as all American history, and cherished ideals such as those written in the US Constitution do not figure anywhere into Trump’s idea of a “deal.”

These are lost on him. And, as it’s said of those who fail to learn from history, “...they are condemned to repeat it.”

Trump’s ignorance matters little if it’s merely his own existence that’s involved. But it’s America’s future- and its steadfast international influence - that hangs in the balance.

If such a Trump deal were to be considered art, America would be better served by a three-year-old wielding his first crayon. For it’d be within such a developing young mind that we’d see a similar display of creativity and, of course, maturity. Or, perhaps, a septuagenarian with an unwell mind.

No one is surprised when a three-year-old spills his juice, throws his crayon in a fit of pique, or poops himself. But for Trump it’s a way of life. The primary difference being, of course, that three-year-olds don’t golf and they certainly don’t grope women.

Trump’s tireless name-calling, his confused reasoning and his alternative facts are best kept behind closed doors, preferably in the moist darkness of a cobwebbed cellar.

There, at the very least, the pathetic death throes of the administration whose most noteworthy accomplishment is that it can strangle itself will be muffled. No decent person cares to see your sneering facade in the plain light of day.*

So good luck, former presidents and also to the gutsy former cabinet members who follow their lead still. Though you served your past terms with gusto, each of you still has my vote. And that vote is bipartisan.

It’s a lesson in American civics that future grade school students - those who survive global warming and nuclear catastrophe -might one day be proud to learn.

For now, however, Americans-and the world-might best be served by paying careful attention to the 25th Amendment AND finding the fortitude, like our forefathers did, to find the figurative musket balls to ACT.
*Consider this recent Reuters piece: https://www.usnews.com/news/top-news/articles/2017-11-07/trump-not-invited-to-paris-december-climate-change-summit-for-now-says-france

Rage Against The Xin Ping

Stay tuned for this post-it’s gonna be an ass-kicker. Few things light my creative, Tiffany-Trump-twisted fire than the Dotard-In-Chief returning to his real homeland. Whether he’s flanked by B-1s cruising overhead or not, the ‘Tard is the one who’ll bomb.

REM Sleep, REM Sleep, Where The Focker You?

Ever since I can remember, I’ve lived a very different life. Not too off the wall, mind you, just different in a good way. You might even call it weird and why not? As a teenager, my father dubbed me “Captain Weird” and, of all people, I suppose my parents would know. As teenagers developing into young people, unwittingly shedding our childhood ways as we plunge headfirst into the abyss of individuality, I guess we’re all pretty weird.

Maybe it’s a bit late for me to be reflecting on my youth now but why not? It’s all part of being weird, I guess. I’m probably not the only one who’s ever done so. In fact, right this very minute, one of my weird old high school buddies might be thinking the same thing.

Why is this even important, though? Well, I guess it isn’t. I’m just killing some time while I work through a spell of insomnia. I tend to do some of my best weird thinking at such times, and it just occurred to me that I might put some of my thoughts down for posterity this time. Maybe next time I have insomnia I’ll want something to read and, bingo!, here this will be. And to think people have told me I haven’t much foresight

Which, of course, brings me to the subject of predictive text. A moment ago, in the final sentence of the previous paragraph, as I typed in the word “foresight” my smartphone, in a moment of inspired confusion I guess, offered up the word “foreskin” instead. Maybe it’s because I dropped my phone one too many times, I don’t know, but who ever uses that word in anything but a medical report?

Uncircumcised (that word came up as intended and I’ve probably never used it before) men who don’t have a cell phone with a built-in camera so, in lieu of an actual “dick pic” they’re reduced to writing about their genitalia, maybe? No, seriously, I’m asking you.

That’s definitely weird, and something only my local Republican state representative who probably votes against sensitive issues like family planning and abortion (but is really a closet Democrat) could contrive. If that’s the case, that’s fine by me, provided I’m not required to read it. Hell, as a Democratic voter, I might consider voting for the guy in the next erection, er, election. Damn predictive text again. No, it really wasn’t-just me making a bad joke, though my predictive voice text might’ve come up with that gem.

But, not to be too repetitive, I’m probably as likely to talk about foreskin (this time that word didn’t come up as “predictive” at all) as I am my local congressperson.

How Jewish might I have to be for that to happen, you might (but probably aren’t) thinking? Well, I can think of at least one time that the subject of a newborn Jewish boy came up in a movie that led me to laugh a little too loud. In fact, it roused Sophie from a deep sleep and earned me the stinkeye for a good five minutes. Then, of course, she fell back asleep and forgot all about it:

The movie I’m speaking of is about the trials of a young man faces in introducing his future wife’s family to his own. Though I frequently borrow lines from this movie because I’m too lazy or too tired ( probably after having insomnia the night before) to think of something clever on my own, I cannot remember one from another.

I believe the movie to which I’m referring is called Meet The Fockers. As it happens, Focker is the young man’s surname. And, besides being a name my predictive voice therapy has a field day with, he happens to be, yes, Jewish. In the movie his father, (Dustin Hoffman) is incredibly proud of his family name which, of course, is something the son is somewhat ambivalent about. Maybe frightened is a better word, though.

It’s actually not his name that embarrasses the son so much as the fact his mother (Barbara Streisand, of course) tends to speak of her son as if he’s still a grade school kid. Only it’s worse, given the awkwardness of meeting one’s future in-laws in the first place.

One scene, which involves all of them looking over the young man’s past accomplishments and photos is worthy of particular mention. A few moments after the girl’s stoically protective yet hilariously funny father (Robert DeNiro) looks at an award and observes “I didn’t know they made sixth place ribbons, Greg” the next shot is of all of them.

They’re crowded next to each other, looking over the women as they flip through a photo album. The fiancé then turns a page, and a little something falls (Blip!) onto the table. The girl reaches down and picks it up and, of course, Mrs. Focker proudly proclaims “...and that’s our little darling baby Greg’s foreskin.”

At which time the daughter flips it back into the air where it plops into the guacamole or some such side dish. I could be wrong but I think the next scene is of them eating Chinese food instead.

So, there you go, that’s it. I’ve never used the word foreskin in my writing before and now I’ve gone and done so four times now. It’s proven to be enough for the predictive text to bring up the word now, so that next time I intend to type “foresight” I’ll be reminded of this one, weird, insomnia-driven blurb.

Pretty clever, eh? Clever enough to finally leave me tired enough to go back to sleep. Zzzzz…..

Campground Life 101: Unique, Yet Strangely The Same

Campground Life 101: It can get pretty lonely here.

Though there’s no shortage of people here - someone is always around to talk to if you need it - it doesn’t mean it’s a person with whom I’d care to speak.

There is a painfully evident cultural gap between people here no matter the reason they are here, and not all of us are residents.

Many, like Sophie and I, live full-time in an RV. Others come and go in the manner that seasonal summer campers and transient laborers/skilled workers who live in campers do as their economic obligations require.

While these people live in their campers full time, the place they truly call home, “where the heart is,” is someplace else.

Their outlook on the place I and the other full-timers here call home naturally differs, and the reason is simple. Sophie and I are as transient to them as, well, they are to us.

And the fact remains that, among “us,” vast disparities exist. However, this doesn’t imply anything negative by any means.

Granted, some of these cultural differences go beyond traditional social or (fairly) superficial differences, such as liking country music more than rock music.

Or perhaps some might have humorous tendencies that lean more toward Larry the Cable Guy than they do any of the polished,  male-dominated, shirt-and-tie late night network hosts. You get the idea.

For my part, I grew up listening to rock music. However, I can appreciate country music and all music, really, on its merits based on musicians’ technical skill, live performance quality and, yes, song lyrics and relevance to my life.

I also get Larry the Cable Guy’s humor, and humor from all over the spectrum, really, though I really do prefer slightly more sophisticated comics. After George Carlin died, any enjoyment of another comic’s vulgar observations went with him.

But I indulge myself with the above examples in other, probably very different ways than my neighbors.

For example, I prefer listening to jazz music at any time of the day, whether I’m waking up and making coffee or slip-sliding away to La-La Land at one a.m., after writing online content like this.

I also prefer watching video documentaries and, well, writing. I enjoy focusing on my blog and writing elsewhere about subjects of relevance to me.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of crazy nights at basement parties where beer comes in kegs, and not cans or bottles.

And where “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” was a silly phrase we’d shout out about (nicotine-I grew up in Pennsylvania!) cigarettes or, on special nights, cigars.

We played music at ear-splitting levels that, even back then, concerned me that I’d develop long-term hearing damage. I probably did.

The difference is that I got all of that out of my system as a teenager and, (possibly another difference) while as an undergrad.

Those days and nights are filed away in my mind as a fun time, to be occasionally revisited on warm, moonlight nights or when being surprised by an old song that triggers a fond memory.

But just as I knew then that the music was too loud and the cigarettes potentially (okay, probably) harmful to my body, I also knew it served a very important purpose.

“Blowing off steam” is the cutesie term we give it, but you know what I mean. Those parties back then, like the triathlons and the road bike riding and racing I did as an adult served the same purpose, decades later.

But here’s why I don’t find fault in my neighbors who, as parents of grade school kids, still smoke and drink, sometimes a bit too much:

With the exception of things once almost coming to blows here during one late Friday night piss-up, I grew up in a family where cigarettes and beer and sometimes other booze on occasion was not uncommon.

I’m not talking so much about bourbon, whiskey or even rum, but In fact, it was quite accepted, and I believe my parents, who are very simple people saw mixed drinks as a sort of sophisticated idea. “It’s what people who have money do,” they thought, though if the subject arose they’d be quick to state “I can’t stand those rich snobs,” and often worse.

When I was an impressionable kid I saw all of that, and when I was eighteen I even experimented with other, equally curious kids doing the same thing. It was a positive social experience. And, like the partygoer who’s had one too many and barfs on their shoes, or who’s endured their first hangover, we learned what can happen if we push our limits too far.

But I’m not judging anyone on the merits of pushing their limits too far. After all, I nearly died on a busy street one Friday night in my mid-40’s after having been so high and moving so fast I didn’t realize a car pulled out in front of me.

I didn’t have time to stop, and I slammed right into the car. In this case, however, I was enjoying an endorphin high; I was on a road bike training ride following a long day at the end of a long first week at a new job. To be sure, it’s not my lack of judgment that nearly got me killed but that of the motor vehicle driver.

*Note:
It’s not a crime to ride a bicycle or drive a car, for that matter, while under the “influence” of endorphins any more than it would be to drive under the influence of a funny comic’s jokes or a sad audiobook played on the car stereo. Safety is what’s paramount in any case, for everyone out there on the streets.

I was 110% involved in road bicycle racing then and at my mental and physical peak. Never was I stronger or sharper and, on that evening, I’d done some hill climbing intervals I never could believe I was strong enough to perform.

It was a fabulous endorphin high, unlike any before or since. And, given cycling’s innately positive fitness benefits, I’d no reason to believe I was in any danger. After all, I’d done it a million times before, so what could go wrong?

Talk about learning lessons about limits and what can happen if/when we push them too far! No matter what I learned about myself as an impetuous kid, nothing would have prepared me for the decision I had to make out on the road that evening.

In that accident, I lost my arm and nearly my life. Since then, because of my limited ability to train at such a high level I usually just walk in the hills with Sophie for exercise now.

Sometimes I get an abbreviated mountain bike ride in, much to the amazement of some of my neighbors. “I can’t believe you can do that,” they tell me.

But my cycling skills are tenuous at best, for my memory is very state-dependent. Once I throw a leg over the saddle again, I’m transported to that wonderful space my mind and body once occupied there, just before my accident.

Off the bike, I can come across as matter-of-fact about the loss of endurance cycling as the one activity that defined me above all others.

But I believe this nonchalance is a survival mechanism that keeps me from being swept away by the grief that can only come from the loss of this magnitude of importance.

Less cardio training, for me anyways, has led to a dramatic drop in my (epilepsy) seizure threshold and an increase in ccside effects from my medication.

While I have long adapted to my new life-the accident was only five years ago-I’ll always miss the “old me.” How could I not?

But I’m learning that my real challenge is, just as with my teenage party years, to also put all of those marvelous blowing-off-steam moments of my adulthood into a safe space of their own.

Moving forward, I’ve found heroes befitting of my new physical status. As an able-bodied cyclist, I was merely one of a zillion guys my age in peak physical condition, even with all the strength I had then.

The man I am on a bicycle today, even with only half the strength I had back then, will give me more power than I would ever have imagined.

People have approached me simply to tell me how amazing they think it is that I can still ride, and I agree. Disabled athletes in general inspire me, and they always have.

I’m sure that I had my moments as an able-bodied cyclist when I’d see a disabled cyclist (differently-abled, thank you very much) and think “I don’t think I could ever…”

Having been back in the saddle again, despite the emotional and physical confusion that accompanies the sheer joy I can still while riding, I’ve changed my thinking.

When I consider differently-abled cyclists like myself I now think “I know I can…”

Today, I still may shed a tear or two when I see other men out riding; they can remind me of the strong man I once was as an able-bodied rider. Even so, I’m confident in the knowledge that I can feel that again, anytime.
The only thing I have to embrace about it-which has proven to be the most difficult of all-is that, this time, IT’S DIFFERENT.

Given all I’ve shared in this post I think you can understand why I sometimes feel a little lonely here. Not many others can share similar experiences involving endurance sports, or understand the joy it once brought and the grief I can still feel.

Many folks here are retired, and most others are hard-working, salt-of-the-earth types. Almost all of them would help me out with any thing, any time, for they are good people that way. I’d like to think I could do the same for them. It is, in itself, a good feeling I’d never have foreseen ten years ago.

Still, some time, some how, I wish I could have a moment or two over with old friends. To savor the moment of just being on the bike, on a training ride in the middle of nowhere or a race course in downtown Longmont or Louisville or Boulder, etc.

Selfish thinking, to be sure, even more so when I consider how I wish I could discuss these things with my neighbors here. But man, are they good at what they do know and, being largely good people, I’ll always be grateful for their neighborly friendship.

Sometimes Something Just Needs To Be Said.

 Sometimes Something Just Needs To Be Said.

I'm lending my voice to a divisive and destructive situation that involves all of us, Americans and World Citizens alike.

My comments here have been said before by many pundits and writers, in their own style and likely for larger audiences. But I believe in the power of numbers, so I’m saying it again, and my words are no less important.

Firsthand experience has taught me a particularly cruel lesson of the crushing vulnerability and disparaging futility implicit in facing alone self-serving powers greater than myself.

I know that my voice counts, and may even hopefully inspire others. At best, they might find a cathartic comfort in speaking on behalf of what they also believe is just.

At the least, they may grant me the good grace to validate their unspoken feelings and the comfort that accompanies the knowledge they will never be alone in their thoughts.

The door will always be open to them, and the proverbial welcome mat will remain out for those wishing to make their voices heard at some future time.
And so it is.

My thoughts today were inspired by a congressman who expressed his plans to draft the articles of impeachment against the President.

I was struck by his clarity and his candor, and of how much I missed the sound of a well-worded and downright intelligent voice speaking on behalf of my country.

His rationale was sound and one of a handful of similar impeachment plans being pursued by House members. I share their desire for a change, and appreciate their efforts on behalf of all Americans.

As part of the disabled community everywhere, I’m expressing my rationale here. Perhaps it’ll be one voice heard among many that will be a part of the necessary agent for change in the White House.

What kind of country has the US become, I wonder, when the articles of impeachment put forth by Congressional members are far more articulate and detailed than any legislative proposals, spoken or written from the president himself?

Save for misogyny, blatant class and racial biases, attacks on the free press and other negative distractions meant to divert public attention away from tax returns and questionable Russian influence, presidential utterances carry little substance at all.

But his ever-present divisive agenda, sometimes brash and other times lurking at the gates of our subconscious, describes his real objectives and his true nature.

Grand campaign promises that have yet to be kept, not realistic legislative goals have always been what’s fueled his success. But reality has asserted itself on our president, and it’s had a decidedly peculiar way of thwarting his plans. “Someone,” he thinks, “must pay.”

He bullies anyone and anything he sees as “against him” vis a vis childish name-calling and intentional and irresponsible flip-flopping on others’ decisions. In his world, there must always be someone with whom he’s in conflict.

Subject matter counts little to him. It’s the act of saving face, his term for “being a winner” that trumps everything, even common sense.

He is a master at cloaking hateful rhetoric in the American flag and marketing it to certain receptive audiences.

He’s publicly stated “I love uneducated people” and indeed, he does. It’s how he expresses his personal philosophy that “there’s one born every minute.” He’s all-powerful and all-knowing, even in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

In the House and Senate, Trump has proven himself a liability to any agenda, a blustering embarrassment to the country, and to the Free World as a whole.

It's no longer "too bad" that he's incapable of engendering unity at home or exemplifying diplomacy abroad. With Trump, racial and class division has risen to new levels, as it must for him.

For only in a culture of mutual distrust and common fear can an unscrupulous figure like Trump successfully ply his hateful and divisive rhetoric. This applies to everyone, everywhere, not just the US.

Funny thing is, those other world leaders, to whom he regularly condescends, have typically come by their elected office through legitimate means. And they are most certainly “educated people” in their own right.

But Trump’s pointed remarks toward them, which one US senator characterized as befitting “junior high,” is but another attempt to deflect attention away from the questionable origins of his own position.

But, alas, like so much else that emanates from this administration, it is but one in an endless procession of untruths. Falsehoods. Lies.

Please understand that these words aren't borne of spite or vindictiveness. Rather, they are deeply rooted in the knowledge that a demeanor befitting the office of American president carries with it greater grace and influence than the current president will ever know or be capable of displaying.

A man in a suit, accompanied by a woman in heels, en route to the safe periphery of an area that’s been devastated by a hurricane is merely a photo op, not a decisive action. It makes no sense. But, by now, anything that doesn’t defy common sense is questionable, not vice-versa.

So how is this possible? How have things come to this? What Happened?

My conclusion is that we’re witnessing, in Trump, the result of a combined spoiled childhood in which the word “No” was never enforced, if ever used.

It’s also a world out of which he never grew. He remains stuck, in his words and his actions, anywhere between his terrible twos and his defiant adolescence.

His exact temperament cannot be predicted any better than any child’s might be, for no moral compass appears there to guide him. Thus, childish verbal expressions of his child-like worldview dominate his speech.

On Puerto Rico, for example, he slowly described it, albeit correctly, as “an island, surrounded by big water, ocean water,” etc.

Statements like these I’ll never grow used to hearing and, as I said earlier, I miss the sound of articulate and intelligent speech emanating from the White House.

But this may be by design, for the president is clearly not some thoughtful political outsider looking to impress his groundbreaking ideas on the tired Washington establishment.

Rather, it’s the opposite and there’s no delicate way to put it: He cannot dazzle us with brilliance, he’s just baffling us with bullshit.

Since I’m not writing for publication elsewhere, I reserve the right to put it this way, though I do apologize if I’ve offended anyone’s sensibilities.

But it’s true, and I also believe it’s criminal for a grown man to lie as consistently as he does, and for his sophomoric responses when confronted with the truth that belies his claims.

He’s put a lifetime of effort into polishing his “victim” role and, in his seventies has turned it into an art form. “Believe me,” says the consummate liar and, somehow, some do.

Reality hasn’t yet asserted itself on them, and it may never. But the facts remain, as the special prosecutor will eventually point out.

Which brings to mind a popular mantra which Trump can still incite his dwindling base to chant. My version, however, is slightly modified but succinct enough to send his He-can-dish-it-out-but-he-can’t-take-it meter off the charts:
Lock Him Up! Lock Him Up!
Lock Him Up!

But even this is unlikely to deter his childlike worldview. Like the snotty little boy who realizes he’s lost a game of checkers, before the winner can claim their rightful victory, Trump upends the game board, scattering the pieces all over before stomping off in a pique of angry self-pity.

Except that he's a grown man, with access to the nuclear codes. “The most powerful toddler in the world,” late night tv host Steven Colbert recently dubbed him.

But what if the child-Trump perceives himself as slighted by, let’s say, another childlike leader with nuclear codes? Will the world end up as the game board that gets kicked over in a giant mushroom cloud?

Is it possible that Trump can be trusted to not find solace in eating another piece of "the most beautiful chocolate cake" while sending nukes off to North Korea as he did with Tomahawk missiles to Syria?

Let's make this nightmare end, instead of standing by as Mutually Assured Destruction Again becomes the shadow under which we must all exist. How? By finding our voices and making ourselves heard.

So we know who we’re dealing with now in our president, and it almost goes without saying that every bureaucratic culture, like the self-serving culture Trump promotes, flows from the top down.

Even in the best of circumstances we will meet roadblocks to overcome, challenges to circumvent, and crises to resolve.

But these are strengthening experiences, tests of our resolve that will prove us to be stronger with every successful endeavor we undertake.

The reason I discussed Trump in such detail was not just because it needed to be said. Rather, it’s because it already had been said.
Sometimes, some things simply need to be said.

And regarding the efforts of the disabled community, I believe there remains much to be said.

When I can, and where I can, I intend to make my voice heard in the most constructive way in helping make good things happen.

Informed, no nonsense statements, expressed with good judgment, kindness and peace will be my guide.

These qualities do not imply any weakness or vulnerability. They simply provide a solid grounding upon which I can stand in diligently supporting that which I believe without fear of retribution: My rights as a disabled person, and the rights of my disabled community.

Beyond the nuts-and-bolts of advocacy certification, finding my voice and tone in accomplishing a desired objective is one of my goals in participating in this program.

Thanks for the opportunity to learn how to make a positive difference in our lives.