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What Do We Do After The Election?

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As I click-clack away on my keyboard, we are less than one week out from the most divisive, disruptive, discordant, conflict-ridden — and expensive — midterm election in our history.

In the supposed interest of improving the lives of millions of our fellow citizens (not to mention our own), certain candidates and their supporters have espoused hatred, name-calling, and “dog-whistles;” rationalizing such actions (I suppose) with the logic: “The ends justify the means.” Woefully, some campaigns, once platforms for intelligent, wise, uplifting deliberation of principles and goals, have been jam-packed with half-truths, falsehoods — lies — with no regard for the damage to remain in the wake of the vote.

If you have read this far, I know you share my sentiment that Election Day cannot come too soon; our sanity depends on an end to this madness.

Yet, the bleak reality is that — although, yes, elections do indeed have consequences and next week’s will bring with it its own — very little will change in our national sentiment come Wednesday. Do not misunderstand; I am in no way cynically advocating to stay home and skip your responsibility. Do not misconstrue my statement to be, “It won’t make a difference.” It will. Whether you agree or disagree with the direction of our country’s trajectory, you have power: the ballot. Be not dismissive of this awesome privilege. One vote – your vote – does make a difference. Additionally, this is not another in the on-going cavalcade of public service announcements and celebrity lectures preaching at the masses to “get out and vote.” You know that. Go do it. You owe it to this country you call home.

What I am attempting to point out is that the disarray that got us to this heartbreaking state of affairs will persist after the votes are counted. Those who fail to understand history are forever condemned to repeat it. Should we therefore not address the conditions which birthed this fetid swamp, we’ll be standing in it again in 2020, 2022, 2024… I don’t think I could take this another time; I wager you feel the same. We must then — together — strive to end this national psychosis which smothers our nation.

Hence it is crucial that we take a different road.

To that end, I offer some ideas, no matter on which side of the political spectrum you find yourself. [Read more…]

I am not getting older!

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Recently, a most horrifying discovery was foisted upon me: my eyebrows contain more gray in them than they do brown.

Yikes! how does that happens, being I’m not yet old?

After all, at 64 I’m just entering the second third of my life.

Apparently, others – such as my wife – have known of this solemn condition for quite some time and have kept it from me; obviously not wanting to burst my bubble by saving me from the knowledge that Father Time has been schlepping across my face for years.

“Honey,” I said while examining closely in the bathroom mirror the wiry, frizzy, randomly-aimed, string-like gray filaments that inhabit my lower forehead, “Did you notice that my eyebrows have turned gray?”

“Yes,” said she, in the same manner that one would respond to the question, “Did you notice that I have a nose on my face?”

“You’re just realizing it now?” she asked.

Sheepishly – and somewhat defensively – I responded, “Uh, yeah. I don’t pay too much attention to my eyebrows. Besides,” I added, seeking a rationale, “I wear glasses; the frames hide them.”

Trying to be empathic (but failing, I might add), she continued, “Your hair has been gray for twenty years. What makes you think you’d keep those Groucho Marx caterpillar-like things forever? You’re getting older; things change.”

She paused. “By the way, how come you’re just noticing them now?”

“My play,” I answered, as if that would clarify everything.

“Your play?” she echoed, perplexed.

“Yes, I had to wear make-up when on stage. I don’t normally do that. Staring that closely at my face, I noticed my eyebrows.”

“Oh,” she said. “Welcome to what women deal with,” and left the bathroom, leaving me alone to examine my facial terrain. Not willing to tweeze them, I did opt to trim them. Despite my years, I absolutely refuse to look like Andy Rooney used to; a bridge too far.

Okay, I get it. I’m aging – but I’m still in denial.

[Read more…]

The Only Path Forward

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My son, half my age at 32, asked me if I can remember a time when things were “this bad.”

“No,” sadly I replied. “We seem to be at a new low.”

Later that week, speaking with an octogenarian friend, I posed to her the same question. Her reply was the same as mine. “No, we seem to be at a new low.” Should I ask someone celebrating 100 years on the planet, I fear the response would not change.

We might disagree as to the definition of “bad” — or even “things” — but I am convinced we’re all in agreement: Colloquially stated, “What a freakin’ mess!”

At the risk of harshing your mellow, let’s examine a couple specifics:

  • After observed the most divisive Supreme Court nomination process in history, one might argue we are also witness to the fabric of our nation being ripped asunder. Not only have we have drawn lines in the sand, we have fortified them with cement, and constructed walls to prevent passage from anyone of differing views. More than one political observer has postulated that our country’s temperament is akin to the mid 1800s (sic), prior to — and triggering — the Civil War. There are many who offer that “this great democratic experiment” is sunsetting; our future looking like George Orwell’s classic novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Hang on, that’s not the worst news.

  • The UN Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, in what many consider a moderate perspective, implores “urgent and unprecedented changes” are needed NOW to prevent global warming from climbing over 1.5º Celsius (2.7º Fahrenheit) by 2030. Should we continue on the path on which we now find ourselves, expect an uptick of approximately 3º C (4.5º F) resulting in major cities flooded; island nations wiped off the face of the planet; extreme droughts and heat waves; insect infestations; and wars over water and food — um, just to name a few. Yes, the planet will carry on – but it will become close to inhospitable.

I could – as I’m sure could you – site countless more illustrations, yet once one has enumerated the end of humanity as a potential outcome, everything else seems, well, somewhat inconsequential.

Yes, things are indeed bad.

[Read more…]

Memories of a Super Hero

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It’s odd how — in the midst of a disaster — time freezes; each moment engraved unmovingly in granite.

Waves of heat lick my face.

Barely can I keep my eyes open; even if I could, it does no good because the smoke is too thick. The two children trapped with me on the platform are hugging my left leg, too terrified to move; inhibiting my abilities to save us. Sally, the younger one, buries her face in my pant leg, holding Sasha, her dolly, tight against her for protection.

“I’m scared,” she wails over the snapping sounds of fire. “I want my mommy!” With that, she clinches tighter, attempting to climb inside me, hoping to make herself big with my courage.

If she only knew, she wouldn’t even try. Inside, I am sand, not concrete. In front of us, I see Death, a wall of licking flames blocking us from the barn door and the cool safety outside.

Using one arm to try and comfort Jason and Sally, I use my other to hold a towel across my face; fending off suffocation. “We’ll be OK,” I shout at the kids, voice raised to be heard above the crackling inferno. “Help will be here in time.” I pause. “Help is on the way,” I repeat more quietly, more to assure myself than them.

What is taking so freakin’ long? Someone had to have noticed the thick smoke and called 911. Shouldn’t we be able to hear sirens by now?

There’s no time to wait; this is up to us. [Read more…]

She Attended Over 100 Funerals – And Found Life

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I am delivering a eulogy of a close friend this week.

I know it’s an honor; albeit one I’d prefer not to have. Instead of standing in front of a room commemorating the accomplishments and celebrating his life, I’d rather be talking with him over lunch at the Marina. Alas, ‘tis not a choice. We take what’s given.

According to statistics, the average 40-year-old will have attended ten funerals by that age.

Of course, it increases where – if you’re so fortunate to celebrate your 90th tour around the sun, you will attend no fewer than 50. I guess that makes me “lucky” in some fashion, since I can count those I’ve attended on one hand.

Although not backed by data that I could find, I assume most people attend memorials as a tribute to the one who passed, as a means to support the family, and/or as a ritual of closure. I highly doubt – with the exception of the two primary characters in the 1971 dark comedy, Harold and Maude – anyone attends because they enjoy it.

We do what we can to avoid them; very few of us have what it takes to continually be subjected to so many painful losses.

Until not too long ago, I would have said that none of us do.

That was prior to meeting a middle-aged foster mother from the South.

[Read more…]

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Scott "Q" Marcus 707 834.4090 scottq@thistimeimeanit.com

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