“A man must be big enough to admit his mistakes, smart enough to profit from them, and strong enough to correct them.—John Maxwell
“As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.”—Clarence Darrow
Last week, referring to the oncoming new year, we titled our column, “One Door Closes, Another Opens.” We must be in a portal frame of mind because this week we remind ourselves that each day offers us a succession of doors and the ones we open and close determine the lives we live. Where we decide to travel is an important door to consider because it leads to who we shall meet, what we shall learn. Who we will listen to is another vital door to ponder. Will we suffer fools gladly because their messages are diverting or entertaining or will we follow the road less traveled to self-enlightenment and clarity? A critical third door sits side-by-side with a fourth. The former opens to a comfortable parlor filled with the usual amenities—serenity, familiarity, no risks, the approval of polite society. The latter reveals a challenging path through the valleys of confrontation, scorn, physical challenge and the ignorance of the masses, not an avenue for milquetoasts, wobblers or people afraid of the dark. So what’ll it be for you—a visit to Disneyland or a long siege manning the parapets?
When the new president was elected, the always-careful advised that caution was in order. Let’s give him time to see how it all plays out. Had enough time yet? Donald Trump has nominated to his cabinet and White House offices a more abysmal crew of pirates than Blackbeard could muster in all the dockside bars of New Providence. The primary duty for most of them is to literally dissolve the departments of which they’ve been placed in charge. In particular, the Environmental Protection Agency and the Departments of Education and Energy will be a shambles under the Trump nominees. Attila The Hun could hardly do worse. Unless the always weak-kneed Democrats step out of character and wage an angry and unprecedented dissent, these vandals will be loosed on the land.
Fortunately, there will be dissent and it will be mighty. Signs appear daily which point to a resistance never before seen in this country. Naysayers scoff at the first small indications of noncooperation—virtually no entertainers of prominence will appear at the Trump inaugural, several Rockettes won’t dance. But those mere buds are prelude to the opening of the flower, a daily and unstinting succession of nonsumptuous pies hurled in the president’s direction….marches, Trump product boycotts, ongoing resistance by the print media which has done itself proud vis-a-vis the Trump television lackeys. For many of us who have spent the better part of a lifetime grinding against society’s grain, it is unconscionable to meekly sit this one out. Not everyone is capable of filling the streets, of marching to Pretoria, of setting off combustible devices in the Trump Tower. But everyone is capable of some form of defiance, however small, to continue to illustrate to the whiners and the wafflers that this administration is unacceptable, nay criminal, and that it will be vigorously opposed for all the days of its existence until it inevitably cracks and falls, the victim of a resistance that would not fail.
2016 Revisited
It was a big year for Indians. The baseball version from Cleveland made it all the way to the World Series and the Standing Rock Sioux shut down the Dakota Access Pipeline, which rudely disturbed many of the tribe’s sacred places and burial grounds. It wasn’t easy but the Sioux have battled the U.S. Cavalry before. This time, they were joined by Native Americans from across the continent, a slew of American war veterans, a mess of your everyday outraged citizens and a sprinkling of colorful Hollywood cut-ups. Even 79-year-old Jane Fonda showed up, driving in on her chuck wagon. Photographs of Indians freezing in the frigid Dakota winter began hitting the front pages of newspapers across the country and the Army Corps of Engineers suddenly decided to cancel the easement earlier provided to pipeline constructors, citing safety concerns. The Indians celebrated long into the night, building a giant bonfire and taking a few scalps. The pipeline crews retired to their trailer camps and waited patiently for the outrage to abate. As Yogi Berra famously remarked, it isn’t over til it’s over and nobody noticed the fat lady singing. To be continued when the knotweed is in bloom.
Continuing with Native Americans, Siobhan and Bill consorted with the Navajos along the Utah-Arizona border after their narrow summer escape from the sweltering Grand Canyon. Our escape, not theirs. Seems that many moons ago the U.S. government donated a passel of land in the middle of nowhere to the tribe, neglecting to consider the potential for future tourism benefits. Now, the Navajos are living off the fat of the land in Monument Valley and the Antelope Canyon area near Page, Arizona, where they own everything. Monument Valley is a spectacularly scenic place, the setting for many early western movies, one of which they’ll be glad to play for you every damn night at the fabulous View Hotel, right on the reservation. I’d suggest heavy alcohol intake during the movie but the wily Navajos will only allow the white man to drink in his room. The tribe elders don’t want any waitresses slurring their words in the nice hotel restaurant or the jeep drivers getting lost in the outback. So far, so good.
As we all know, Siobhan and Bill were out west for their glamorous wedding at the Chapel of the Flowers in lovely downtown Las Vegas. It almost didn’t happen. With his bride safely ensconced in her limo and on the way to the altar, Bill was kneecapped in both legs by the valet parking department at the Palazzo Hotel, which took fifteen minutes to deliver his car. Then he promptly took a right onto Las Vegas Boulevard, which turned out to be the wrong direction. Quickly gathering what wits he had left at such an advanced age, he made a highly illegal U-turn and blasted through Sin City traffic at speeds up to 80 mph, arriving with one minute to spare. You’d think any bride would be ruffled, but not Siobhan. She calmly placed her little derringer back in her handbag and smilingly marched down the aisle.
Political Upheaval
Originally, we thought it was pretty funny when Donald Trump took the stage for the Repubican debates and started blasting his baker’s-dozen-plus co-candidates. Hell, he was calling them the same names we always have, what’s not to like? And whatever semi-solid arguments the other candidates made to accrue consideration, Trump simply dismissed them with a wave of his little hand, scoffing at boring Jeb Bush, little Marco Rubio and ugly Carly Fiorina. When we were kids, our parents made a point of telling us that sticks and stones might break your bones but (namecalling) would never hurt you. Well, wrong, Mom and Dad, Trump’s namecalling stuck and it diminished his platoon of rivals, which fell through the trapdoor one by one until the orange-haired candidate was the only one left. It was still pretty funny, though, the complete sacking of the entire field of GOP clodhoppers by a novice politico with little more than a sharp tongue. Surely, Hillary Clinton, with all her well-placed ground troops and tens of millions of dollars more than Trump in campaign contributions would romp to victory now. As H.L. Mencken long ago advised, however, “No one ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public,” a pearl of wisdom proved yet again by The Donald’s upset victory in the presidential election of 2016. Now we’re stuck with him for at least four years, barring his own abdication due to boredom, the eventual displeasure of Congress or a fortuitous golfing accident. Then again, there’s always our old North Korean pal Kim Jong-un, who’s almost as thin-skinned as Trump. One untoward insult and—BOOM-- there goes the Mar a Lago rocket.
The old cigarette jingle used to tell us “They said it couldn’t be done….they said nobody could do it,” and that’s pretty much the prevailing opinion about impeachment of the president. But Brazil and South Korea would beg to differ. In 2016, both countries sent their bosses packing. Brazilian President Dilma Rousseff expected a big year with her country hosting the Olympics for the first time. The thrill was gone when incoming olympians arrived to find incomplete arenas, shoddy living quarters and watersports areas filled with bacteria and the occasional floating sofa. Then, Brazil’s economy tanked, followed by the revelation of a massive scandal at Petrobras, the state oil company Rousseff previously headed. She was also accused of cooking the books in 2014 to hide Brazil’s growing fiscal deficits and insure her reelection.
In South Korea, Park Geun-hye got the hook when news broke that a long-time friend of the prez had used their relationship to influence government decisions and extort money from Korean companies, Hundreds of thousands of grouchy South Koreans hit the streets to demand Park’s impeachment and in December the South Korean National Assembly granted their wishes. She’s leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when she’ll be back again. Or if.
All of the above seems like kid stuff compared to the sins, past and future, of you-know-who.
Hola, Rodrigo!
In the Phillipines, 2016 brought a merry man of mirth named Rodrigo Duterte to the presidency. If Rodrigo has smiled once since he attained office, noone noticed; he is thought to be the only world leader with a poster of Oscar The Grouch on his office wall.
Even so, you’d think he’d have better manners than to call Barack Obama a “son of a whore.” Even Rush Limbaugh hasn’t done that. Yet. Duterte recently announced he would seek a “separation” from the United States and said that U.S. troops would have to leave the Phillipines within two years, which would slash to 171 the number of countries in which we have a military presence.
Much of Rodrigo’s popularity derives from his avid campaign against drug addicts and traffickers, in which he has encouraged vigilante action. So far, 4000 people have been killed. Some of them were drug addicts and dealers. Some of them were people the vigilantes just didn’t like This is what happens when imbeciles get elected president.
Annyonghasimnikga, Kim!
Someone once asked what you do when you keep kicking the can down the road and suddenly discover there’s no more road? Which is exactly where the U.S.A. now finds itself with regard to everyone’s favorite villain, Kim Jong-un of North Korea. The Supreme Leader—silly us, we always thought it was Diana Ross—has managed to hold onto his job by quietly offing 746 competitors with various and sundry methods of destruction. You have to resort to nefarious means when you look like an Asian altar boy and Kim has read every book ever written by Mafia dons, not to mention catching all 86 episodes of The Sopranos. Earlier this year, Kim invited Tony S. to join him in a game of bocce ball on the palace lawn and was shattered to discover he had passed on to that great stripper bar in the sky. But I digress.
Kim now tells us that North Korea has the capacity to hit any American target west of Chillicothe, which could be optimistic but who knows? So now we’ve got two crazy people running the show in the U.S. and North Korea. One of them gets unduly miffed and BLAMMO!—oblivion visits Cleveland. Oh sure, North Korea is then immediately erased from the face of the Earth but that doesn’t make the ex-people in Cleveland feel any better. There’s still time to make Michael Jordan ambassador to Pyongyang. I’d get on it. It’s not like he’s doing anything important.
A Pat On The Back For Robert Marchand. A Gentle Pat On The Back.
Frenchman Robert Marchand, a mere 105 years of age, wheeled his way into the record books by cycling 22.52 kilometers (13.99 miles) in one hour on a track near Paris. The former fireman is no stranger to breaking records. Soon after his 100th birthday, he became the fastest cyclist of his age to cover 100 kilometers (62 miles). Said Marchand of his latest feat: “I didn’t see the sign that said it was the last minute, otherwise I would have been quicker. I feel quite emotional seeing all this, how is it that a 105-year-old is seeing this crowd? I’m wondering if it’s really true.”
Asked if he would hit the track again in two years, Marchand was philosophical. “Well, you know, I’ve already lived to 105. Who can say? It takes nine months to come into this world and only 30 seconds to kick the bucket. Maybe I’ll try something else. I hear those Ironman Triathlons are fun.” Just imagine….105. I’d have 29 years to go. At 64, Siobhan is a mere infant.
That’s all, folks….
