Camelot? No More!

Saw a film about difference, today ... Out of Cordoba ... film on the 12th C. period in Spain when the three Abrahimic religions lived together ... made me tearful ... most of what I listen to today is polluted by the nastiness of the Mean Clown!

But what made my eyes warm. Hard to say but clearly had something to do with the elections. It occurred to me after the airing when I asked the Director: 

"Could you help me with my pessimistic feelings. I found myself thinking that you (the Director, Jacob Bender) were determined to demonstrate that in Cordoba, later in Venice, and I would think in other places, too, like Pisa ... in all those places at moments in history folk lived together. That is, you've demonstrated that it's possible. Still, in each of these situations, someone comes along with a political agenda and USES difference as a means of gaining power."

As I've found myself considering throughout this election cycle, I have no reason to disbelieve the Little Trumpets when they say that their Father doesn't have a racist bone in his body. And when the Christians expelled the Muslims and Jews from large parts of Spain, I have no reason to believe -- in general -- that these expulsions were related to bigotry. "I hate these people, so they must leave." 

No, I suspect it's, as I've said before, much worse than that. I suspect that these expulsions -- or in Drumpf's case his misogynous comments and his anti-Muslim and Mexican comments (whether they're his sentiments or not) -- are based in nothing else than utilitarian necessity. 

The persona that Donald puts forward knows no such dichotomous categories ... Muslim-Christian ... Jew-Christian ... White-Black ... Russian-American .... perhaps, not even Rich-Poor. No. The only consistent binary category is "With Me" or "Agin Me." And here, while people who actually experience life this way are deemed by the Psychotherapists as struggling with Borderline and/or Narcissistic Personality Disorders, it matters little whether Mr. Trump suffers from these developmental disorders or simply presents himself as such a person -- except that the latter is likely indicative of a more dangerous kind of despot!

The very idea that America would elect itself a President who will accept his enemies as long as they succumb ... that he would put Krispy Kreme Kristie who mercilessly attacked him during the RNC Primary in charge of putting together a government simply because he's relenting to his power ... all this is far worse that even electing a Birchist who actually believes that his type is superior to another's ... and that makes me sad ... profoundly sad.

This American experiment has worked progressively well for 240 years. For that many years, we've worked to refine a system in which difference is not to be used in a utilitarian fashion ... purely, to achieve power. It's sad, also, that so many have been mesmerized by him. They have been scammed so much that they fail to see the paradox in fighting -- to the end -- to preserve the 2nd Ammendment to the Constitution -- all the time willing to abridge the Bill of Rights.

Many have pointed out that the Founding Fathers who ratified the 2nd Ammendment were authorizing the posession of single-load non-repeater rifles and had no idea that their Amendment would be perverted to include high-count-magazine repeaters ... and maybe RPG's.

I was saddened by the film and the obvious recognition that experiments such as Cordoba in the 12th C. or Venice in the 14th ot the United States in the 18th were ... ephemeral moments in time ... always at the risk of despots and ego-maniacal folk who maybe had never known love ... but certainly who were not skilled in doing more than speaking about love to others.

Sad, indeed.

Cigar Store Old Man

Haven't Posted to the Old Man Blog in months. The election 2016 took over, even though  the amount of skin in the game that I have as denizen of the Last Eighth of Life -- one who ought rightly be considered a dignitary in that Last Quarter -- is admittedly small. And still no sense that apres moi la deluge. Suppose it would be easier to argue

WHAT DIFFERENCE CAN IT POSSIBLY MAKE, HOWARD?

Still, I've gotten pissed about the election and have been writing an Angry Old Elector Blog

Nazi-Schmazi.blogspot.com

As Long as Donald Loves His Mother

about how uncomfortable I feel about der Drumpfmann possibly ascending to the throne ... as a Clownish Little Rich Boy who Would be King!

Come visit, now: Y'hear!

All Things Must Pass ... but while they last!

Last Quarter? We do get to be Grandma and Grandpa ... that's pretty cool. We have 5 grand-daughters and a grand-son ... young still .... oldest is only 17 and the youngest is almost 7. Every one of them ... what's the expression? bundles of joy. Well, most of the time. 

It's really just one occasion that got to me, recently. M and I drove NorthEast for about 300 miles ... M has a younger sib who has a child just getting married. The youngest of the GSpawns had arrived with her parents and we met them ... the Sib, her husband, our 50 year old with spouse and their little princess. Some of us walked to the beach ... it really smelled ... New England Purple Tide, or something. Played a bit on the beach ... what a hoot.

But it was walking back. The little kid musta been looking for a kickback. Her Dad and my young Brother-in-law were walking ahead and we were singing silly songs that we had written together. It's hot .... I'm in a-fib and the kid lets it rip:

Kid: Grandpa ... I wanna bring you a sandwich when you're 100 years old.

GP: That's pretty old.

Kid: Not for you, Grandpa.

GP: So, what kinda sandwich.

Kid: It doesn't matter. You're just more fun ... 

crazier but more fun ... than all the others.

They really know how to get to ya! I think they read the Shop-Manuals on how Grandmas and Grandpas are assembled. Over the years, I've treated a lot of people who see no reason to go on ... life had become extremely painful. And, indeed, life is painful. Still,  there are moments when standing erect on the surface of this planet makes so much sense. 

And when your Grandpa sometimes dresses up like Donald Trump, it ain't all that easy.

Matter and Anti-Matter

Does it make a difference to those of us in life's Last Quarter whether Mr. Trump or Sen.-Sec'y Clinton or Sen. Bernie Sanders is elected to the Presidency of the United States? And if so, why does it? The Narcissistic King of France ... did he have it right that "apres moi la deluge" ... that there really is nothing that follows me ... Ah! And, if so, what follows from that conclusion? What IS the problem with a little pathological narcissism from one candidate or another? It was during one of the previous elections that someone -- I think quite smartly -- noted that anyone who imagines they are fit to lead the Free World is arguably too narcissistic to do so.

So, what possible difference does it make? After all, a goodly percentage of us Fourth Quarter folk will be dead before the next 8 years pass by? What difference can it possibly make whether healthcare is a right or a commodity? What's the big deal if the oceans come ten miles inland? The World did just fine (Well, not!) when everybody believed in the 6-Day story of Creation and Darwin's theory of the adaptive survival of the fittest hasn't brought peace to the world. What difference can it make whether Science plays any role in public policy or if the Earth remains habitable? Whether our Great-Grandchildren can still play outside and breathe? We won't be there or, at any rate, won't be around for long. As Isaiah (22) suggests:

Eat your meats and drink your wine ... 

Go eat and drink for tomorrow we die.

אכל בקר ושתות יין

אכול ושתו כי מחר נמות

Appears to be an old suggestion.

Why do things matter, at all. Why lead anything approximating an ethically-sound life? Why not cheat? And from whence this sense that things matters? Is there a word for this? There is a word for the experience among those withdrawn from the World of relations or those withdrawn into depression ... anhedonia ... It means an inability to experience pleasure in our own world.  Various dictionaries do give possible near-synonyms for the expression "it doesn't matter." Among them:

• don't botherstar
• don't concern star

• drop itstar
• ignore itstar

• it's all rightstar
• let it gostar

• nothingstar
• stopstar

But none of these quite capture the whole enchilada.  In Mathematics, there were those who sought to define everything and who ran into what they would come to call "primitive" notions. Membership of an element in a set was one such idea. "a belongs to Set A" ... means, perhaps, "a is a member of Set A" or "a is in Set A" ... but such attempts at definition were, after all is said and done, just other ways of saying the same thing ... were no help in providing a definition. The statement that:

"A cat is a furry quadripedal omnivorous mammalian pain-in-the-ass" ... comes closer to definition. One defines by locating the thing or experience or idea in the intersection of several or many broader categories. But, of course, that could describe my GuntherDog, as well ... he's furry enough ... he manages, still, to ambulate on fours, he'll eat just about any shit even if he prefers cat-shit, and he's a pain in the butt, alright. So, maybe I shouldn't feel all that bad. 

My Grandfather used to say from his language ... תאמר פארקערט ... maybe it's better to look at it upside down. Einstein's favorite philosopher Spinoza had it similarly: "all definition is negation." Maybe it's best to say what it's not. 

So, maybe it would be better to begin with what doesn't matter or what matters little. Maybe. Like, for me, it matters little what I choose to wear or how my hair is combed or whether some bits of food hang from my mustachio during eating in a public or a private space. Or upside down, the sharing of kindnesses matters to me a lot. Or maybe the best we can do is the Spelling Bee system: 

"Would you put that in a sentence for me?"

or alternatively:

"Accept it ... this whole matter of "What things matter?" is very idiosyncratic" 

... not "idiot-syncratic," maybe but idiosyncratic, that is, connected to the individual or individual tastes? Is this a cop-out? Maybe. What one can do no more than to say what matters to them. I suppose this is a matter of "categories," as I think of a category as something that divides some part of our World into two parts ... 

the part that I like or admire or that matters to me 

and 

the part I don't like or don't admire and that doesn't matter to me.

So, lemme end with a story someone told me about their Aunt Rose's Categories. David was a man in his 40's with a wife and kids. He met with the matriarch of his family to, as we say, "come out."(To get the full flavor, one might read the Aunt Rose part with her Eastern European accent that she brought here to America when she emigrated from her homeland).

This was the reported conversation:

David: Aunt Rose, I'm leaving Rachel and the kids 

and moving out to be with Heinrich.

Aunt Rose: YOU'RE MOVING IN MIT A NAZI!?

Maybe I'll come back to this, soon. But for the time being, I can say little more than "Some things matter to me and some don't."

"The Counterpuncher" and the DT's

Among the many lessons one might take away from the public spectacle that was the Republican Primary, lives the following proverb, of sorts (as it is not written in II Corinthians): 

The Lord allows for but 
One Counterpuncher. 
All others, sayeth god, 
are False Counterpunchers 
and 
should be stoned by the congregation.

Here, in the United States, we who dared ... we. at least, who possessed  the Gastro-Intestinal Fortitude to follow the near-24-7 run-up to the Republican Convention  ...  bore witness to the behaviors of a wealthy man (one with the Power that Wealth Bestows) verbally beat up on his competition and explain these behaviors as the expected result of being Treated Unfairly. We heard his claim that his many, many insults, rumors and innuendos were all expectable reactions to his having been treated Unfairly ... 

"I love everybody 
but 
I AM The Counterpuncher!"

DT showed little fancy footwork but repeated arguments in favor of Reactive Countermeasures, that is, Shots to the Head of:

The Rigged RNC,  

The Nauseating Weakness of a Bush,  

Lying Ted whose Dad "could -- I suppose -- be" a President Killer, 

Corrupt Hillary who encouraged her Husband's infidelities, 

Little Marco and his funny shoes, 

The Misrepresenting News Agencies and their Menstruating Newscasters, 

Carson's Questionable Kingdom Hall Christianity, and 

Obama's Unwavering UnAmericanism.

All the while, this Singular Man presented himself as the One, the Only, the Greatest, and the Most Successful and indubitably the Great Solution Finder who could solve all the problems that the West faced, including the need to vanquish all enemies of the US of A and Being the Greatest Deal Broker on trade deals with China ... like nobody has done before. 

Many are those who have demonstrated the shifting sands on which Trump's edifice ... his claims to the throne ... is built. I'll be satisfied to fascinate about this notion that one's acts of aggression appear in and only appear in response to nastiness coming from the outside ... from the Other.

Let me start with some examples.

1. The abusing spouse in a bad relationship, for instance, claims that (s)he would never have beaten or verbally abused or shot or left their partner had the partner not been such a you-name-it. Tit-for-Tat, you know!

2. The bar-room-brawler woulda nevah started that fight had Johnnie not taken m'chair.

3. The screaming parent would absolutely never have screamed the way they did had the kid handed in his homework on time or taken their plate from table to sink.

4. The road-rager would nevah have smashed his truck into that little convertible, had the rich old bastard in the car not placed two fingers to his lips and appeared to have said: kiss-to-ya, Baby!

5. We all know that the cheating spouse would never have done so had their partner been a better partner.

6.  And on a much grander scale, one Country would never-ever invade their neighbor gratuitously ... without reason.

I've long found it fascinating that the Old Testament includes no record  of any one taking responsibility for their actions until Genesis 37 ... two thirds of the way through that book on the World and its Begats. And then, it is only when the Tamar is about to be stoned that Judah, the father of her two dead husbands, utters the words:

She is more righteous (in this matter) than I.  .... צדקה ממני

Adam blames Eve for dinner ... Cain owns up to no responsibility for whacking Abel ... Abraham never apologizes for putting his wife or at least her honor in jeopardy by his repeated lies ... Isaac never apologized to Jacob ... Rebekkah never to Esau ... for showing favoritism to the other twin ... and Jacob shows no remorse for tricking his Brother and Father. Sad, aye?

Anyhow! No such variance offered -- this past week -- by DT for his Good Budd, Lyin' Ted, Putative Son of one of JFK's Conspiratorial Assassins. DT goes after Cruz's wife, accuses him not of Lying but of being the Biggest Liar Ever in Politics, and then does his signature thing ... starting rumors.

' I mean I have no evidence that 

Ted's Father was there with Lee Harvey Oswald 

but I haven't heard Ted denying it.'

It's been a familiar game with DT ... the whole Birther Thing, for instance.  Or Hillary Clinton as enabler.

' I mean I have no evidence that 

Hillary wasn't behind Bill's thing with Monica

and I don't know how many other women

but I haven't heard Corrupt Hillary denying it.'

' I mean I have no evidence that 

Hillar's e-mails didn't cost American Lives

but I haven't heard Corrupt Hillary denying it.'

So, along comes Cruz whose policies and demeanor are neither comfortable for me. Ted doesn't or, if you like, refuses to endorse this "Little Orange Man" (as he has been described by Elizabeth Warren ... errr ... Pochahontis, I mean). And note, his behavior is viewed by what appears to be a large chunk of Republicans as cavalierly and gratuitously aggressive. ... worthy of condemnation and labels of party infidelity.

So lemme get it, Donald, m'Boy. Your aggression is reactive ... Ted's is cavalier. You attack his wife's and father's decency and it's reactive. Sen. Cruz advises people to vote their conscience and the Party comes down on him like he just farted in church. I could go on but I hope I've offered-up the idea that at least some organizations accept but One Counterpuncher and see all others as fonts of gratuitous aggression ... that is, aggressive behavior that's neither catalyzed by the other's destructive actions nor, therefore, justified.

BTW ... As to the claim that Kaisich and Cruz and Bush failed to live up to their signed pledge ... I'm not trained in the Law but it seems quite apparent to me that if a customer orders a hamburger in MacDonald's and while it's being cooked up begins to call me a Suck-Ass-Pig, my obligation to give him his piece of dead bull and the Bull's Grieving Mother's Curdled Milk with yesterday's Greens might be called into question.

I feel sad that Ruth Bader Ginzburg felt it incumbent upon her and her office to draw-back her (may I call it) Political Incorrectness in her description of this man who disavows any need for PC, who promises all and shows nothing but bravado and nastiness. I feel sad that good people in the Republican Party are willing to support such a man as Donald Trump in the name of party unity.

Exodus 23: Do not go after the many to sin ...  אחרי רבים לחטת

**********************

I fear a World led by a Snake Oil Salesman ... Meantime? I got dem Ole DT Blues!

"The Kindness of Strangers"

How can we live without such kindnesses and how rich can our life possibly be without recognizing those kindnesses when they occur. Yesterday, I had been rescheduled for a 'down periscope' ... a visual look down my gullet into my duodenum ... an endoscopy. I had been scheduled some two months ago but a nasty upper respiratory thing intruded. Yesterday looked like it might not be "a go" either, as I was in a cardiac arrhythmia ... by my Cardiologist said something like "What the hell!" Don't get me wrong ... my cardiologist/electrophysiologist, Josh, and his Physician's Assistant or Nurse Practitioner (I'm not good at remembering the difference and both seem among the best practitioners who treat me in this curious Last Quarter of Life) ... are kind and empathic Souls. I do betimes wish that the Cardio was older and didn't look so much as he learned how to shave in the past several months but he really is a grown-up and a kind Soul.

So, M drove me and -- as these things go -- had to sign a document that she would say.

Kindness 1: Spouses, lovers or friends who choose to stay with us ISOOF (In Spite of Our Flaws).

There was a lady ... maybe 50's ... who I'd been talking to over the matter of the arrhythmia. She took one look at my T-Shirt and greeted me warmly. It read:

IT'S A

COVITZ

THING

YOU WOULDN'T 

UNDERSTAND.

Kindness 2: M was showing 'good-planning ahead' by buying me a T-Shirt that will come in handy if I'm ever found wandering about, looking like a lost Puppy Dog and not quite remembering my name. She has promised that the nest shirt will have my address and phone number on the back, just in case I decide to bolt-freightened from the pursuing 911 respondents. 

Kindness 3: The lady who checked me in, just by recognizing me with good humor and a smile and willing to join me in everyday silliness, showed me this third kindness.

I was brought to a room for vitals and questions ... lots of questions that in spite of my age I could answer. I suppose it's anxiety but my Play-Level rises in situations where my Heart is running amok and people are gonna be poking and prodding and invading my innards. Nurse Becka was -- even if a bit hesitant at first to join my romp -- soon prepared to smile. She was the one who would stick me with an IV so that the Anesthetist could get me to shut up.

Kindness 4 and 5. Nurse Becka, I suppose, coulda shut me down but chose, instead, to allow some play and was by-far the best sticker who has ever stuck me. No pain ... no black-and-blue marks.

M stayed with me through my bad jokes, the Chief Anesthetist who had almost no humor in her visited and another woman (Nurse?) arrived and wheeled me into the PR (Procedure Room). I told her she looked tired and she agreed that she was. She would assist in the PR and introduced me to the Nurse Anesthetist who was thoroughly without humor and never cracked a smile. He was a Guy ... he was really a Guy ... I wouldn't hire him as a Barkeep. But then Dr. D. arrived. She had done my first Combo (Up Periscope and Down Periscope) maybe 10 or 15 or more years ago. Back then, she came in, introduced herself and must've recognized my anxieties:

Dr. Covitz ... You have nothing to worry about. 

I and my scopes are only going down 4 feet and up about 10.

Kindness 6. Dr. D. is through and through another Fourth Quarter Kind Soul who is willing to show her humanity without hesitation. It must be hard being a Gastro, these days, and spending many hours each week looking up and looking down through scopes and yet ...

Blessed are you God who has kept practicing some Docs 

who have maintained their humanness. 

I woke up to Nurse Chris in the RR (Recovery Room). M arrived pretty soon and explained that as I was coming into my own after "procedures" (I do wish they wouldn't call them "Procedures"), I was likely to do Horizontal Stand-Up and the Brooklyn in me might well surface. It did and the two women were willing to play along. My first memory of learning about nursing came in the late 50's when my Sister, another Nurse Rebecca, came home from Nursing School and explained that sometimes, after surgery or whatever, men might have erections and her teachers suggested using a Ruler to smack down these post-operative protuberances. 

Kindness 7. My acting out wasn't penile but silly humor and both M and Nurse Chris welcomed it.

 Blessed are you God who has kept practicing some 

                                                             nurses who are willing 

                                      not to confuse humor and play with something bad

                                            and who has created understanding spouses. 

                                                             And God Bless M, too!

"Play Ball"

A colleague was describing his family's vacation ... when he was done listing all his Ports of Call and the accomodations, I was exhausted. It was like listening to Donald Trump drone on about how wonderful and fabulous everything he touches becomes after his touch. I heard nothing from my friend about the people part of this holiday. How were the silly moments? Was the sex any good? Did folks get along? If there were kids there, did they have time to play? No-no-no!

"The food was spectacular. The views? to die for."

I recall several recent occasions when friends have invited me into their new kitchens ... overhauled ...  special refrigerators and stoves that do things never done before ... I'm not certain, indeed, that they can be called by such mundane titles .... they're clearly more that places to prepare keep or to prepare foods.

Then, there are those friends who have spent three times what I spent on my first new car on a mattress. Whoa! Like the adverts on television where the men and women sleep perfect sleeps and have perfect bodies. I find myself wondering if those bodies ever touch? ... If they did, would they still be so perfect? so chiseled? ... Maybe they bathe in different claw-foot tubs like on the commercials for men's sex drugs? Who knows?

Hey! Can anyone still play? Another brief example.

Some years ago, M and I took one of our grand-daughters to a baseball game ... St. Louis at Philadelphia. It was hot ... sweaty hot. The game hadn't begun and the guy in front of us had already gulped five tall beers. Game still not begun and he turns around and says:

Fan: "Anybody says anythin' good about Pujolz 

(a world class player for the opposing team) 

and I'll make his face look like yesterday's tacos."

Grand-daughter: "Grandpa ... Can we go home pretty soon?"

Me: "You bet, Sweetie."

What is it so problematic about play? How is it that we human-folk can't get together and play like puppies? Howl like Bassets? No wonder videos of playful kittens go viral. Going to parties almost requires 3 alcoholic drinks or -- in the supposed good old days of our young adulthood -- the best grade of "grass." ... Apparently ...  Can't get together -- we humanfolk -- without a sacrifice without blemish and, notably, one that warms us up or burns with intoxicating fumes or something.

About this time, each year, I spend at least some days on a beach along the Atlantic Coast of Virginia. Grandchildren are usually present. The Haute Cuisine? pretty absent in this backwater town. My six grandchildren remember with joy and a bit of loving derision towards Grandpa the leftover spaghetti sandwiches of one Summer and my "thing" with spinach and blue cheese, during another. The family's collective memory includes the fact that one of our grandchildren was conceived in this same town just the day after the father-to-soon-be floored his father-in-law with a tennis ball to the groin. There were the mornings when (then only) Dad would drag the kids to see the sunrise and wade out to the sandbar to collect conch shells. There was the time a French visitor who was called for a reason beyond my ken "Big Dick Nick" or maybe it was "Little Dick Nick" dragged a Hungarian not-quite-inlaw into the water ... and many, many were the battles of the water balloons and supersized waterguns and garden hoses. There was cooking in the kitchen and generations organized to chase others through the dunes. Bike rides to nowhere, in particular. Oh! And there was grandpa's favorite beach toy ... the bucket.

It may not be well known that the little green or red or blue bucket is among the best Salt-Water-Delivery Systems. Fill it up at water's edge and let it rip ... water flies at least 25 feet if you're any good at all ... and if you're clever you get to sneak up behind the unsuspecting and dowse them.

Oh! And Scrabble games have words previously unknown to these shores and sometimes to dictionaries, in general.

This year, the youngest grand-spawn who is just learning how to do back-flips made up new lyrics for George Gershwin's "Summertime" ... lyrics that I'm confident she knows won't bring the same smile to her first-grade teacher that they brought to Grandpa. She belted out her scatalogical scat like a seasoned Sophie Tucker:

Poopie-time

And the livin' is squeezie.

Poops are ploppin'

And the Pee-pee is ffffine ...

Y'know your poop is rich 

And that Pee-pee's good lookin'

So hush little poopies-and-pee-pees

Do-on't you cry!

So ... as I sit here at the World's edge ... in the Last Quarter but feelin' good: I'm confident that ... there are more lyrics to come and new generations with bucket-fulls to be flung ...

Play ball!