Trump’s tenure

Let’s start a pool…step right up and place your bets. We’ll call it “The Prez is right.”

Put $10 in the kitty and claim your prognostication: By when will Trump be gone? I say by Christmas, what do you say? I say he can’t last; the mountain of awfulness and criminality keeps growing. Won’t the populace reach a point where they/we can no longer just swallow? I’m betting on the dormant but still extant honor of the American people. Care to wager with me?

If I’m wrong, and our capacity for stupidity and amorality is greater than I believe, I will be truly shocked and sad…I will also be joining the fleeing horde in Canada or Costa Rica.

I’m guessing el Trumpo will walk away before he’s impeached. I don’t see him having the stomach for that degree of humiliation; I don’t actually think he is a fighter – just a quick brawler, who will capitalize on a size advantage, but who can neither strategize nor go the distance.

And, while we wait for the end, there is a possibility that he will succeed in doing a great deal of damage to our political foundations. Sort of like jack-hammering the crap out it. In the slightly paraphrased, but immortal words of Gloria Gaynor: “We will survive.” Sure, it’s disturbing and even disgusting (like being infested with both silverfish and cockroaches simultaneously), but we’re the folks who withstood the decimation of our population in several wars (Civil and uncivil). We rose up from the ashes of Watergate, and we’ll rid ourselves of the current Donald-slime.

We can count on the fact that Trump will not change his tactics, even if they result in his demise. He’s a stubborn and grandiose narcissist who cannot reflect objectively.

Dasvidaniya, Donald. And, to sort of quote yet another cultural icon, “Don’t let those swinging doors hit you in the ass on the way out.”


midday musings

Sitting just inside of the semi-open-air outer room of one of the hotel’s two restaurants…

The storm clouds are gathering (as predicted) and I watch the skies with an extra measure of anticipation. A big-un is a-coming and I can’t wait. Okay – here’s the denoument:

My body is reacting to the changing barometric pressure. There must be some ancient primordial benefit to absorbing moisture in one’s body as the rains approach. Try as I may, however, I can’t imagine what that benefit is.  I do, nevertheless, feel like a balloon being inflated. Perhaps I’ll become airborne.

Noted: I see yet another and then another individual who would probably tip the scales at 300 or more pounds. I’ve been observing this for two days. At first, I was just pleased to see that I was far from the fattest person in the room. Now, I am more interested in this as a sociological trend or a locale-linked trait. Has the word gone out to the large-sized community? “Here in Bermuda, fatties are welcome.” I’m good with that.

In my dawning awareness, I feel a communication from a VERY close, now deceased relative (NK). He’s pleased with the fare and the portion sizes. He is, however, a little peeved with me. “Get your elbows off the table,” I hear distinctly inside my head. “Yes, sir!” I reply, with alacrity.

For much of my life my father was a serious eater. Meals were not just something that one engaged in in order to survive. No. Au contraire. He was living to eat, not eating to live. Mass quantities of all manner of edibles were prepared and consumed every day. I recall there never being much in the refrigerator – because whatever was there got eaten. It wasn’t even safe to sit still for too long; you might wind up with a  Béarnaise sauce dripping into your eyes. Sometimes I thought I saw my own dear father sizing me up – Would I fit into the large roasting pan?

Okay, that’s really creepy and a bridge too far. But just barely.

I did acquire my love of food from the little big man. He was 5 ft. 4 in. tall and at times weighed more than the scale could measure. He was also a first rate chef. My mother seldom had to prepare dinner. He was on it like barbeque sauce on spare ribs.

From cook-outs at a nearby state park, when I was young…where 3-inch thick sirloins and entire watermelons were just a few of the staples, to grilled dinner for fifteen (with both indoor and outdoor cooking going on simultaneously) when I was an adult…to large scale parties with more hors d’oevres than one could count or even imagine, the preparing, sharing and enjoying of food was a main focus of his life.

Sometimes, when I’ve cooked a really good meal, I can feel his approval. I know he’s watching me – especially on Thanksgiving, our family’s high holy day.

I Hope John McCain is Okay

There are some people – a very rare few – whose character and authenticity transcend their particular positions in life (and politics). John McCain is such a person.
He is forthright and a pursuer of truth; he’s a man of dignity and humor (a great combination).
John (I feel as if the familiar is somehow appropriate. After all this time he’s almost one of the family.) – I repeat: John will always give as good as he gets, but there are places he won’t go, discourse that is beneath him. He has survived the multifarious, the weird, the banal, and the evil. His spirit and integrity remain intact. He is – if not universally beloved, then universally respected. And so, the great American deliberative body awaits his recovery.
To your health, John.

Bermuda, Shmermuda (tee shirt to follow)

Okay. So the ocean is an unnaturally gem-like turquoise; the landscape is low and lush and green. But the beach – the thing that you (that would be me) were looking forward to, is about 40 paces wide and that’s it.

There is no walking along the shore – which is, in life, one of my most favorite things to do. Bummer squared = meh.

But you know what Shakespeare said (and that would be Elliot – who has the shakes – Peer. You know him. He lives across the street. The guy who talks to himself in iambic pentameter: “Twas ever so. Verily. Tis pity she’s a whore.” (I just wanted to include that – it has no particular relevance.)

Oh – and it’s hot. Really annoyingly hot. Didn’t expect that.

A couple of other things to be acknowledged…The Bermudans are, without exception, friendly and helpful in a most natural and not cloying way.

Kinks: Many exist. But they are working themselves out. I won’t bore you with the litany of my 70- year-old rustiness, but I am confident that by the end of our stay, I will be rejuvenated. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. Even though my PIC (remember him?) is certain that 70 is the age of no return.

Fearless Birds: The omnipresent sparrow-like little wing-ed beggars flying/hopping around the outside (and sometimes inside) tables. I’m surprised they’re not too fat to fly, given their eager (dare I say hoggish) attention to every crumb that falls from the tables. Perhaps they are the primary gatherers for a large tribe (gaggle?) of feathered folk who, I imagine, are anxiously twittering with stomachs a-rumbling.

Return from the dark side: Despite my earlier bitching (of which I say with pride I am a past master) this little island is growing on me. The air is soft. The water is just warm enough to allow N to go shirtless into the deep. The food is good and it seems as if anything we might desire will be provided if at all possible.

And yet. And yet. I must conclude in this manner: Quoth the Raven: “Fire Island.”



I am far from an expert on matters political. However, I do know lies when I hear them. Our President lies. The Attorney General lies. Who doesn’t lie? Who can we count on?

Was it always so and are we just coming to the national awareness that the “Nixon Era” of underhanded and deceitful governance was merely the norm? The customary practice?

Whaddaya so exorcised about? This is the way it’s done. It’s just the way governments work. Oh yeah? OH YEAH? Let’s not sink into the false hopelessness of retroactive corruption-tolerance.

I do understand that politics is a fairly slimy business. But I also understand that there’s a big difference between the level of stupid disregard for even the pretense of legitimacy and honor that is in full flagrance currently, and what had heretofore been national business as usual.

But I ask you: How many are surprised that Donald J. Trump is a serial and compulsive liar and that he can’t be trusted as far as we can heave his overweight carcass? When you lay down with pigs you get mud on your clothes. N’est-ce pas? We have collectively laid down with a real PIG.

And now a word regarding the current New York outrage about Shakespeare in the Park – because Julius Caesar is being portrayed as DJT and – as the story goes – is stabbed repeatedly to death.

That’s what you’re all upset about? A play? How about redirecting some of that outrage toward the despot in the White House. Our White House. We have a rabid dog running around as our head of state.

Thoughts go back to Nixon, but – as appalling and devastating as Nixon’s crimes were – they t’weren’t nothin’ compared to those of the fair-haired sociopath now at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Is it that we have become inured to evil? Or is it just that we are otherwise engaged…watching our favorite shows, playing video games, enjoying the comforts and hypnotics of our culture?

Okay, kids. This is now the real deal. Our way of life, the U.S.of A. as we know it, is under threat. No insurgency could be more powerful than the loosening of our values in the service of avoiding the hard questions…and answers. Don’t look away. Yes, I know it’s pretty ugly out there, but we have a duty – to ourselves – to stay the course (yes, I quoted HIM).

Start burning up the phone lines to your congress people; make them understand that THEIR political future is at stake if they don’t push back against this toxic tide.


Now, you may think that’s just a clever little ploy – to start this blog off with something that would appeal to my readers and make them want to read more. But, no. It’s the truth. I think it finally happened – I’ve run out of words. That’s what I’m faced with. Running out. It does raise a larger question (whew, that’s a relief!)

Are we all going to run out?

Of patience (you know to whom I’m making reference – don’t you? DJT.)

Of brain cells. We do burn them off in many customary and not so customary ways: alcohol, drugs (yes that includes whatever pharmaceuticals you are taking), mind-rotting television (which I so love!)

Of good will – that would be: in the world at large. Friends and allies are looking at us with a newly jaundiced eye.

Of natural resources. According to Newsweek, “Renowned physicist Stephen Hawking has warned that humanity needs to become a multi-planetary species within the next century in order to avoid extinction.”

And I might just run out of paper goods. Nah, not likely.

I pause to check out my inner writer: Wake up, girl! Don’t leave me in the lurch today.

Which brings to mind something that I’ve lived with for a while: I seem to be two bifurcated (don’t you just love that word? And, yes, I see the redundancy.) people. The writer of five books and a frequent blogger; and the observer of such, who can’t imagine ever coming up with another creative idea. Ever.

And then there’s the other element: the lack of general enthusiasm for my great works. Oh,sure, I’ve gotten praise and interest – but not on the global level that my idealized expectations had anticipated. I haven’t been nominated for a Nobel Prize for literature. I had assumed the response out there would have been fulsome and adoring. Well – I guess that was left over from some early experiences as a precocious only child. That ship has apparently sailed.

Bucking up here. No other option. Well, whining is, in fact, another option – one that I am clearly unwilling to forego…

Paper Goods Queen

Once, many years ago, an observant and very forthright patient dubbed me the Paper Goods Queen. She was merely reacting to what she saw everywhere. In addition to the napkins and paper towels in prominent spots in my kitchen, there were – and are – a large box of tissues in each and every room. In my office, there are three boxes of tissues – in strategic locations.

I confess to experiencing an instant frisson of anxiety when there isn’t a tissue in reach.

It’s all just paper, right? No. You’re ignoring the all-important nuances of thickness and softness: the absorbency of paper towels and the thin layers of two or three-ply toilet paper. These differences matter greatly to me.

Have I been brainwashed by Big Paper? Have I been indoctrinated and programmed by clever or insidious advertising? You bet. For me, a clear indicator of the demise of civilization will be when I have to blow my nose with a dinner napkin. The horror!

Look for my non-fiction book, FEAR OF LANDING, The stories we tell about commitment and their meanings. It’s available on

Also available on is my science fiction novel, RAYMÒN AND SUNSHINE, It’s about the relationship between an autistic man and a female android three hundred years in the future, when what was once seen as a disability is merely a difference.

You can find more information about me and my books at


I’m so weary of all the political news that my ass is dragging…Wait a minute – that’s not my ass, it’s the President. Sometimes I get them mixed up.

Okay. I know I’ve just cleared the decks of anyone who might be even a little sanguine about the Trumpster. Sayonara! See ya around.

It feels like we are in the early to mid stages of a festering process. Like there’s an infection that wasn’t treated with antibiotics and now it’s traveling through the body (politic), causing a progressive malaise. I should probably give that a name: what about the “DT’s?” Yes. We are all shaking and twitching – even if only on the inside. What’s next? Is there a bottom to this pit? Are we in for a protracted display of the worst of our system of government?

I know, I know. There is a powerful impulse to avoid dealing with the mess that the man in the White House is making/has made/will make. It’s like discovering that your three-year-old has silently puked in the back of the car. Perhaps if you don’t talk about it, it will go away. Nah. It never does. It just begins to smell worse and worse.

Well, my fellow Americans, there is one fetid stench coming out of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Someone spray some Febreze on it, or put it in an airtight bag and throw it in the river. I’m just looking for a simple solution. I fear, however, that we are in for the complex route – in a buggy with no springs and a wooden seat. My ass hurts just thinking about it. Yes. I’m mentioning my ass again. It seems fitting, somehow.

Let’s think for a minute. What would be the best outcome for all of us? I’ve got it! (Dare I say, “Eureka?”) The next time Trump comes to New York, I would like to invite all the stellar citizens – who regularly commit various kinds of mayhem – to collect out in front of Trump Tower. When Donald leaves his residence, that will be the signal to throw a large bag over his head and spirit him away to a “safe” space. That is… safe for all of us; in other words – somewhere that he can’t escape from. Feed him and give him a TV – he’ll be just fine. If he asks why he’s a captive, tell him it’s Hillary’s fault. He’ll buy that, I’m sure. If not, then suggest it’s part of a Russian test of his true mettle. That should induce a level of compliance. After all, he would never want to piss off Putin.

Let’s keep him off the streets until his term of office is over. I’m just thinking of the country, you know.

President Pence? Lesser of evils.

Look for my new non-fiction book, FEAR OF LANDING, The stories we tell about commitment and their meanings. It’s available on

Also available on is my science fiction novel, RAYMÒN AND SUNSHINE, It’s about the relationship between an autistic man and a female android three hundred years in the future, when what was once seen as a disability is merely a difference.

You can find more information about me and my books at


For those of you who are married or living with someone in a committed relationship, you have an issue which must be resolved on Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Chanukah…you get the picture, right? It’s: Where do we go? Your mother’s house or mine? Hmmm. This is the kind of dilemma that we need to keep King Solomon away from. Not okay to cut my mamma in half. Oh, no! If you want to sacrifice yours to the cause, be my guest. Oh, yeah? What was that you said about my mother?

And so you see how fraught this entire issue can be, and how it can burst into flames at any moment. So what’s a girl to do?

We have tried (as I imagine many of you have) to make it fair and just – splitting our time equally between the two matriarchs, for example. What does that look like exactly? It looks like an exhausting trip from Manhattan to Brooklyn in stop and hardly-go traffic, followed by a grand effort to appear relaxed and delighted with the bagels and lox (which is the traditional celebratory fare). Choking it down while trying not to look at your watch is not that easy. You know you have to be in Suffolk County for an early dinner; which means possibly four more hours on the road. Mamma number two (don’t let her hear your refer to her that way!) will be in full-on denial that you had any kind of conflict of interest. She is, in fact, the one and only mother – as far as she’s concerned.

Ah, the drive…The kids will be in monster-mode, requiring the ultimate threat: “Don’t make me come back there!” It’s equally ineffective when expressed by either the driver or the driver’s spouse. Kids know that, unless we’re on the cusp of Armageddon, there is little that will be enacted in the way of discipline in a moving vehicle. “Wait till we get home,” doesn’t really work. Those kids count on your failing memory, which is only further compromised by the kind of exhaustion that comes from a day filled with bumper-to-bumper traffic and too many carbohydrates (dinner will consist of a six course meal at ye olde Chinese restaurant – the only one that still uses MSG.)

Now would be the time to encourage one mother to move down to Florida. Expectations for holiday visits are muted by the sun and all those beige buildings. There is also another solution to this and the other comparable quandaries: avoidance.

I can’t (yet) speak from personal experience, but a dear friend can always be found on one breezy Caribbean island or another during each and every family-oriented holiday. She has found a way to turn dross into gold. Now – do you have the courage to say: “I won’t see you on Mother’s Day”? I know, it’s daunting. But, let’s make a pact, you and I. Next year in Antigua!!

Look for my new non-fiction book, FEAR OF LANDING, The stories we tell about commitment and their meanings. It’s available on

Also available on is my science fiction novel, RAYMÒN AND SUNSHINE, It’s about the relationship between an autistic man and a female android three hundred years in the future, when what was once seen as a disability is merely a difference.

You can find more information about me and my books at

and other tales from the Upper West Side and beyond