FLOTUS and the Punchline

Sadly it has been two years since my last post... That is embarrassing as "a writer." For the three of you who follow my blog for reasons passing understanding, I am sorry.

I write today to talk about this election. 2016. What a year. Aging rockers gone. Mass shootings left and right. Race relations about as bad as they have been anytime post-Reconstruction. There are days I really do not know where to begin. Like Mugatu in Zoolander, "I [really] feel like I am taking crazy pills." The answers to our problems seem so simple, but as our great country is filled with complexity and differing points of view it is not so easy to reach out and touch those answers to our challenging questions.

I have personally been pretty quiet in this election cycle. I have let comedians and columnists do my talking for me. Since these campaigns are something out of Monty Python or The Running Man this has worked out okay. Alas, as I am arrogant enough to think my opinion may affect someone's vote so here I go nonetheless...

I was standing in an airport in Kansas City coming back from a wedding when I was moved to tears listening to a Democratic town hall. Senator Sanders made a plea about the importance of treating drug addiction like a medical condition (it is) instead of a criminal indulgence. He was The Guy in my opinion--although twenty years too old and not quite presidential enough. He was the third party candidate we deserved. He is not a Democrat... rather an independent like myself. He also knows what Aleppo is, which I consider a plus. He committed to running as a Democrat during the primary so his message would reach more people. If he actually runs as an independent who knows what the electoral math looks like right now? I would like to read that poll... Where is Joey Lucas when we need her?

So, I will be as brief as my "post-Seminole victory/four beers deep/have to be at work at 4:30 in the morning" mind will allow me to be. Secretary Clinton is not my candidate. Though she is prepared (probably more than any candidate ever), smart, and dedicated, she is perhaps a little too establishment for my taste. She is just not my first choice, but she has my support. I think she will get the job done. She is more conservative (particularly on foreign policy) than she paints herself and will hopefully meet Congress halfway to get some things done. And since she is not brown-skinned (subconsciously I think this has been an issue for a lot of people these last eight years), maybe Congress actually works with her for the next four to eight years instead of allowing sour grapes to roadblock governance and duty.

Legislators, we sent you to "the constitutional seat of power" so please act like you know what that means and do your job. I have seen 7-11 employees more dedicated to their tasks than you.

No, this election has been about a reality TV star. Why is that not the end of the discussion? That alone. Period. The End.... President Kardashian? President Richie or Hilton? President Puck? President Cowell? President Snooki? Do any of those sound valid? Then why does "President Trump" to 46 % of likely voters in this country? For what it is worth I had to run a Google search to check some of those names because I do not waste my precious time watching people who are famous for doing nothing on TV within their "reality."

What is scary to me about a Trump presidency is that his being a good or bad president is equally bad for the country as a whole. As the lovely Maxie put it: "He would be a ruler, not a leader." Now, I was not wild about Senator McCain or Governor Romney and their politics, but I was not concerned that their selection would turn our country into some version of the Hunger Games in a matter of months. They would have gotten some work done; I might not have agreed with some of it, but I feel like their zeal for country was in the right place. They actually consider the implications of their actions on a local, national, and global scale.

I have a good idea of what the country looks like under establishment types. More of the same. Maybe not as much gets done as we would like. Maybe there are some victories for the wealthy and the working classes. A few people in the middle get left out... Maybe there are some breakthroughs in education or environmental policies. But overall? Nothing great. Big deal. Four more years and we get to have another say.

With a President Trump, I feel like Crash Davis in Bull Durham trying to catch Calvin LaLoosh: "I don't know where it is going to go." And that is something we need to take seriously. We don't know. It is anyone's guess... Maybe it is prosperous for all. Maybe he does not roll things back 50 years. Maybe President Trump will be inclusive. Maybe he balances the budget, reduces the debt, admits that global warming is a thing, and solves the crisis in Syria. Maybe. But I do not think so. And even if I did I would not risk it, because the potential downside far outweighs any upside. What if his behavior has all been an act to get the gig? I have read that he is completely different in private meetings with donors and business-people. Which would make this all even worse, because we would be electing more of a manipulator than we thought.

And because we finish with the one that is different than all the rest. He is a bully and a buffoon. He is rude and mean. He is what we teach kids not to be in elementary school. He is a hairdo. He is an actual punchline. The joke? Whatever you want it to be. He is unrealistic and uninformed. He has no plan, no gravitas. He is in no way, shape, or form presidential. And that is it...that is the ballgame. For me anyway. I have met kindergartners and labradoodles whom I feel would be better off with state secrets and launch codes than the Republican nominee for president. In fact, I was fitting a ten-year-old for a pair of spikes today who was inquisitive, respectful, and compassionate (the wheelchair competition of the 2013 NYC Marathon was streaming in the shop and he could not believe they pushed those wheels for twenty-six miles with only their arms). He would have my vote... Now. Not thirty years from now. Now.

The choice is obvious. And while I do not think you need a 33-year-old barista to help you with your vote, I hope you think about some of these things when you punch your ballot on Tuesday. I do not think we are actually heading toward doom and gloom, but I think a vote for Secretary Clinton keeps us on a strong path into the 21st century and beyond. Furthermore, as my friend and professor Mark Zeigler often said, "No election in my life has made me change the way I live from day to day," I think it is important to vote for the candidate who is going to help everyone as much as they can especially those who need that help the most. This country is part of a community after all and most of us in our neck of the woods are doing just fine. So vote for the person who is going to look out for everyone everywhere...

Thank you for taking a few minutes to read this. Our time is the among the most precious commodities we have...I hope this post was worth yours. All the best to my conservative, liberal, and independent friends.

The Red Oak Woods

The following is an excerpt of the short story I recently submitted to the Ledge Magazine's annual fiction competition.  

We heard the planes before we felt the bombs shake the ground under our feet. An armada had arrived. Thunderous engines roared. We had been in the midst of a standard 12-mile progression run when their bombs started falling. We were already on our way back to the team van when we started running faster and faster. This was no longer training. This was a race to see what the hell was happening. Explosions. Planes coming and going. We had to get back to Coach Novak who had already driven back from our turnaround point to give us fluids. He was to return to our starting point at the edge of the trails to call our splits as we crossed the finish line.

            Today, our times were going to be the best they ever were. We did not think of stopping. We agreed on that; Novak had the van, which was our best way to safety from whatever was happening in the heart of town. We ran faster.

            We had to.

            There were a few murmurs about what might have been going on? A world war? The War? It did not matter at the moment—we could not control the rest of the world. We could only control getting back to Novak. Back to the van. We had to move quicker.

            We had to.

            The ground continued to shake underneath our steps. I rolled an ankle during the last mile as the trail moved under my foot shifting a root and with it my foot to the outside. I pulled up lame for about 30 seconds—the others continued on. Walking was worst. It felt like the explosions in the distance were meant for me, and me alone. The running—even though it was toward the noises—seemed safer.

            Was this the end of the world?

            Most elite running groups from college teams to the professional ranks had a team van. Usually it was a nondescript white van for getting to and from workouts. Slim called vans like ours a “slapper knapper” because the darkened windows in the back made it good for hiding anything you were keeping back there—like kidnapped children. Dark? Yes. However, we were runners, and one of the things we were all really good at was coming up with new names for tired clichés. Slim called them slapper knappers because of the variation he created on the “punch-buggie no punch back” game whenever one would see an old Volkswagon Beetle. If you saw a van with the windows painted out: “Slapper Knapper!” and then you would slap the person next to you.

            Oh the things we used to care about.

            The last half-mile back to the start seemed an eternity even though we were running at just over five-flat per mile pace, the two minutes and thirty seconds we had left were daunting, because we knew we were going to get answers when we got back to camp.

            We had to.

            Coach Novak was nowhere to be seen. The slapper knapper was gone. Our sweats, our Gatorade bottles, our towels, and our protein bars had been purposefully thrown from the back of the van. They hadn’t been stolen, what with their deliberate placement on the ground. We spoke quickly and exchanged ideas. We decided that Novak had abandoned us, taken the van to save himself, but with what little Catholic guilt he had left, he decided to leave our stuff behind. Maybe he wanted to give us a fighting chance. It turned out to be a good decision, but at the time, it felt like we had about as much chance as a marathoner in an 800 meter race…

            None.

            What the hell happened in there? We were east of town. And, all that came from the horizon was smoke. It blanketed the sky. Had all major cities been destroyed? There was no one driving on the two-lane road that ran along the Greenway. Not a single car. Meyer ran down the street to a series of townhomes to see if he could discover what was going on. No one answered their door. It was as if during the 70 minutes we were working out we missed an evacuation notice, an air raid signal, and the raid itself. Meyer snagged a handheld radio from one of the houses to see what was going on. Every station was static. Even the one used for emergency broadcasts.

            The planes were gone now, too.

            We need to find a transistor radio. See if there are others out there, Pickens suggested.

            Not sure what good it would do, I had said. If everywhere else is as bad as us, the next people could be a hundred miles away. At least.

            There could be people on the other side of town.

            Could be.

            Maybe they know what happened.

            Maybe.

            We decided to take an easy run down to the Publix that was a mile and a half away. We needed to shakeout our legs anyway from the progression run, and Zephyr and Diesel had left their wallets in their sweats. We had a little money in our pockets. If the grocery store was still there, maybe they would take our money.

            It took us ten minutes on the deserted roads to get to the Publix on Mahan Drive. We ran up behind it to keep a low profile. None of us wanted attention—we did not know who was out there: friend, foe, or otherwise. We figured if this was the end, we should not tempt fate by being conspicuous.

            The trip seemed a lost cause. Burning was all there was. What had once been a Mecca for people’s hunger was now a smoldering concrete building. But, the closer we got we saw there was still a delivery truck out back. It was no longer connected to the loading dock, and looked to be in decent condition.

            We risked it and ran toward it. The sliding back door to the container was half-open. Pickens found a backpack in the driver’s cabin and brought it around back. We grabbed what it could carry. Fruit, some bottled water, and granola bars. It was as if this delivery was for a bunch of stranded runners. Turned out it was.

            We ran back into the woods behind the burning store to eat our snacks.

            Should we try and get back to the houses?

            They’re not there anymore.

            What about the highway?

            If anyone survived? Probably jammed.

            Do we want to get out of here?

            I don’t think that is a good idea. We don’t even know what happened here.

            All those people. Hundreds of thousands bombed and burned. Gone. Dead.

            Whoever did this, I am not giving them the satisfaction of defeat. This is my town, and I am not leaving it.

            We thought of our families around the country. Asked aloud what we thought was happening? World war? Had our government gotten tired of us? Bored with us?

            We didn’t know—couldn’t know. We just decided to stay together to look for a place to call home. Surely there was a safe structure or two not in flames or blown to bits.

            That was two years ago.

            We’re still in the Red Oak Woods today.