Sunday Evening Post

I sat down and wrote up a brief letter I was gonna send to the White House, requesting an interview with Trump. Short, concise and pleasant. And then I started filling in all the required information and learned that my email had to be shorter than a tweet. No pun intended, I’m being totally serious. All I was able to write was that I was requesting an interview with Covfefe (I didn’t use that name) before it cut me off at the pass.

Upon careful consideration, I thought it better not to send a request that was going to relegate me to a list which consists of fifth graders and nut jobs. Soooooo . . . the Trump fake interview will happen instead. Unlike the legit interview I would’ve done with Trump . . I get to make up my own rules with this ‘boob job’.

A few more thoughts that zig inside the zag of voices in my head? Sure why not . . .

  • Never, ever run in frozen winds that whip harder than a Dominatrix with anger issues. I know this rule. I abide by this rule, like almost all the time. Excepting for today, when I ran into the face of an arctic blast that put my face on ice as if it were a button man for the mob. And what’s worse, I ran after having imbibed a couple glasses of water. There I was, a mile out when my nether region was called on to provide a service that wasn’t feeling natural in the least bit. I did an about face, prayed to Jesus, Mary and Joe and went Sun Tzu and Mojave with my thoughts until I arrived back home safe and dry. Moral of the story: Failure to prepare is akin to pissing in the wind (almost).
  • Four episodes into Mr. Robot and loving every minute of it. Rami Malek plays a hacker with a righteous soul who’s trying not to drown inside an evil world. Dark, dastardly, delightful. Thanks to Frank for the 411 on this show.
  • My body has returned to it’s regularly scheduled programming (a wind chilled run notwithstanding) after taking on the black diamonds of Blue Mountain last week. I never realized I was taking my life in my hands when I used to do this shit on a regular basis.  I gotta say, I felt downright fucking heroic after surviving it. Also stupid, a little stupid. Bourbon is a great peacemaker . . just saying.
  • I wouldn’t give a penny to this wall. A strong leader doesn’t need a wall, because a strong leader makes the existing policies work where they failed before. A strong leader doesn’t make promises he knows he can’t keep for the sake of political expediency. A strong leader doesn’t blame everyone but himself when shit goes wrong, because he knows where the buck is supposed to stop. I didn’t name names, because I don’t have to.
  • Besides, a moat would be so much more cost effective. And way cooler. Way . . .
  • Potato salad always seems like a good idea until I’m eating it.
  • Bundt cake . . it never disappoints like that.
  • Tom Brady crying “poor me” just doesn’t work. Feeling sorry for Brady and his team because they’re Vegas underdogs is like feeling sorry for Brad Pitt’s penis . . or Bill Gates’s bank account. Ain’t. Happening.
  • I never got on the craft beer bandwagon. Craft beers are like sliders, they don’t jibe with my particular opinions on beer and burgers. But . . I do have a few faves as per the former. Rogue Dead Guy Ale is one of ’em. Linds B reminded me about it recently when she told me she picked some up. We are not easy customers, so let’s just say the stuff really is very tasty.
  • Storms, more winter storms and freezing temps. And not a single Dennis Quaid sighting. I think we’re safe . . .
  • I want to pet a lion before I die. I mean, not right before I die from being mauled and then eaten by said lion. Like . . I pet the lion, survive . . and then many years later I remember that moment on my death bed. Okay, you know what . . I just like lions. I don’t really need to pet one.

Welp, I could go on. And on. But there’s only so much time in the day, and I have to go in fresh when I see my therapist.

Peace and warmth.








Many Bosses, Precious Few Leaders

It’s something I say all the time when opining on the lack of a Churchill presence in our political world. There is a degenerative effect to such a void, and its chasm is a generational bumper sticker whose ugly residue can’t be chiseled off so easily.

Truth of the matter is, we’ve been finding our leaders on a micro level ever since Camelot was ambushed in Dealey Plaza. From Martin Luther King to Bobby Kennedy, the Beatles to Elvis, Harvey Milk to Hank Aaron to Hawking to Bono. The commonality in these names and all the others who’ve floated our rudderless boat over the past half century is that none of them resided in the Oval Office.

Leadership on a macro level has been usurped by scandal, attrition, Hollywood and every other man made disaster known to Henry Cabot’s log. Leadership from the very top of the Beltway became a trivial pursuit question the moment Nixon became Tricky Dick. And no matter the conservative revolution of Reagan or Boomer Clinton refurbishing a tired standard, or even the cultural significance of Obama. We turned these men into caricatures thirty seconds after their close up.

Is our current state of shit storm a self fulfilling prophecy? Is it the result of us having collectively thrown up our hands after Kennedy was stolen and Nixon was found to be a paranoid crook? Did we forget to cancel our subscription to the Zeitgeist after the failed leadership that turned Vietnam into a verb in perpetuity? Did we never mind the details for too long a time because iconic stimulation was a much more palatable cup of Joe?

Since then, the electorate has behaved like the baseball manager who keeps going to his bullpen until he finds the pitcher who fucks the whole thing up. Trump has been warming up in the bullpen for a long time. And now I have to wonder if this period in our history will make us smarter and more discerning of the process. Or will the idea that Trump could game the system and win polarize us even further?

I hope to hell it’s the former. I hope it has occurred to us that Trump is what happens when we refuse to build consensus. 2016 is what happens when the need to be right prevails over getting it right. We get a President who is a meme master, but who couldn’t lead us out of a wet paper bag.

It’s time to wise up or quit bitching. We can’t have both.

















Top 5 Heroes Of The Week

The news sucked this week. Retail stocks are on the down slope after Macy’s, Kohl’s and Target bit the big one in the fourth quarter. In sports, everyone wants to get paid, but nobody wants to run to first base. Meanwhile, Washington continues to fuck up a glass of water.

So Imma scrounge up some heroes we can lean on for a couple minutes time. Here’s a top five.

Book ’em Andrew: The star quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts has lots of stuff going on. He’s healthy again after having missed twenty six games over the past three seasons. He played like an MVP in leading his team from the abyss of a 1-5 start to a postseason berth, and he has the Colts playing white hot ball right now. Add to that one of his many adoring fans created a hysterical Twitter page in his honor . . and oh yeah, he has a book club too!

A voracious reader, Andrew shares his love (and reading list) with fellow bibliophiles whilst also visiting schools to get the word(s) out. No matter what happens with the Colts this weekend, Luck is already winning. Big. A tip of the hat to Frank for turning me onto this cool story.

Shut Down, Not Shut Out: Did you realize the Coast Guard peeps aren’t getting paid during the government shutdown? I didn’t, until I read this article from NPR. Undeterred, these peeps banded together to help their own. They distributed more than thirty thousand pounds of groceries to Coast Guard personnel at a makeshift pantry set up in Boston. The dope show in Washington could learn a lot about leadership from these guys and gals.

And somewhere, Freddie is smiling: I didn’t catch the Golden Globes last week, but I was thrilled to hear that Bohemian Rhapsody won for Best Picture and Rami Malek won Best Actor. It’s a wonderful run up to the Oscars, but really . . win or lose, this film has more than done its great good work for kids of all ages who love music that breaks all the rules. And it made me think . . . man, if Freddie were alive today? He would’ve been a home run get for Oscar host, huh?

When Stickups Go Hilariously Wrong: What do you get when you cross a mugger with a fake gun and a mixed martial arts fighter? A major ass kicking. Which is what UFC fighter Polyana Viana laid down on a would be thief in Rio De Janeiro. One minute the dude was asking that time honored question of all muggers. . . You got the time? And the next minute Viana was like Bitch, time is up! To be a fly on the wall when this dude realized he’d chosen the wrong benefactor. Check that . . never mind. The wall was probably splattered with this guy’s DNA.

You’ve probably gathered by now that I have a thing for ladies who can fight. It’s not a fetish though. It’s more of an insatiable appreciation. Yeah . . that’ll work.

Turning a new Leaf: As an NFL quarterback, Ryan Leaf was an insufferable loser. The number 2 overall pick of the San Diego Chargers in the 1998 NFL Draft, Leaf was a fucking mess from the get. He never fulfilled his potential on the field and he got in trouble off it, and before too long he was out of the league. And in prison.

On the flip side, Leaf’s sordid past is feeling like ancient history. Forty years old and in recovery, he is the program ambassador for Transcend Recovery Community- a sober living environment in Los Angeles. He frequently shares the story of his addiction to painkillers and his subsequent suicide attempt with students from across the country. And just recently, Leaf paid the mortgage for a furloughed park ranger.

Fame and fortune was never going to be the answer to the question of who Ryan Leaf truly was. And really, thank God for that.

Peace and heroes, kids.

The Fight To Regain Sanity

There’s a scene in the movie Goodfellas when wig shop owner and independent bookmaker Morrie Kesseler gets whacked most unceremoniously by Tommy DeVito (played by Joe Pesci). One minute he’s climbing into a Cadillac with the intent of negotiating his share of a big score over coffee whilst picking up a danish to bring to his wife Claire, and the next minute his brain stem is being severed with an ice pick.

This scene reminds me of what’s happened to this country since the 2016 Presidential election. We are Morrie. We were promised a danish and what we got was an ice pick in the neck.

Regardless of whether you climbed into that Eldorado or not, you sure as shit are wearing cement shoes. I realize this analogy is anathema to those peeps who think watching Fox News makes them a patriot. They are plenty fine excusing the unsightly state of affairs in Washington, believing it to be a matter of renovation.

On the campaign trail, a Trump presidency promised to ‘drain the swamp’ of business as usual politics. Instead, it is simply giving us the business. As usual. But with glaringly unique consequences whose comedy is perverse, insidious and downright hateful. It is as if the American people have been written into the scripted cheat sheets of a reality show. Only thing is, the shit ain’t funny and the scenarios are toting generational price tags. And maybe the worst part of this whole sordid mess is that, in the end, we can’t really blame the Russians or the flagellating GOP, or even the fucking Kardashians. Nope, the cold hard truth of the matter is that we’re all to blame.

This is what happens when the nation stops paying attention to the box scores in Washington. This is what you get when an electorate is more well versed in pop culture than who their elected representatives are. We got complacent. We assumed sides mattered more than progress. Debates became more a matter of being right than of getting it right. Somewhere along the way, we lost our compass and we just let the winds lead us.

So we were saddled with a President who wants to build walls; never minding the fact that such a mindset is analogous with burning bridges. We have a President who believes in name calling and alternate terminology and yet wants us to believe he’s a modern day Churchill. I have to think old Winston could’ve taught Trump a thing or two about what a national emergency looks like. And how walls are nothing more than symbolic trinkets compared to the heart and soul of a nation’s ability to stand together.

Listen, I am a fairly middle of the road sonofabitch with nary a sacred cow in my arsenal. I didn’t believe in Trump back then the same as I don’t believe Ocasio-Cortez now. I have a problem with using the nuclear option to expedite judicial confirmation, no matter whether it’s Harry Reid threatening it or Mitch McConnell using it. Being middle of the road doesn’t make me vanilla ice cream. It makes me rocky road. I trust my eyes more than my ears, every single time. And what I’ve seen over the last couple of years troubles me. Not as a politically affiliated individual but as a human being.

Trump’s campaign slogan vowed to make America great again, which was both demeaning to the current generation and ignorant to the struggles of generations past. To my way of thinking, the greatest strength of any true democracy is in its future. You win today for tomorrow, in perpetuity. Our founding fathers understood the consequences of walking backwards.

It’s a lesson we’re still learning.

Alright 2019, Let’s Get This Over With

Props for that meme go out to Patrick; the unofficial Mayor of Texas whose resemblance to Captain Spaulding makes me believe in fallen angels. To borrow from the great Edgar Allan Poe, words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

Anyways, I’ve jotted down a top ten to do list for 2019. These aren’t resolutions, since I don’t believe in the pomp of glorified fortune cookie promises. My list is well worn, amendable and easy. Just like me.

1- Sweat the Details: I know, it runs counter to the new age counsel of self-help drivel that recommends we shake off the little buggers as if they’re spiritual fire-ants. I’ll figure on some details since Imma bake more, as opposed to not at all. And I’ll have my personal running goals, which involve plenty of sweating. Hey, it counts.

2- More Vera Farmiga Invitationals: I posted one last year. Unfuckingacceptable!

No more Dilly Dilly. That shit was funny the first time I heard it. And I happened to be sauced, so everything is funny when you’re sauced. 

3- Read More: I’ve been pretty scattershot with my reading. Binge here, cold case the pile there; more uneven than a Picasso pizza.

4- Find a New TV show: As it is, I dwell in the subterranean universe of the internet (Prime Video) and premium cable (HBO). Because truth be told, basic cable is a shit sale. And now that Bates Motel is dead, Walking Dead is meh and Designated Survivor is in purgatory, I need to go deep cover and grab a guilty pleasure for the winter months.

Applebee’s reverse engineered baby back ribs into an abomination called ‘riblets’. And they enlisted Dolly Parton to do their bidding with “Here You Come Again”. And now, I can’t get the fucking song out of my head. It’s messing up my mind and filling up my senses! Damn Applebee’s to hell for playing on the adorable nature of Dolly Parton. They truly are evil.  

5- Running off the grid: I took a break from running before getting back to it over the last week, with one big difference. No Fitbit. For the first time in almost four years, I ain’t tracking steps, calories, distance, time . . . nada. It’s been a while since I enjoyed running this much, and there’s a lesson in that. Being plugged in is not the same thing as being dialed in. I’ll go back, because that whole sweating the details thing matters a little bit at my age. But I dig the lesson learned.

6- Meditate: With the goal of collapsing into a cloud on the top of Mt Kailash whilst Buddha learns me a lesson on the mechanics of a butterfly.

It’s obvious Brooke Baldwin and Don Lemon’s talents are being wasted on CNN. Why? Because the three letter frowns upon their anchors being lit during a broadcast. Here’s hoping these two go into business together. Drunk podcasts. I. Am. There. 

7- Invent a Word or Phrase: How hard can the shit be if Trump does it every fucking day?

8- Games People Play: Admittedly, I do not share the love of gaming so many kids my age still hold to. I kicked the habit in 1984 and aside from a few brief excursions, I never went back. But after getting hooked on FIFA soccer for the Nintendo Switch I gifted my daughter, maybe I’ll be a low key gamer. (Is umm . . ‘low key gamer’ a phrase? Because if not, I think I nailed Number 7 already!).

The other day, I was verbally accosted by an old dude who had a problem with me tapping all the eggs in a carton before placing them in my cart. He argued that I had ‘contaminated’ them, so I had to explain to him that it was a moot point. See . . if one of the eggs would’ve been cracked, ain’t nobody buying them. And if all the eggs are intact, I’M buying them. And besides all that, it’s the fucking shell! I asked if he was paying my grocery bill to which he said he wasn’t. So I thanked him for wasting thirty seconds of my life.  

9- Write about Andy Warhol: Just writing that made me feel good. He was America’s last great bargain, leaving his fingerprints on everything from music videos and fashion to digital art to time capsules. His brilliant interpretations cannibalized a mass produced society and challenged us to question everything from soup to nuts.

10- Fake Trump Interview: Imma email the White House and after I receive a dozen automated responses that ignore my entreaty . . (Don’t worry, I’ll share my experience with you) I’ll fake interview President Apprentice.

Hope you enjoyed this 10 Commandments For Dummies and that the year is treating you well thus far. Remember, only three hundred and fifty five shopping days until Christmas!

I’ll let myself out.


Sunday Morning Post

My pal Jen called me yesterday, out of the deep blue sky of forever since we last spoke. It’s been like, almost an entire calendar year and none of it mattered once we got down to giving each other shit. We somehow became solid friends in spite of ourselves.

Last fall, me and Jen engaged in some horizontal shenanigans. I blamed it on my inability to untangle myself from a married woman who chose her sides based on which social media platform she was using. Jen blamed it on the wine. We both agreed that the holidays would play our foil.

So when the gal I once played human Rubik’s Cube with dialed me up almost an entire calendar year later (Read: More than nine months hence), my mind wandered to a place no dude wants to be entertaining on a lazy Saturday. Until she hit me with the what’s what of her matter of fact.

“I’m engaged!” She coughed.

“What in the blessed fuck girl?! You? Miss . . . I’m never getting married again?”

“I changed my mind, okay? Jesus!” She laughed.

“It’s a damn shame because you were worth WAY more on the market,” I laugh. “But seriously, congratulations,”

“Yeah well . . the market is depressed,” Jen laughs back.

“So I’ve heard,”

“And get this, he totally understands dipping pizza in Nutella,”

“Oh shit, he’s retarded?”


“As long as you’re both retarded, you will live happily ever after . .”

“Hey, what’s doing today? Wanna grab some coffee and I can show you the rock?”

“Hey . . yeah! Maybe we could go for manicures and chat up The Bachelor too!”

“Fuck you, seriously though. Coffee?”

“Let’s change it up a little bit. I wanna see Aquaman, so bring coffee and I’ll get the tickets,”

“Ooooooh! Jason Momoa, mama likey! Okay . . you got a deal. But they’re not gonna let us bring coffee in . .”

“First of all, you and I both know that some pimply faced ticket attendant is no match for your sweet talking ways . . and besides, not a concern if we get there early and catch up. That way we’re not being those people who chatter over the movie, yanno?”

“Those people suck,”

“Exactly . . .”

So we met up with plenty of time to spare. Jen gifted me a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup hot chocolate, which is way more sinfully stupid than it sounds. After she showed me the ‘rock’, we got down to the business of giving each other shit.

I asked her if Ryan has any kids, and she said he has one son from his previous marriage. “But he’s fifteen, which is kind of a big deal for me since every time I hear some bratty six year old throwing a tantrum in public, I think there’s no way . . .” Jen said.

“That’s very mature. I usually just think that dad’s penis was evil and mom’s vagina was broken,”

“I am at peace with being a selfish bitch,”

“You know what I’m at peace with? The idea of a meteor crashing down to earth while the world is sleeping,”

“Well more than half the world would not be sleeping, and it would be kind of horrible . .” Jen said.

“Yes, and I am at peace with the idea that I would be on the sleeping side of the planet when it happened,” I said.

“I would want to be awake, and at a Dave Matthews concert or something,” Jen said.

“Oh my fucking God,”

“Why do you hate Dave Matthews?”

“I don’t. Because to hate infers an emotional investment, and I don’t invest myself in pretentious monkeys who believe their lyrics should be amended into the ten commandments,”

“Nope, no hate at all . .”

Jen’s phone chimes and it’s Ryan. She puts it on speaker so that introductions can be made in the new old fashioned way. The dude sounds just like a movie star, and Jen’s eyes light up when he speaks.

“My man, first of all . . . condolences. I would like to tell you things will get better but I’m a horrible liar . . .” I say.

The two of them crack up in unison, like little kids who share a secret no one else in the world is privy to. Jen’s face scrunches up and when it irons itself out I can see the little girl she used to be. The one who believed in fairy tales and princes and happy endings. And inside this wonderful moment, flowers are blooming in the middle of winter and the world is making sense. I am smitten with these two, and it turns me into a ball of mush and it steals my snarky retorts.

I hate when that happens.







Top 5 Heroes Of The Week

Christmas week is in full swing, with a new year warming up in the bullpen. Of course, our collective dream home of 2019 is going to be filled with a lot of the same furniture, like . .

  • A partial government shut down thanks to a wall that has absolutely nothing to do with Pink Floyd.
  • Historic stock market rallies that fail to assuage investors, who’ve seen this roller-coaster act plunge off the tracks before.
  • Concern that the Russians have developed a hyper-sonic missile that travels faster than Kim Kardashian’s credit card.
  • The burrito of a federal deficit which stood at $779 billion on October 31st- the end of the fiscal year. Administration officials attribute the seventeen percent spike in one calendar year to fake news, fake fur, fake grass, fake breasts and CNN’s Jim Acosta.
  • Security breaches are the next gen pickpockets, only much more insidious. The good news is that nobody was affected by the K-Mart and Sears breaches since nobody shops there. The bad news is plenty of peeps shop Whole Foods, Saks Fifth Avenue, Best Buy, Under Armour and Forever 21. Those brands are but a few of the more than two dozen that were tapped.

But never mind all that shit, there’s a celebration to be had! Because it’s Friday, and that means I’m doing a Heroes post. And okay . . that’s not really cause for celebration. Anyways, cheers for the weekend!

5- The Andy Griffith Show called . . They want their hokum back- I’ve become dreadfully indifferent when it comes to politicians, seeing as how they’ve transformed the tenets of democracy into a private porn stash. But this Mike Huckabee, he really pisses me off.

Huck went and did it again this week when he blamed the press for bashing Trump’s Christmas Eve phone conversation with a seven year old girl. During the call, Trump asked her if she still believed in Santa Claus “. . . because at seven, it’s marginal . . right?”

The press reported on the Trump exchange, after which social media moved the needle. Huckabee’s disingenuous assertion that the press weaponized the comment is dumber than Cher’s next boyfriend (That’s not a knock on Cher. It’s a knock on mimbos). “You never can find a way that President Trump will make some of the people in the press happy,” He said.

The Foxies and Huck chuckled over how Trump didn’t “boil a bunny” whilst ignoring the fact this wasn’t a navigated conspiracy, it was a democratized response. I can imagine that Huckabee would’ve been calling Obama a Christian bashing progressive for saying the same fucking thing.

4- 200 Yutes Sing Songs of Love –More than 200 youths in Roanoke, Virginia were involved in a brawl as the result of a song that ignited local gang tensions. My first thought: Kids still roller skate?

3- Alex Bregman: Drive Thru King- Bregman is an outfielder for the Houston Astros who went around to fast food joints in the Houston area on Christmas Eve and gave tips to all the workers. Some would say Well sure, he makes a video where he’s Top Hatting his pin money. Big whoop!. But I say Dude could be making it rain in a strip club, but instead he’s penning a Dickens vine. Don’t hate the player, love his game.

2- His Very Own Truman Show- Trump says if he doesn’t get funding for his wall, no deal. He also says federal workers support his decision to furlough their asses if he doesn’t get funding for the world’s longest handball court. He also says Harrison Ford was the second best President ever.

Seeing as how Trump’s ability to appreciate the greater good is smaller than his hands, Chuck Schumer should choreograph an agreement. Enlist fuzzy language assuring Trump that he will receive ‘A Vermilion Dollars For Completion of Wall’. He’ll have no clue that this means monopoly money. Next, arrange a face to face with the United States Superintendent of Walls, Clark Griswold, who will present Trump with a lifetime pass to Wally World. As they dine on KFC, Griswold will present ‘live footage’ of the wall under construction- which, in actuality, will be a scale model built with Lego blocks.

Government shutdown over.

1- Yes Dayami, there is a Santa Claus- A week and a half before Christmas, Randy Heiss of Patagonia, Arizona was out for a hike when he spotted a red balloon strewn across the grass. Upon closer inspection, he found a note attached to the ribbon of the balloon. It was a Christmas wish list for Santa, written in Spanish.

The town of Patagonia is located near the border to Mexico, and eventually Heiss was able to pin down the coordinates of the balloon’s flight pattern to Nogales, Mexico- some twenty miles southwest of his ranch. With help from his wife and an AM radio station in Nogales, they found the author of the wish list: An eight year old girl named Dayami. A meeting was arranged with Heiss and his wife making the forty five minute drive to Nogales to deliver Christmas presents to Dayami and her little sister. Since the little ladies still believe in Santa, the Heisses introduced themselves as his ‘helpers‘.

The Wall could not be reached for comment.