A Million Miles From Camelot

I figured out what it was. This inability to build a lucid narrative on Trump; an affliction I’ve been toting around since November of last year when reality TV met up with the real thing. It’s because to talk about the man would simply lead me down a rabbit hole whose confined space would force me to rant instead of reason. I would equivocate rather than elucidate. In other words, I would be screaming textually rather than arguing sensibly.

And then this past weekend happened. I was busy as all get out, but who can run away from that kind of news? I mean, really. There’s no place to run and hide when something like Charlottesville happens.  And when it happens inside of an already turbulent time, it kind of feels like Mephistopheles scored the deed to our backyard.

Horrible events such as this leave you with a dull ache- full of hopelessness and dread, for what might come next. Because the worst days always seem to have a sequel just waiting to be unleashed, especially nowadays. To be a true believer in this day and age is akin to being accused of witchcraft in Salem back in the day. You’re a freakish misfit to the villagers. And I guess that’s where I came to understand why it is that I have been silent for so long on Trump.

Out of disbelief? Partly. Out of dread for what comes next? Mostly. Out of fear that I wouldn’t be able to stitch the right nouns to the proper verbs and make it cohesive enough sounding without coming off as a fraternal member of the Young Turks? Definitely.

Until now. Until Charlottesville. And I really hate the fucking timing of this post, because it means that Saturday happened. It’s like a meteor crashed down on my clueless skull and opened me up to the truth of the matter, and how to express it.

I don’t believe in blaming others unless they are directly responsible, which is another reason why I couldn’t bring myself to write on Trump for the last ten months. Because I most certainly wasn’t blaming him for all those votes he got. And I wasn’t even blaming all the people who thought he was the best idea this country had left, even if they were woefully wrong on that point.

No, I blamed the people such as myself. The ones who voted for Hilary and thought that was all it was going to take, and all the others who didn’t think she needed their vote to win by a slam dunk. I was one of those people who made fun of a Trump presidency, over and over and over again. Until November happened, and all the humor of such a thing became an Orwellian story line come to life.

And now, none of it is funny or irreverent. Now, it’s just a series of piss poor comedic skits with no punch lines. Now it’s just a sad and lonely and interminably long truth.

I wish I had some pretty words to dole out, on how we all have to come together and how peace and unity is the only way. But right now, it feels as if that “I Have A Dream” speech by Martin Luther King happened inside another world. Right now, it feels as if there is more of Charlotteville where Saturday came from. Because we have a President who never met a middle ground he didn’t blow to smithereens. And now, he has the guns to do just that, in more ways than the horrible one.

I can’t blame Trump for what James Alex Fields did in Charlottesville. Because to do so would be to buy in to the trade off of accountability that has allowed us to arrive at this mess in time. Fields made the decision to kill and injure when he plowed his car into a group of people. Just as those Nazi’s of another mother country and the white nationalists with their Tiki torches made the decision to be moral degenerates long before Trump came into office.

My problem with Trump has nothing to do with the actions of these disenfranchised losers. I don’t blame Trump for their seething hatred and bitter ignorance. Trump didn’t make these people who they are.

My problem with Trump is that he accepted it.

The Oscar Recap, or Stuff White People Like

Oscar audienceToo soon?

I sure as hell hope so, because pissing off white people has become my new favorite hobby- replacing my poisonous scorpion collection (I donated them to Starbucks) and Pig Latin word puzzles.

I’m not gonna pile on by scrounging for a cheap laugh, but . . if you insist, here’s one. Watching the Oscars is sort of like showing up at the DMV in Scandinavia; a sea of white people sitting around for hours, waiting for their number to be called and secretly hating the people who get chosen instead of them.

Chris Rock as Oscar host makes sense any year, but this one just happened to be timed perfectly. His best line came when he observed that he wouldn’t even have been present if Oscar hosts were nominated. His forgettable came with all those Kevin Hart references. He did a solid job of lampooning the monochromatic assemblage without getting all preachy on us. I’m not going to recite the list of deserving nominees that went missing last night since Christy did a spot on job of that in her Oscars post.

Before I get down with my take on last night’s winners, here’s one of my Oscarvations. Yes, I combined Oscar with observation. Because I feel the GOP ain’t doing enough to fuck up the English language as it is.

Cayman’s Oscarvation #1: 

The Red Carpet is more useless than Marie Osmond’s lingerie drawer. Prance, preen, pose and repeat . . a thousand times over. Every now and then, a celebrity is asked an innocuous question, which is answered in equal parts buttercream logic and dry vermouth belches. Por ejemplo.

“Jennifer, you look amazing! What are you hoping for tonight?”

That’s not a question, that’s a verbal blowjob. Let Cayman have a turn at it, and this is how I would roll.

“Jennifer, you are looking so creamy that Neil Patrick Harris got wood. But ‘fess up girlfriend, you hate ALL these bitches, don’t you?”

It would be the only question I asked. Otherwise known as, worth it.

I’ve taken seven award winners to pick on. Why seven? Because it’s a favorite number of mine. Because it was a great flick. Because Mickey Mantle transformed it. But mostly because there are way too many fucking awards given out. It’s like Ryan Reynold’s endless abs . . . enough already!

Best Supporting Actress:

Alicia Vikander is from Sweden, and she won for her portrayal of a wife whose husband is preparing to undergo a sex change operation in a movie-The Danish Girl– with an all white (or close enough) cast. That’s called staying on script, right?  

Best Actor: 

The bear made an appearance last night! Understandably, he wasn’t seated anywhere near Leo. That bear spoke for all of us when it was ripping Leo to shreds. But I guess you have to be a polar bear to get any buzz . . and for that you can blame Al Gore. In other news . . . Leo scored an Oscar, and he used the moment to thank his parents and . . of course, climate change. I keep having this recurring nightmare that he runs for President in 2020, so I’m thinking a zombie apocalypse would come in handy in a couple years. 

Cayman’s Oscarvation #2: 

You can only be a seat filler at the Oscars if you have a family member who works for the Academy or you slept with Jared Leto. That cancels me out, seeing as how I don’t have a relative who works for the Academy and Jared ain’t returning my calls.

Best Supporting Actor: 

For anyone who thinks Sylvester Stallone was a silly choice for best supporting actor, I ask you to check out the current Presidential favorite and get back to me on the idea of silly. So he lost to a dude named Mark Rylance and all I gotta say is Fuck Whitey! 

Cayman’s Oscarvation #3:

Question: What do the Oscars and the NBA have in common?

Answer: Nothing, you racist bastard!

Best Actress: 

Is there a whiter name than Brie Larson? So I went to the Black Person Name Generator (Yes, it’s a thing) and I gave her little white ass a new name to go along with her Oscar. Congratulations Jafreese!

Cayman’s Oscarvation #4

Donald Trump doesn’t need to build a wall to keep people out. He just needs to consult the Academy.

Best Director:

A white dude . . . phew! (Well, not exactly… but white enough.)

Cayman’s Oscarvation #5

Louis CK killed it.

Best Animated Film: 

I think we ALL chose Inside Out. Yanno, it’s really kinda cool when everyone agrees. It sorta makes me feel like . . zzzzzzzzz. Huh? What? I nodded off there . . . what was I saying? (Hey, the actors in Inside Out weren’t all white . . it’s called progress.)

Cayman’s Oscarvation Bonus: 

When Joe Biden walked onto the stage, I thought Donald Trump’s rebels had stormed the White House in a coup and the Vice President was searching for safe haven. Instead, he was there as an advocate for victims of sexual assault. Lady Gaga followed Biden’s heartfelt message with a spine tingling rendition of the Oscar nominated song, Till It Happens To YouAnd really, they could have closed the show right there and nobody would have complained. Except for Leo, but he doesn’t count.

Best “Pick the Oscars With Us” Guesser:

Nancytex, who somehow got a whopping 19 out of 24 categories correct in our “Pick the Winners” Oscar Event. The next closest came in at 13. Nancy is either: really smart, really lucky, really sleeping with someone at Pricewaterhousecoopers, or all of the above. She missed “Best Picture” but I don’t think she’s too upset about that, since she picked The Revenant even though she commented, “It pains me to no end that The Revenant, and Leo, will both win. Ugh.” Christy will recap the data later this week for the two or three of you who geek out over that stuff.

Welp, that’s a wrap for another year. I would like to thank God. White people never thank God, unless they’re running for political office. I also want to thank Christy for her deliciously snarky Oscar post last week. In the words of Mia Wallace, she was disco. And I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Spike Lee for following through on his vow not to show up. It was a strong statement by a legendary director . . and umm, has he ever actually attended the Oscars? I don’t know . . that he’s ever shown up. But still, strong statement bro . . fight the power!

Hey man, it’s never too soon.



The angels are having a hell of a week

They say these things come in threes and after the last week and change, I’m beginning to think there is some cosmic truth to such a thing.

First it was Bowie. He was the maestro of my younger days, back when big hair, attitude and cute girls were a matter of waking up. One of my favorite Bowie moments is from the summer of ’84. I was seventeen and right in the middle of having the whole world figured out. I’d gone into town with a girl and we ended up going back to my Aunt’s apartment building in Long Island City. We grabbed some Chinese and a six pack and I figured out the piss poor lock to the roof and we made camp up there, me and her and Bowie with the panorama of Manhattan smiling back at us from across the East River. We ate and we drank and we laughed and then we slow danced to Bowie, and sometimes it feels like all of that happened on Mars. And sometimes I can still feel her pressed against me as Bowie did his thing and we moved into ours with the Trade Center keeping watch. It was always going to be that way, and Bowie was always going to take us home.

Then Alan Rickman went and left us. This brilliant scoundrel of a man was on loan to us from the other side of the pond for works that spanned decades, creating moments that will only prosper with time. I was remiss- unfortunately so- for not including Rickman in my recent list of “Bad Guys I Love”, but the truth is, Rickman was nobody’s foil. It speaks to his incredible talents that he could not be typecast in spite of the fact he made a wonderful badass in flicks such as Die Hard and Harry Potter. His work in movies such as Love ActuallyAlice in Wonderland, Sweeney Todd, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Bob Roberts- to list just a few- stands as testament to his range and his mercurial ability to take the words and transform them into flesh and blood and heart and soul. As with all great thespians, his voice does not go quiet simply because he is gone. His talents get to be enjoyed by the rest of the galaxy, because now he’s on loan from all of us.

Glenn Frey was from a time when songs were so much more than a collection of lyrics and melodies pieced together into an agreeable enough thing. Frey sang stories, great big ones like Hotel California that made us think on the mysteries; and simple ones like Take it Easy that throw us back to a time when picking up and taking off was a very real part of our everyday existence. Frey could sing a small club to closing time and he could close down an eighty thousand seat stadium the very same way. Because his message and his talent was honest as a summer rain, as strong as a prayer in the desperate hours. His ability to take us on a trip to wherever he was going speaks to the magical qualities of music, and why it matters so very much. I was emailing Christy when she brought up Frey’s passing, and I could feel the sadness in the brief passage she shared with me on how much his music meant to her as a young girl. She talked about how she and her Aunt would belt out Eagles songs in her Aunt’s jeep as they moved down the road and I remember thinking to myself how beautiful a thing it is, to have memories that come out of nowhere and hang on like that. Forever.

The angels won the week. I’d damn them for stealing from us, but I can’t rightly say I blame them for wanting such fine company.


Mars, Venus and Caitlyn

I have to begin with a heartfelt thank you (Yes, I can be heartfelt) to all my peeps out there who reached out and sent good wishes my way. I am reminded all the time as to what a great thing technology is, if only because it allows you to interact with people you otherwise would have never gotten to know. As for me? Still kicking, on my third specialist in a month. The BP isn’t budging so we’ve been looking into possible reasons for this. I keep telling the doctors that it’s because I’m developing super powers and my mortal body is rejecting my organic technology . . . to which they replied with another referral, this time to a psychiatrist. I’m game, as long as she’s hot.  

And now on with the show.

Today’s post is all about the girls. Or guys. Both? Of course, I’m talking about Caitlyn Jenner, the most hyped set of heels since Angelina Jolie made her big screen debut in that movie about the model whose title I can’t recall because I just kept watching the lesbian scene, over and over again. Oh wait, I think the name of the movie was Gia, and I highly recommend it even if I have no blessed idea how the rest of the flick goes.

Caitlyn Jenner is a fascinating case study. Think about it, we’re talking about a world class, gold medal winning Olympian during the Ford administration who lived with a secret for nearly forty years. He was a Wheaties cover boy, the ultimate man’s man . . . in our eyes. We had no idea as to the daily struggle Bruce Jenner was involved in every single day from the time he became a household name to that Vanity Fair cover. If you wrote up that script, you’d end up with more slammed doors than a Mormon Church salesman.

Admittedly, I made light of Bruce Jenner’s estrogen-centric personality many times over the years. I once wrote that Bruce Jenner was a closet NOW member, which only goes to show that Nostradamus and George Carlin must be in my family tree. Of course I was being irreverent in my observation; basing it entirely on Jenner’s submissive deference to the patriarchal Kris Jenner. I like cheap laughs and I cannot lie. Soooo, now that he has become she, I’m not going to construct a pretense that I like Caitlyn. Because really, if I believed Bruce to be a self absorbed weenie whose fame allowed him a pass, why would I change my opinion just because she started wearing heels?

That said, I do applaud her courage. It’s a hell of a thing to live a life you don’t really feel, and it’s a hell of an accomplishment to come at us with the truth two thirds of the way through a testosterone injected narrative, and to do it on a stage, in front of scores of athletes- most of whom share a rather narrow viewpoint when it comes to matters of gender and preference. I didn’t see her speech only because I refuse to watch the ESPY’S- an awards show whose very existence is yet another sign of the impending apocalypse. But Jenner nailed it from all accounts, and good for her.

Caitlyn Jenner is the rare exception to the rule in that she possesses the ability to be a symbol- a real deal one- for change. Symbols rarely have the ability to gestate. Typically, they behave very much like a supernova in that they burn brightly and then explode into a million tiny pieces before the meaning can foster a movement. In most instances all we’re left with is pixie dust and the mostly unrealistic wishes they engender. Caitlyn Jenner- for all the warts of her predecessor- has a chance to stick. Does this mean she’s going to morph from a media whore into a stoic figure? Fat chance. And it doesn’t matter, because all that’s really gonna matter are the actions taken in moving this gender discussion forward. You gotta start somewhere and she’s doing that.

Of course, being the childishly adorable mutt that I am, I can’t help but to wonder about things that have absolutely nothing to do with the big picture quality of this moment. Like, what would my name be if I were a woman?

Mia. Definitely Mia. It’s succinct, cute and versatile. You can see Mia becoming a doctor or a stripper. Hell, she could work her way through school as a stripper, after which she dons the white suit. Whereas Margaret is strictly PhD and Dallas should be written in glitter- Mia can be both, after which she writes a tome and becomes a talk show host. It’s the dream, right?

As far as accoutrements go, I would be a HUGE Coach fan. My collection wouldn’t rival Kardashian, don’t be silly, but it would probably result in divorce papers once I bankrupt my first hubby- who would also be a doctor (We met when I was stripping.) Skirts would be my thing. I’m a dude who’s pushing fifty and I am fed up with pants as it is. Skirts would grant me the presupposition that I was a classy dame whilst hiding the truth of the matter- that I’m just a slut who’s always ready to hike ’em up and get it on.

I’ll finally be able to admit that yes! I have fat days!

I would be all about hoop earrings and tramp stamps and cranberry lipstick (cranberry matches my mood, I read it in Cosmo). I would start a Vera Farmiga fan page that became so popular it gained me an audience with Her. Best case scenario involves me achieving bestie status- which I can only assume involves pillow fights, eating S’mores in lingerie and hours long tickle fights that end in slow motion kissing sessions (I know it’s predictable, but if Gloria Steinem taught this boy anything, it’s to dream big, dammit!).

The truth is, I don’t care whether I come back as a man or a woman in my next life. I just hope I have the courage and the voice that Caitlyn displayed in her speech. It’s pretty ironic, in that she might end up having more balls than Bruce ever did.

Too soon?

The Dolphins moving to London? I’ll help them pack.

When it comes to entertainment, I have developed the “Sean Penn Formula”. Penn is an amazing talent whose political views make less sense to me than cheeseburger in a can.

The formula goes like this: When it comes to entertainers, I separate all personal accouterments  (Such as their views on politics, religion or baseball) from their talents. This allows me to enjoy the magic they deliver unencumbered from the really stupid shit they believe in. Because let’s face it, there’s lot of stupid shit to go around. From Scientology to blood vial necklaces to Sean Penn’s affinity for socialist thugs in third world countries.

This week, I was forced to apply some SPF to my love of the Miami Dolphins. Because while I’m willing to deal with piss poor football, I don’t suffer bad guys. And Richie Incognito is a bad guy.

He wasn’t brought in by Miami because he was a model citizen. He was brought in because he can play the game at an exceptionally high level. That said, his talents were not exceptional enough to prevent the Rams and Bills from cutting bait with him. Why? Because he’s a bad guy. 

Now the Dolphins are singing the praises of Incognito to such an extent, you would swear the Norwegian Nobel Committee screwed up by not considering the fat bastard. His teammates will insist he’s not a racist, that he’s not a bully. And who am I to disagree? Although Warren Sapp sure can. Sapp wasn’t recognizing Incognito as his brother of another color after this incident.

Tannehill and Hartline claim they never had a problem with Incognito, and I happen to believe them. But sweetheart platitudes can’t wipe away Incognito’s rap sheet, which goes all the way back to his playing days at Nebraska. He’s been a bad dude for a very long time. He was afforded the benefit of a ton of doubts concerning his makeup because he could play football, simple as that.

His kind of talent presupposes good character, it doesn’t warrant it. And the distinction is not one to be taken lightly, even if that’s exactly what happens in major league sports. Vehicular homicide and dog killing and screaming the N word in a public place will get you fired in any profession. In major league sports, these are speed bumps to the next chance.

Check out this video of the team leader and all around great guy in action. Understand that his African American teammates had no problem with this rant. Also understand that if any of the patrons or employees in the bar did have a problem with it? Well, tough.

Incognito is what you get when you enlist the lowest common denominator to front your franchise. If Philbin and the players don’t like the shit they’re taking as a result, then stop blaming the media and start blaming Jeff Ireland- the genius who signed Incognito.

I don’t know what compelled Jonathan Martin to leave rather than stand his ground. But to claim that Martin’s inability to stick up for himself created this mess is to conveniently ignore the fact that this mess doesn’t happen if Incognito is playing in Jacksonville instead of Miami.

If I were to place blame in a particular order, I would go this way.

1-Front office
3- Coaching staff

The front office is most to blame. Listen, if you buy a piranha for your aquarium, don’t be surprised when it eats your hand off. Incognito was available back in 2010 because he was damaged goods and the Dolphins front office is really good at acquiring damaged goods. Remember, I’m a Dolphins fan. I know. If this debacle doesn’t get Jeff Ireland fired, it’s only because he’s got pictures that carry more weight than his draft choices.

Incognito is number two. He’s a big dumb animal who possesses the temperament of a Rhino in heat. His teammates call him a leader? Cool. So was Hitler.

As for the coaches who may or may not have pushed Incognito to ‘toughen’ Martin up? Hey guys, a little more smartening up and a little less toughening up and maybe the Dolphins can go outside to play in January.

As a Dolphins fan, I’ve suffered a lot. We’ve gone through a thousand quarterbacks since Marino. We haven’t been to the Super Bowl since Reagan was a lame duck manager, and we haven’t won a Super Bowl since Watergate was just a hotel.

This is the worst of it. Not even close.

The lesson of Trayvon Martin

“You ever been to the Grand Canyon? Its pretty, but thats not the thing of it. You can sit on the edge of that big ol’ thing and those rocks… the cliffs and rocks are so old… it took so long for that thing to get like that… and it ain’t done either! It happens right there while you’re watching it. It’s happening right now as we are sitting here in this ugly town. When you sit on the edge of that thing, you realize what a joke we people really are… what big heads we have thinking that what we do is gonna matter all that much… thinking that our time here means didly to those rocks. Just a split second we have been here, the whole lot of us. That’s a piece of time so small to even get a name. Those rocks are laughing at me right now, me and my worries… Yeah, its real humorous, that Grand Canyon. Its laughing at me right now. You know what I felt like? I felt like a gnat that lands on the ass of a cow chewing his cud on the side of the road that you drive by doing 70 mph.”

– From the movie Grand Canyon

Out of a laundry list of memorable scenes from the Lawrence Kasdan flick, I keep coming back to this one. Danny Glover and Kevin Kline are blowing off steam after Glover’s character- Simon- comes to his rescue. Inside that moment, they were just two guys talking about the problems of the world, figuring it out as best they could. A world they were sharing the space of, but one which possessed a racial chasm of wide and complicated truths and consequences. Inside their peaceful summit, they reduced the mean thick into a palatable solution, resigned to the fact that its balance was a fleeting bask. Inside the answers to their questions, their differences were unifying, not divisive.

And therein lies the grand canyon of which I thought on over the last couple of days. The screaming gap which still exists between two cultures whose shared existence is fraught with self made obstacles. Let’s face it, this country does a bang up job of talking up how we want to democratize every little corner of the world while conveniently ignoring the lack of democracy in our every day language, gestures and deeds. Asking whether Trayvon Martin should have been followed on that night is a fair question. It may be an unpleasant reminder as to how far we still have to go, but it’s a fair question nonetheless.

Say it would have been my son walking home that night. Would we be having this conversation? They were the same age, basically the same height and weight. Excepting for the color of their skin, you could have stood them next to each other and called it even. Of course, you can’t discount color. Not when it transforms Trayvon from a strapping young man looking to get home to a menacing thug looking to find trouble. While I understand this narrow minded description of Trayvon possessed the context of a criminal trial’s unforgiving devices, I’m also well aware it exists independently of a courtroom.

Trayvon Martin fell into that canyon that divides us. His loss has to be our loss, it has to matter that much. It should matter, to everyone. It’s not just the latest sad story, it’s his story. We have to look to Trayvon Martin for what he can become.

Our lesson.

Absence of malice isn’t a defense

HibbertI’m not gonna pile on Ron Hibbert for insensitive remarks he makes at a press conference. Who among us hasn’t uttered patently offensive crap while simultaneously possessing no desire to offend? Hey, I’ve got a glass house post right here that deals me out of judging anyone on the matter.

What I can have a problem with is Hibbert’s confounding inability to follow the protocol that was drilled into his cranium at those media seminars after he was handed the keys to his brand new NBA life. Yeah, his NBA power suit came with an owner’s manual that laid things out from the get. It goes something like this.

When you feel the need to say stupid shit, make sure you’re speaking . . . .

A) Off the record
B) In the locker room
C) At the club (As long as cell phones are not present)

Airing out the malodorous thoughts in your head when hot mics are involved is akin to passing around a hookah pipe at your kid’s show and tell.  It will fetch giggles aplenty, but it will not end well.

Hibbert understands full well what happens when you throw the word ‘homo’ around, even in jest. The time and place sure as hell ain’t a press conference full of Saturday night deadlines begging for a Sunday morning chew toy quote. Which is what Hibbert gave them when he went blue boy with his material. I believe him when he claims no malice was involved. But he can’t expect a free pass for his lousy judgment and he didn’t get one.

I’m not defending the guy. I’m simply wondering why it is that the media feels compelled to consider the opinions of athletes on matters of propriety and sexual preference when these guys can’t even figure out when to speak up and when to shut up.

I mean, really.

We fight for the fine places we make in this world

This blog is where I come when I feel a soapbox moment happening, or to loose an idea or to rage over some miniature catastrophe with tongue firmly planted in one cheek while the vodka drenched olives hold tightly to the other. And then last week happened, and so I don’t feel much like camping out as Cayman Thorn today.

There was little Nichole Kristine Cable, who we came to know inside the desperate hours of her too short life. She only got fifteen years because a sick bastard lied her away from the house, and there’s no way you can wrap your head around this case without wanting to scream. My initial reaction is to curse the door that our connected world has opened. But I realize it’s not that easy. I realize that the worst laid plans of people do not concern themselves with convenience so much as they concern themselves with doing bad things, no matter the avenue they have to take to get there.

My reasoning self was justified and my scream stifled when I witnessed the rolled up sleeves I found across WordPress during the search for Nichole. Bloggers pressing their re-blog button, and showing me why a virtual neighborhood can matter every bit as much as the white picket fence variety. Hey, the only sense this world really makes, is that which we give to it.

What happened in Oklahoma is a humbling reminder that we don’t have the last word, despite our top of the food chain existence. Because the truth is, Mother Nature’s name is on the deed and we’re just renting. The proof of this was supplied by pictures of a town that went the way of a bad science fiction ending. And so it was heartening to see all the help that moved in just as swiftly as the tornado which had taken so much away. Cayman Thorn and I would agree on one count. Give.

I’ve never been to Colorado, but I have a solid education on the place thanks to a gal who possesses more back story on the Rocky Mountains than Sacajawea. Susie Lindau is a renaissance woman of the hottest order, with a To Do list that runs chapters long and never goes stale. She’s a one woman band, whose wild ride blog treats readers to heaping spoonfuls of love on everything from skiing to tennis to Christmas card making.

Susie shared her reality with all of us in a post this week. And I can’t go somber on this, because if I do, she’s going to fly in simply to kick my ass and fly back out. And there is nothing worse than having to pick someone up at the airport just so they can kick your ass.

Kicking ass is what Susie is going to be doing to the C word. Seriously, you mess with the bull, you get the horns AND Colorado, AND Danny. And all of us.  If you need more backup than that? You’re a shit screenwriter rehashing an ’80s cop show who’s hogging up all the Wi-Fi at your 7-11, so nuke that Hot Pocket and take the Asst Managers job at Target already!

As for backup, we got your back, Susie. All of us, from here to there and every other single place in between.

We love you. Much and always. For teaching us the one simple thing in a world gone mad.

Love wins.

This ‘New Normal’ Is Getting Old


For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept to the same routine when I lay my head on the pillow. The darkness takes my eyesight away and then I’m filling in the blankness with a silent conversation. The details are different, the idea’s the same.

I hope tomorrow is a better day.

Admittedly, there are nights when the words are sparse and my conviction too damn tired a thing. But then a day like Monday comes along and I remember how these conversations I’m still having every single night are tethered all the way back to a time when the world seemed easier to figure out.

And then it seems more important than ever to say something, anything. And so I did. And the conversation I had in the silence of a dark that began in the middle of the afternoon in Boston, went on for a time. As my thoughts tumbled through the trembling emptiness, I thought on the piece Howard Burkes wrote on Tuesday morning about April being the cruelest month. It seems an unfair thing that such a hopeful month has gone so damned ugly.

That’s what the ‘new normal’ is about. A whole lot of ugly.

United We StandThe monsters who stole Monday afternoon are not a national claim, they’re an individual curse. Their zip codes didn’t murder anyone. I won’t wish some country on the other side of the world a fiery death just the same as I won’t wish it on the state Timothy McVeigh was born in, which happens to be the same as mine. Hey, alls I can do is lay my head on the pillow and hope that tomorrow makes more sense.

And when I’m thinking inside the darkness of this new normal, I’m gonna borrow me some old school. Because, really . . . These terrorists can dream up horrible plots but they can’t dream up the better ideas of a world. They can write manifestos on what ails our society, but they can’t write a fig on what makes us strong. They can steal hope incrementally, by owning certain days of a calendar. But their tactics are hopeless over the long run. Because when we get shoved, we’re no longer just Boston or New York or Pennsylvania or London or Spain. We’re together. And we’re gonna pick ourselves up and we’re gonna keep going. Because it’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon.

All they can do is try and take our hope.

They can’t have it.

(As this Yankees fan can attest… they messed with the wrong town. Love you Boston. Really…I do.)