Apparently after a certain age – say, whatever entitles you to “old fogey” status (and I am certain you can name endearing features of your own that qualify) – the political landscape becomes the sole focus of one’s being.  Religious outings, restaurants and grandchildren fade by comparison. As always American politics are notably alluring. The diversion is especially prominent during the Trump realm (or should I say something like anno Trumpe UNO).  There is little that has lately inspired such divide between a nation than the current government.  In a nutshell everything memorable about Trump begins with him maligning someone, generally blaming the Democrats for everything, followed by behaving like an uncontrollable child with a psychological problem. Above all a heap of lies and vacuous assertions designed only to sustain his unwitting presidency.  Meanwhile the bulk of the American public is in shame.

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A not uncommon ejaculation is the enthusiasm devoted to the changing seasons – spring, summer, winter and fall.  Naturally it is a gusto which notably survives among “snowbirds“. For the past many years we have spent 6 months alternately above and below the 49° parallel; specifically, Ontario in the summer and Florida in the winter. This means we have had to endure contaminated versions of both autumn and spring because it is during those seasons we customarily travel to and from our destination. The change of seasons occurs obviously at different times depending upon one’s latitude. Even tolerating the shifting nature of seasons at autumn and spring, there is a technical glitch with the winter scene because the vegetation is radically different from our own in Canada.  This adds to the singularity of the winter experience which is primarily consigned to palm trees and other exotic sub-tropical plants.

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The world awoke this morning to a reality check the likes of which erstwhile TV entertainer Donald J. Trump probably never imagined! That is, he probably never dreamt it would affect him. Now both he and his current wife from Slovenia are infected with COVID-19. I have to say the irony of Trump getting the disease was more than most could handle without a grimace! The addition of this further national and international confusion (just think how his friend Michael Pence must be writhing) does however raise to the point of alarm the very grave spectre of this plague. The only advantage I see arising from this turn of events – aside from the aforesaid vengeance –  is a slight improvement in a similar reality check by those American citizens who previously argued a case of fake news, false medical reports and constitutional violation.

What is pride exactly? Pride is a lie we believe about ourselves, entitling us to more than we actually deserve, whether material or praise. Pride is the subconscious belief that you are in the place of God, the belief that you determine your own destiny and the conditions declaring how good you are.

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Earlier this morning while fulfilling my daily athletic régime; which is to say, while bicycling in my fat-wheeled touring model complete with abundant seat and metal basket along the erstwhile railway right-of-way I marvelled at the singular delight of mine to have “that magic feeling, nowhere to go“.

Out of college, money spent
See no future, pay no rent
All the money’s gone, nowhere to go
Any jobber got the sack
Monday morning, turning back
Yellow lorry slow, nowhere to go
But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go
Oh, that magic feeling
Nowhere to go, nowhere to go

Songwriters: John Lennon / Paul McCartney
You Never Give Me Your Money

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Last night Tuesday, September 29th, 2020 at 9:30 pm EST we watched the first televised presidential debate on CNN between Donald J. Trump (Republican incumbent) and Joe Biden (Democrat nominee). It proved to be an unqualified error to call last evening’s production a debate. It began innocently enough as a display of party lines; but it quickly descended into a school yard scrap with a background of unintelligible shouting between the candidates and the moderator Chris Wallace of Fox News. Normally the Trump exhibition of slights and rudeness – and his relentless conviction to maintaining dominion over everyone within his sphere – would be quite entertaining in a perverse sort of way.  But with the presidency of the United States of America at stake in full bloom before the entire nation it was necessarily disheartening to watch Trump twist and writhe in his pool of vindictive ammunition.

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Scoring is not restricted to a Law School Admission Test. Nor is it confined to the lascivious proceedings of an adventurous adolescent. Indeed between either pole – the lofty or the risible – there is little that does not somehow involve a score. Every child is acquainted with “marks” in public school – whether in the classroom or on the playing field. While university entrance exams may be avoided, what matters are your high school grades (barring an unrelated athletic scholarship).

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Not long before he died my father reportedly said, “I might as well be dead; I’m just a nuisance“. Granted he was 94 years of age, in a veterans’ retirement home, virtually bed-bound and threatened by renal failure. Apart from the philosophic issue surrounding the utility of what he said, my father was normally inclined to be kind and generous to others.  I viewed that mournful expression of his illustrative of the underlying feature of charity. A more curious recollection concerning my father is that he had the courtesy to die on April 8th – which is my sister’s birthday and therefore easy to recall – but which more importantly from my vantage is its alignment with my retirement from the practice of law.

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It’s such a warm and breezy late summer day, yet so manifestly autumnal with the flying orange and yellow leaves dropping from the trees! My mounting complaints of old age noticeably hindered me this morning when attempting to get going before another chime of the grandfather clock. With the assistance of Tylenol Arthritis and THC – plus a green apple en route –  I succeeded to mount the bicycle and to roll along the well-worn fine gravel path of the erstwhile railway right-of-way which trims the Mississippi River and borders vast open fields.

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It isn’t often I feel even remotely qualified to weigh in upon the subject of gastronomy. There are endless magazines, television shows and scientific reports which seem adequately to address every possible element of what constitutes not only the practice or art of cooking but also of choosing or eating good food. Though I have a limited but satisfying repertoire of recipes, it would constitute a misrepresentation to say I am a cook.  First and foremost I don’t actually read recipes.  Second, I am a robust chopper – meaning, I chop with as little effort as possible to secure bite-size pieces. Third, when it comes to eating, by far and away my favourite meal of the day is breakfast.

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Considering how much we pay for cars it occurs to me that feigning they’re not there, pretending they blend in with the wallpaper, is just short of outlandish!  Years ago I chatted with a fellow who drove his Rolls Royce across the continent from east to west.  Along the way he would stop at drive-in restaurants and pretend to be the chauffeur – just to avoid having to shelter himself from others who felt entitled to register their disapproval or jealousy of the worldly display. Unquestionably anyone whom I have known who bought a new car – whatever it was – was proud of it even consumed by it. The modern contraption is a mechanical and technical wonder! I have yet to surmount the pinnacle of current manufacturing achievement.  The further projected ascent to the electric hybrids is presently beyond my imagination.

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