Plowing Trump: Counter-Proposing a Way for Dems

I’ve payed attention to New York Times columnist @TomFriedman for years and like him a lot. He has another recent installment describing his support for Bloomberg over any other candidate, and this longtime Bernie hopeful is with him on that. I agree 100% with everything his thoughtful article laid out.

But Friedman’s current proposition has one flaw in its logic, it is a fatal one, and it is the same one that Liberals fully ignore when they take the rare step of what they think is interacting with Conservatives. (No kudos to Conservatives there, they’ve been dismissing Liberals for a lot longer.) The proposition ignores they way public office holders are elected by people who have pre-existing interests.

I’m not sure whether it’s possible for anyone to beat Trump in November. If it’s to be done, it has to be done with an awareness of the mechanics of the 2016 election. Clinton may have won the popular vote, but enough people voted for Trump in (in)correctly-gerrymandered places to create a new paradigm. What the DNC can’t do is put up another candidate that is so repulsive to rural Americans that they are galvanized to strike a match and set the entire federal government (as they understand it, including the constitution, as they don’t) afire.

We know they could. Because they did.

Trump’s not going to lose by the Left being right-no-I-mean-really-really-morally-right about issues. Friedman’s proposition would give DNC loyalists the same fuzzy feeling we all get from Remember The Titans. But the first thought that would come to analytical Conservatives and askance Independents like me would be that the DNC called a huddle and the fusillade is gonna be awesome. Which means the second thought of many of us, and the first thought of all MAGAs, will be that they’re under attack. That is the condition when the Teflon King most galvanizes his sycophantic legion.

The only needed adjustment could occur in that same closed-door meeting  we imagine preceding Friedman’s article, except for there to be cabinet positions open to a few good Republican names. They do exist. Fitzpatrick’s a very good one. So is John Kasich, and he’s got a world of name recognition. I’ll bet these reluctant party loyalists would make a private commitment with a promise of precisely-timed public announcement. I’ll bet they could even get Susan Collins, which would be a huge kidney shot to the RNC. It’s like E.J. Dionne, another analyst I admire, seems to say in his book:  “…leadership can come only from Democrats and disaffected Republicans courageous enough to stand up to Trump.”

That kind of scrum could plow the field.

I Like Funerals.

Bobby, the first of the five Matteson siblings, is a remarkable artist whose work is in the homes of most creative thinkers in the Northeastern United States, and many worldwide. (It was in mine 22 years before I ever had a conversation with him.) Susan had only just brought a close to 35 years of educating young minds. Gerry travels the world as an industrialist, and is as creative with the written word as he is successful in business. Billy, capable of exquisite craftsmanship, chose the career of maintenance man, which Bobby has said “is a description which falls far short of his abilities.” Barbara, 11 years younger than Billy, the delight of a family who’d thought they were done having children, operates a hair styling salon, teaches shotokan karate, and is my fiancée.

Last Thursday morning Billy succumbed to the surprise of esophageal varices. He was discovered by Rosalie, his partner of 25 years, after having died of blood loss. Thus began days of painful remembrance, phone calls, paperwork, writing, photo processing, and tears. It was difficult for anyone to gather the energy required to do any of these “necessities.”

Nevertheless I must acknowledge a realization: it comforted me a couple of days later when I caught myself actually looking forward to the funeral. Despite the fact that Barbara and I should have been miserably exhausted because neither of us could sleep the night before, I had more energy that morning than I’d had all week. I couldn’t help feeling positive at the thought of seeing those I’d come to know better in recent years, all gathered for the common purpose of offering respect to Billy. I am nearly fifty. At this point of thinking more clearly and worrying less about others’ judgements, I’ve elevated the thought to a conscious level: I like funerals. This despite the extraordinary heartache they bring to people I love.

Billy.

Tears were constant that day. But for every awkward moment so common to funerals, I saw a dozen hugs or handclasps or sentences that were warmer and firmer and longer and more sincere than we get to enjoy in everyday times. There were observations and descriptions and appreciations, much of which was by way of wisecracks at Billy’s expense. This irony was well suited for celebrating Billy in the pillared funeral parlor, properly set with photos of his many rescued dogs, his one-finger salute, and him in his underwear with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Few in the room hadn’t experienced Billy’s unique cocktail of machismo, crude humor, and sensitivity, and all had been affected by it. Several, who I never knew had such powers, spoke eloquently of Billy despite their pain. I was particularly proud of Barbara when she approached the podium and composed herself long enough to share—despite background photos of her brother protectively towering over her as a toddler—the terrifying story of how he had been permitted to babysit her exactly once. Then, after an overwhelming presentation of his own, elder brother Bobby offered shots of Billy’s half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, using Billy’s own skull-shaped shot glass. I was honored to join the line, right behind Barbara.

Billy Matteson has been the loudest and most diverse of this communicative, varied family. Less than two years older than me, he had achieved levels of mastery that I’ll never approach. We have a beautiful table in our home, with roses carved into the wood, that Billy made from a barrel. He enjoyed horseshoes with his friends and family, and created increasingly sophisticated horseshoe pits to play in. His masterpiece, however, was Wyntop, the palatial estate that he was in the process of restoring, project by project. You would be astonished by the incredible, many-angled, thatched roof, ornamented by copper snow guards, valleys, gutters and down spouts (which he coated in automotive clear-coat, so that they still enjoy their orange glow years later). Each renovated room was completed meticulously; ornamented but subdued. I feel honored when I’m in the home, anxious to hear stories of construction details.

Click on the picture for the slideshow I made to honor Billy and his family. It starts with this photo, which is arguably the perfect shot of Billy: in front of the Wyntop estate; next to his rescued, bipolar pit bull Grendel; in one of his signature brightly-colored shirts; happy.

The highlight, from my (and, I like to think, Billy’s) demented perspective, is the grand-daddy of all horseshoe pits. Each spike is surrounded by angled, staggered walls to redirect overthrown shots; the throwing area is outlined by a two-layer handmade fence; there’s a mounted bottle opener for the requisite beverages; the entire facility is illuminated, stadium-like, for all-night tournaments. Its natural-wood elements perfectly blend with the surroundings, particularly the roof created by centuries-old maple trees that predate the estate itself. It is an arena that elevates its lawn game to a gladiatorial duel. Only Billy could do this.

Driving home, I came to appreciate that the same can be said about funerals as about life’s brightest moments: I’m with the people I most wish to be with. I’m driven to deep introspection. I’m emotionally overwhelmed. It’s an unforgettable time. Afterward, I’m forever changed.

I remained energized all that day, so much so that I called Florida to rip my septuagenarian mother’s head off for not letting me get high speed internet installed in her house yet, and so was keeping me and my children from seeing her and my dad face-to-face more often, in lieu of adding that money to my inheritance. “I’m getting it for you now,” I shouted. “While I can!”

Her iPad is on its way. Thanks, Billy.

The Ethics of Caring for Outdoor Cats

That’s an interesting title, because not too long ago there was no other kind.

Feral cats recover from neutering surgery in cages at the Philly Animal Care and Control facility. (Emma Lee/WHYY)

It now seems  common for members of our Saran-wrapped society to grow as appalled by the site of a cat on grass as they do seeing an unaccompanied child walking on a sidewalk. This article covers the ethical strengths and flaws of arguments on all three sides of the issue. No one is comfortable.

Then again, where is it written that any of us should be?

Penser à des amis à Paris

I am sad to my core about the fate of the regal cathedral in our first ally’s City of Lights. Various BBC reports have provided additional, suprising information about this tragedy.

Had fire crews not entered the building, “without doubt it would have collapsed” said French Deputy Interior Minister Laurent Nuñez. He explained that multiple fires ignited in the towers, but were successfully stopped before they could spread.

During my 10 years as a firefighter I fought many fully-involved fires in large structures, though none nearly so precious. I’ve had the priviledge of visiting Notre Dame on three occasions, and think I have a small idea of the imperative the crews must have felt yesterday. The firefighters worked through the night, causing the overwhelming fire to be declared “under control” after only 12 hours, with no loss of life and only one firefighter “slightly injured,” according to Commander Jean-Claude Gallet. Many artistic treasures and religious artifacts were saved. Among them was what is celebrated to be the original Crown of Thorns that Jesus wore as he carried his cross, along with the robe worn by King (later St.) Louix IX when he brought it into France in 1239. These items were fearlessly recovered by Jean-Marc Fournier, chaplain of the Paris Fire Brigade, already respected for his ministry to the dead and wounded when he entered the Bataclan music venue in 2015 after Islamic State terrorists murdered 89 people using guns and explosives, and for surviving an ambush in Afghanistan when 10 soldiers were killed. These are examples of the kind of French bravery and resolve we’ve seen throughout history.

A few years ago, along with my daughter Sammy, I even attended a mass at this singular monument. It is impossible to exaggerate how vital this place is to our humanity. At once it represents us at our best and at our worst. Throughout the world, people are pledging to help rebuild it. I am among them.

Lowered Shields

This is brief but, to me, was so densely packed I found it worthy of many pauses. It is possibly the best relationship advice I’ve heard. I’ve listened to it three times.
 
I’ll be happy to hear your thoughts if you’d care to share.