Cleaning Up All the Messes

Trump is just cleaning up all the messes either created by past presidents or ignored by them — nuclear North Korea, giant trade imbalance with China, insane trade agreements generally, open borders and immigration chaos, low economic growth rate, exporting of jobs abroad, reduction in American manufacturing, bogus nuclear agreement with sworn enemy Iran, lack of consistent support for Israel (the one real democracy in the Middle East), left-wing politicos as judges on Federal courts, poorly defined relationship with NATO where we get to pick up the tab.

You name it, he is dealing with it — not ignoring it.  And what does he get from the Left for his troubles — outrageous slanders and ridiculous accusations.  That’s American politics in a nutshell.

What the Left really cannot stand about Trump is that he is effective.

My Story

 

Challenges

One often exaggerates little challenges way out of proportion to their actual size.  One recognizes this when confronted with real challenges, of significant dimension, that are nevertheless tackled by those people afflicted by them.  One then feels a little bit ashamed by one’s own silly exaggeration.

I was sitting in a coffee shop and downing a large cup of coffee, while observing the people pass by on a busy city sidewalk, an activity that I enjoy — observing people.  You actually perceive a lot if you step aside a moment from your busy life, and take some time to consciously observe the people around you.

I watched a blind person negotiate the button for a cross walk.  With her cane, she felt the end of the curb where it curves upward in order to find the post that contained the button.  She listened to the traffic to hear when it was time to cross, and then felt the surface of the bumpy crosswalk, again with her cane, to know the direction to walk in to get across the road.  Despite the blindness, she did all this very efficiently — clearly this particular section of her walk was very familiar to her.  But think about that — negotiating the busy streets of a major city blind.

I watched a cripple in a wheelchair make his way pushing the wheelchair with just one good foot and leg — but always moving backwards, that is, with his back always facing the direction he was moving in.  Just try to imagine that.  And just try to imagine that as the only way you can get around — sitting in a wheelchair and pushing it backwards with one foot.

I watched a madman beggar carrying on a gibberish conversation with each person who passed him by, as though they were actually interacting with him, instead of hurrying by to escape him.  Periodically, the man uttered, involuntarily, a shrill birdlike catcall that interrupted his otherwise unintelligible statements, for he was speaking in a language no other human being could positively understand, except that his soulful eyes were beseeching desperately — the message from the eyes was clear, even though his language was from Mars.  Now and then someone put a dollar in his cup, no doubt with the thought, there but for the grace of god go I.

I watched a very old woman with a severe case of osteoporosis, bent like a right-angle   T-square, and therefore forced to always look down at her toes, make her way with tiny steps, grudgingly, along the sidewalk, periodically having to crane her neck severely sideways to see if she was about to walk into anything.  Her entire world had been reduced to her toes.

By the time I finished my coffee, I didn’t feel quite so put out by my little troubles, but was struck by how cruel life can be.   No question, there is a significant number of people who must endure dreadful things…and it will always be so.

The ancient Stoics had a mental trick for chasing away the blues.  It was a kind of negative visualization where you consciously tried to think of the worst possible thing that could happen to you and the consequences — for instance, losing your legs or the aforementioned going blind, etc.  The idea was that by comparison to such awful eventualities, your present condition should seem quite benign, and so you hopefully gain some perspective.  I contend no such visualization is necessary to do this.  You just have to open your eyes.

My Story

The Green Monster

I played Little League baseball, and was picked out for a spot on the team when I made a running catch in right field and threw out a base runner at second base who made the mistake of thinking it was a definite hit.  With such a sure glove, I ended up a catcher through high school and college, but while the arm was good enough, the bat wasn’t there to go for the big time.

If you grew up on Cape Cod as I did, of course the Red Sox were the team one rooted for, even though in those days — in the late 50s and early 60s — they were a hapless bunch, with zero pitching.  The routine on the radio was predictable.  The Red Sox would go through their line up with pathetic strike outs and easy pop flies to the infield until you finally came around to either Ted Williams or possibly the third baseman Frank Malzone, and then there would be — finally! — a home run or possibly an extra base hit. Then the dismal cycle would begin all over again with the rest of the washed out lineup. But you were a diehard fan, and there was always next year.

I just turned 71 years old, and like most old timers, I have a bucket list.  Guess what?  I had never once been inside Fenway Park to watch the beloved and certainly endured (in those early years, at least ) Red Sox go at it.  So last night, I took in my first live game, could actually see the likes of the famed Green Monster up close and personal, and get a feel for the place with my own eyes, as it actual is, not as it is projected on a flat TV screen or related secondhand through the radio.

When I handed the old codger taking the tickets my ticket, I mention it was the first time for me at Fenway.  Without missing a beat, he replied with a heavy emphasis on the last word that was pure Bostonian, that is, more pawk than park: “Welcome to Fenway Pawk!”

The exact same game was there to be seen by virtually everyone in the stadium, yet, upon reflection, I realized that while that was true, it was also true that each person might well have seen the game quite differently.

The boys with their mitts at the ready watched the game in a kind of hero worship of Major League ball players they themselves could only hope to become.  For these beaming eyed boys, the panorama of the game was a kind of aspiration for a magical future where they would make the game-saving catch or hit the dramatic 9th-inning home run to win the game — and receive all the laurels.

For the old men in the stands, the panorama was bathed in the nostalgia of their long lost youth when the game was played seemingly forever in an endless sunny afternoon — an afternoon that nevertheless did pass them by, unannounced and unnoticed, never to be enjoyed again, a love labor’s lost.

Many in the stands who had not been themselves baseball players — perhaps girlfriends or buddies who played the other sport, whatever that might be — were there simply to cheer and relish the roller coaster emotional symphony played out before them  — the rising crescendo of the chorus from the crowd for a long fly ball that just might make it all the way out…or the collective groan for strike three and the third out with bases loaded, a la Casey at the Bat.

So, yes, there was just the one game for all to see last night, but I contend many games were actually seen.  I know the game I personally saw in my heart of hearts was very different.  That game stretched all the way back to my very first catch in right field and the instant glory it conferred.  But while there were variable games observed last night, there was one thing that was fixed, irrefutable, unmistakable, even immemorial like the Roman Colosseum — that would be Fenway Park itself, the stage upon which each generation of the very best ballplayers have their day in the sun.

Bean Town

My Story

The Odyssey

People miss the main point and genius of Homer’s epic tale.  They get distracted by the amazing predicaments — a Cyclops, Sirens, etc. — Ulysses (Odysseus) faces on his dauntless journey homeward, which predicaments are no doubt very dramatic and therefore entertaining, but they are not the main point of the story.

The deeper meaning of this marvelous tale is that it is a perfect metaphor for what one goes through in dealing with life’s many challenges.   You find yourself in some kind of predicament and then have to figure out a solution.  If you don’t, life runs you over, but if you do, you continue on your merry way — until the next inevitable challenge.  

The dramatic challenges Ulysses faced were only different in scale, but not in kind, to those of ordinary life.  Yet the end result is the same in both cases: figure out the predicaments and you survive, even thrive; don’t figure them out and you are overwhelmed.  That’s the real takeaway from The Odyssey.

An interesting note: most scholars are of the opinion that Homer was blind.

My Story

 

 

Salad Bowls

I’m exploring Boston for a week.  I’ve been coming across these eateries where you pick the ingredients for a large and interesting salad — a place called Sprouts on Huntington Avenue, another called energize (lc “e”) on Massachusetts Avenue, a third called sweetgreen (lc “s” and first “e” inverted) on Boylston Street, and a fourth called honeygrow (lc “h”) also on Boylston but further out, near Fenway Park.  (I guess the culinary world in Boston is fascinated by e.e. cummings!)

All four salad bowls were spectacular…and off the chart as far as nutrition goes.  Verde in Charleston, S.C., was another eatery with this kind of approach to wonderful salad bowls and powerful nutrition.

The ironic thing about these places is that for 12 bucks or so you get a very original and imaginative hearty salad that’s packed with a crazy level of nutrients (leafy greens being the all stars compared to other foods in general), but you could go to a pricey restaurant — I call them the “cloth napkin” type restaurants — and pay through the nose for the meal, but end up with a fraction of the nutrition and way more calories.

And then there was the salad bar in the Whole Foods in Atlanta, Ga., which was in a class by itself.  Some of the plant-based ingredients and combinations completely original, at least to me.  Droves of people showed up there every day at lunch and make themselves wonderful salads.  While the WF salad bar in Atlanta was at a different level, the WF salad bar in Boston was rather pathetic in comparison.  Go figure.

My Story

Bean Town

Spending a week in Boston exploring the city.  Lots of new buildings and breathtaking architecture.  The contrast between the old and historic and the modern couldn’t be more stark.   Contrast, say, the wonderful and rambling Gothic monstrosity of the Old South Church with these recent glass and steel monoliths that seem to challenge the sky itself.

Boston also creates some very interesting open spaces for pedestrians. Space itself is a kind of luxury in any city — you feel the openness in some of these pedestrian areas and small parks, not to mention the welcome touches of nature.

Northeastern University has expanded immensely.  Shocking how much real estate they have taken over and developed.

Boston Commons putting on a show with the blossoming of spring.  Showing off really, and not modest about it.  Listened to this barker in the park dressed up like a 17th century pilgrim relate the story of a Quaker woman who was found guilty of heresy. Apparently the Puritans were not fond of Quakers.  The penalty was banishment from the city.  She came back to Boston twice to appeal the decision, but the second time was a big mistake, for the Boston authorities ran out of patience.  They decided to hang her instead, which they did from a tree on the Commons.  Quaint.  The dressed up Puritan pointed out the location where her hanging tree had been.  The smallish audience ogled the spot.

A small army of the homeless and helpless await the opening of the Boston Public Library at 9 am, as the professional class scurries past to get to their offices on time.

Lautrec exhibit at Fine Arts.  Learned that he came from a wealthy family and didn’t need income.  He wasn’t actually a midget, but had a congenital disease that stunted the growth of his legs when he was an adolescent.

Only 36 when he died.

I like his work because of how penetrating he was at capturing expressions on the face, sometimes warts and all.  There’s a super realism at work there.  Grosz was like that too. Super realism, and often not at all complimentary.

The Boston School of Art of the 1890s was clearly enamored of Vermeer.  The museum doesn’t boast a single Vermeer, but has many American knock offs, some of which are quite exquisite and in no way inferior to the master.  I think the high point of my 3-hour museum stint was this discovery, although I’m always impressed by the realism of Roman heads.

The Green Monster

My Story

 

 

Alcohol

Had a rather large cup of red wine a week ago, and it was like a wrecking ball to my system.  I hadn’t had any alcohol in over 2 years.  Startling how devastating a single cup of wine can be for your system.

I suppose people who drink on a regular or daily basis get a bit removed from how much of a shock alcohol is to their system.  That doesn’t mean that it is less devastating to their health (and liver), only that they are desensitized to the impact, which in a way is kind of sinister, in that they don’t fully realize how malevolent alcohol is when they are using it.

I remember smoking cigarettes was the same way.  When you first smoke cigarettes, you choke on the smoke, and it makes you feel ill and woozy, but after you get used to smoking cigarettes, the smoke doesn’t bother you, and you don’t feel sick from it, but the smoking  is still undermining your health.

Interesting that in both cases — booze and smoking — the body is trying to tell you something with its initial repulsion.  But do you listen?

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