Category Archives: The Everyman Chronicles

Elizabeth Warren: The Democrats’ Most American Story

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The seven-year-old daughter of the wisest soul I know had one question when Mom asked child who she would vote for in the Democratic primary if she had a vote.

“Which one has a cat?” the girl queried.

From the mouth of babes. (Perhaps) unwittingly, her question underscores the embarrassment of riches — and choices — facing Democrats this election year.

Consider the GOP slate of top contenders when they were vying for the top office. A brain-dead brain surgeon. A Senator who fries his bacon on AR-15 muzzles. A Senator who suffered the greatest flop sweat since Broadcast News.

And of course, Agent Orange This isn’t just low-hanging fruit. These are coconuts, rolling off the truck and down the street, ripe for the scooping.

Now consider the Democratic slate: two successful (and legitimate) billionaires, the former vice-president to America’s first African American Chief Executive; an eloquent, gay mayor with Mideast war experience, and a Senator whose looniest notion is Medicare for all.Image result for biden buttigieg bernie bloomberg steyer

And we haven’t even gotten to the best candidate: Elizabeth Warren.

This endorsement is wholehearted, but the girl was right. Their pets could as well be the deciding factor in who to choose. Even if one owned a rabid baboon, they’d still get my vote should they win the nomination. You know, since we’re currently presided over by one anyway.Image result for mad baboon trump

But look closely at the Democratic candidates, and you’ll see Warren’s story arcs eerily similar to our last Democratic president. And both are, at their core, un-corporate American success stories.

Warren grew up in a working class home and neighborhood. She began her career in education. She is criticized for being too ponderous, too deliberate, and too detailed in her answers.

Warren’s victory would be as equally historic as Obama’s, though you’d never know that from the 24/7s. It’s wonderful that the news has paid no attention to the popularity of Bernie Sanders and Michael Bloomberg, two Jewish contenders who would be the first from their faith to become president (remember when being Catholic was a deal breaker?) Image result for kennedy

But let’s not underplay Warren’s story so much that we forget its history. America tried to elect the first female president four years ago (and her 3 million+ margin of victory should have been the end of the electoral college). An arguably stronger candidate has taken her place, only without the scandals. There are no Burismas, NDA’s, stop-and-frisk scandals in Warren’s closet, so far as we know. Her undressing of Bloomberg in the debates demonstrated she can scrap with a billionaire.

She’s also laid out her plan as president to the smallest details (perhaps too small for a U.S. electorate). But just her first two oaths of her prospective administration — that it will not hire any current lobbyists and that it will not hire employees of for-profit federal contractors — are enough to counteract the nepotism and cronyism that has left the country on life support (literally if coronavirus isn’t brought under control).

Warren, too, is about as progressive as America is ready to go. While Sanders has been refreshingly blunt about his political status — he considers himself a “democratic socialist” — it won’t be long until the GOP labels all his supporters socialists. We do the same thing with Republicans, calling them Trumptards. Well, this outlet does. It’s just so damn on the money!

Warren is just to the right of Sanders, to the left of Biden. Both her and the Biden administrations are more likely to close some of political divisions that riddle the political landscape and draw lawmakers  from across the aisle, if not make red states competitive in the Senate. It’s hard to picture Sanders suturing wounds with those in MAGA hat country.

Oh, and in answer to that child’s brilliant question: Most of the candidates have dogs. And Warren’s is a Golden Retriever named Bailey, who accompanies her and her husband on countless campaign stops. ‘Nuff said.Image result for warren bailey

Finally, Warren represents where we are as a nation. The time has never been more right for women to take the reigns. They took the streets with #MeToo. They took Hollywood predators (and others in boardrooms and high-rise offices) off those streets. What would be more fitting — more American — than to pound an authoritarian rapist into the gravel?

Oh, and a side note from my mom, a secret progressive in South Carolina. She reports that, on the cusp of the S.C. primary, Trump was in her state, pleading for them to vote Bernie in what he’s termed “Operation Chaos.”

He’s right. However you vote, vote. Be heard. Cause some chaos. Just not where he expects it.

O’ Brother, There Art Thou

Girīdīh Halcyon (An Ode to Samuel)

Tell me where the spirit flees
When life has made the choice
To bring the body to its knees
And let the soul rejoice.

Answer.

Here these are the olden days
Here these are the golden days
Here these are the days to remember.

For yesterday’s gone
And tomorrow’s a song
Today is the only glowing  ember.

 

O’ Brother mine! dearest Samuel,

T W E N T Y! Can you fucking believe it? Dude, we may be approaching a record: I looked up double transplants, trying to find the longest living double-organ team, but the records are sketchy. Mayo Clinic is still searching; no word back. I found a case online, in a Dutch medical journal, that said one kidney-pancreas transplant team made it 16 years.

Scrubs.

I still can’t wrap my head around it:  We’ve been wed two decades! Guess what movie came out 20 years ago? O’ Brother, Where Art Thou?. So did Memento (one of my favorites), Cast Away, Almost Famous and High Fidelity. The hottest shows in television were The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm and Frasier. Music sucked (Britney Spears’ Ooops…I Did It Again was all the rage), but we were too busy recuperating  to listen to that shit anyway.Image result for O Brother, Where Art Thou? imdb

Speaking of recuperating, before I begin this unabashedly schmaltzy love letter, an apology.

I’m sorry I nearly annulled this marriage two days in. It’s just my body wasn’t used to being so close to someone, and I guess I tried to wriggle loose; the band with which Dr. Sutherland bonded us briefly schism-ed at the suture. But with some quick counseling, we were back together. And haven’t had a real fight in 20 years. Cite me another couple with such cohesion.

And I can tell you this, without hesitation or qualification: In 20 years, I have never betrayed you. Not once.

That medicinal fidelity wasn’t always the case. Ask Mom. I sucked at taking meds when I was diabetic.  I’d miss injections, eat like crap, soar over or crawl beneath my assigned sugar levels. Of course, my failures led to us meeting; sorry, I can’t help but see the past through glasses hued rose since we met. It’s one of the things I love about you.

Now, I take our meds as religiously as pastors take confession. Probably, certainly, more. Ask Mom. I haven’t missed an unhospitalized pill or eye drop in 20 years. That’s 7,300 days of meds, administered 14,600 times, totaling more than 150,000 pills. And that’s a conservative estimate. All that, and not one rejection episode yet.

It may still come. But if you had told me in January 2000 that I’d get 20 years of perfect blood sugars, 20 years of no self-injections, 20 years of not having diabetes nibble off fingers, toes, perhaps feet, I would have not only said ‘Hell yeah!’ I would not have believed the offer.

I know your perspective is vastly different. I am sorry and so torn about that, Sam. The decision your mom Valerie made — despite reservations from your father — remains the bravest act of human love I’ve ever witnessed. To weigh that Decision, have that Talk, all while bracing for the Goodbye. She is as cool under pressure as any nerve-steeled Apollo pilot, and I carry her boy as I would a newborn, swaddled and close to my heart, hoping some of that Flegel bravery will wear off on me. In me.

I told Spencer that we were approaching 20 years. He said he would have guessed it had been longer. I would have guessed it had been shorter. Like, 19 years and six months shorter. Time does flatten a man.

But not you. Over the years, you have grown mythical in my eyes. Once you were a 21-year-old kid from Fargo, 14 years my junior. Now you have risen to deity-level. I now see a truly noble soul, angel pure, who loved dogs, waved “Hi” for family pictures (who else is that sincere in happiness?), and overcame educational hurdles to become an engineer at Red River Valley and Western Railroad. You Hua Hin are Paul Bunyan. And i get to soldier forward arm-in-arm with you? Who should be so blessed to be your wing man!

Here’s what I love about you, O’ Brother mine:

You make me feel strong. Whenever I see stories of what passes for bravery nowadays, particularly in our halls of law, I think of you. And I’ll say to ourself, ‘That’s great. Ever laid on a gurney, split open from the belly button downward, for eight straight hours — on a gamble?” You are my definition of strength, and I draw from you for it constantly.

You make me feel wise. Knowing how precariously you and I cling together has altered my definition of…well, everything. Time. Life. Death. Illness. Health. Deadlines. Pressures. You have taught me when to let go (though I often fail). To be content when I’m a bug in amber. To, in truth, see the time-strangling beauty of those moments. You are my definition of wisdom, and I need your counsel daily.

You make me feel loved. In every step of this journey, I have never felt alone. You probably figured out early that I tend to get introverted; I still have danced publicly only once in my life (not everyone is as brave as you). But fleeting is the moment when I feel isolated. You are my definition of love, and I look to you every time I need a heart or shoulder.

You know what’s creepy? A doctor  predicted all this, five years before I was born: that I would meet a soul named Sam; that he would open my eyes to the beauty of life’s fleeting ways; that I would take him profoundly into myself.

The doctor? Theodore Seuss Geisel. Fucking Dr. Seuss!

Surely, you know the story of Green Eggs and Ham. Or at least the refrain: “I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.Green Eggs and Ham.jpg

But read a’ might closer, and you’d swear there was a serendipitous through-line here about us. The story goes like this: Sam-I-Am pesters his friend, Guy-Am-I (!) to eat a dish of green eggs and ham. Guy refuses, even as Sam persistently follows him, asking to eat them in eight locations (house, box, car, tree, train, dark, rain, boat) and with three animals (mouse, fox, goat). Guy still refuses, saying, “I wouldn’t not like them here (Current location) or there (Previous location)! I would not like them anywhere!” Finally, Guy vainly accepts Sam’s offer and samples the green eggs and ham, happily announcing he would eat them anywhere and with anyone and ends the story, saying, “I do so like green eggs and ham. Thank you. Thank you, Sam-I-Am.

Damn straight, Dr. Ted. Sam, I am.

Those tools in the jewelry business say that a 20-year-anniversary is to be recognized with platinum (a diamond is their recommended gift of 10 years!). I can’t afford their bullshit menu, but I did want to give you the only thing I really own: my word, located just beneath my left rib cage.

It says this: I am with you, to the end. I have your back, and you have mine.

Even that pledge is a pittance, I know, a lowball offer for what you have given me without asking for a thing in return.

So take my arm this time. I have taken yours so often. Rest here for a moment. Rejoice here. Because I have an idea…

You know, a marathon is 26.219 miles. Whaddaya say? We’ve only got 6.219 miles left. Up for more? Why stop now?

We got this, O’ Brother mine.

 

Sign O’ The Times

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About seven years ago, the little town of Indian Hills, Colo. needed a new sign for its community center.

Nestled in a southeast burb about 23 miles from Denver, community leaders weren’t looking for anything garish; after all, it’s a hamlet of only 1,100 people. But city officials wanted something a little more eye-catching than the tiny sign with nondescript letters to announce weddings, fundraisers and the occasional  bingo night.

They approached Vince Rozmiarek, a stay-at-home dad who had recently joined the community center as a volunteer.  They didn’t give him any requirements for the sign — in fact, they had no money for a new one. They just wanted something a little more noticeable.

What they didn’t know was Rozmiarek’s Walter Mitty-esque dreams of being a comedian, though they should have been clued in by his first sign: “Indian Hills annexed by Morrison slow down.”

Perplexed residents flooded the local police department with calls. Had Indian Hills really been absorbed by Morrison, with a population of only 431? And had the speed limit really been dropped? Was this a speed trap?

“I could not believe how many people were calling the police,” Rozmiarek joked with reporters. “I really had the people at the Sit N Bull bar scared out of their minds. I did that and just decided that got a lot of attention so I’ll start throwing things up there.”

He has ever since. Every few days, he puts up something new. Sometimes he throws up his own jokes, sometimes he takes suggestions. Usually, he puts them into a list he reads to his wife. If she laughs, the joke goes up.

Since then, he’s turned Indian Hills into a social media phenomenon. If you look up Indian Hills on Google, a photo of the sign sits next to the town’s map coordinates on the from page of its Wikipedia listing. Tourists come to have their photos taken in front of it. It has 26,000 followers on Facebook.

To Rozmiarek and all other writers who can write something clever — not caustic —  in a fraction of Twitter’s character limit. Our executive branch could use a few pointers.

And a shout out to contributor Earl Troglin!

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