SO IT’S ONE OF THOSE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION YEARS. This could be one of, if not THE, the most important in American history. A goodly percentage of my friends are not speaking to me. I suspect it’s not so much because I’m conservative, but because I write and speak my heart, thoughts and experience on politics.
I sense we could be heading for something more terrible than a cliff.
Over the years, I’ve had hundreds of attempts at conversations with my Democratic friends. It strikes me as both odd, and lonely, that I’ve yet to experience what the Left likes to call, “Meaningful Dialogue.” Like that wonderful line in the movie, Princess Bride, I wonder: “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”
I’VE ATTENDED SOME OF THE BEST 6th GRADES IN AMERICA and always thought the phrase, “Eat my shorts,” was not literal.
A while back, 18-year-old David Zurfluh was pulled over by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for driving, you know — funny — up in the Great White North.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police saw Zurfluh weaving all over the road. They pulled him over. He ran stumbling from his car. The Mounties caught up with him, handcuffed the alleged drunk driver and tossed him into the back seat while they got out their alcohol/breath analyzer paraphernalia.
DRATTED ADULTHOOD, SO LACKING IN GUARANTEES. It’s been no secret that I’ve been in favor of Donald Trump of becoming some of America’s next president. I’ve sat down maybe a half dozen times the past month to write an essay of my support. Powerful communicator I am, three sentences into my as always hopeful dazzling prose, I know I’ve already lost 40 percent of my readers, if not friends, some I’ve known for decades.
To this essay there might be a random visit from some lost soul in search of humor, hoping, perhaps, somewhere, I’ll insert the word, “poopie.” For my hawkish clenched-jawed supporters, perhaps beats the hope I’ll give Donald’s Democratic counterpart a vicious tongue-lashing and honest moral evaluation.
I REMEMBER MY MOST DELIGHTFUL AND OFTEN FEROCIOUS HERO and mentor, Ruth Newhall. She was my editor back in the day when there used to be something called Journalism.
Pretending to type across the newsroom, I eavesdropped as Ruth efficiently flayed a young reporter-ette. The youth had turned in an obituary of some local captain of industry. The writer had described that the pillar of the community had, “passed away…”
“Clouds — ‘pass away,’” said Ruth, in her patented put-upon Kathryn Hepburn voice. Her volume increased. “Dandelion puff balls — ‘pass away.’‘Distant memories of winter’ ‘pass away.’ People DON’T — ‘pass away.’ People — DIE!!!”
WHEN I WAS FEROCIOUS and invincible in my 20s, I made up for a misplaced youth by playing basketball. Non-stop. Around-the-clock basketball. I was pretty good. I could at least beat you, whoever you are. I played in all sorts of leagues, from attaching myself to superstars and taking the gold at the prestigious SoCal AAU tourney a few times to playing in local gas station leagues with my no good hoodlum musician friends with all the athletic acumen of Stephen Hawking. This is the first time I’ve ever aired such laundry publicly, but the thing that mystified me most about my favorite sport was the handshake.
Handshaking has been around for at least 7,000 years. It’s depicted on many ancient reliefs, from Assyrian to Greek. The thinking is that handshaking is a gesture of good will to show that you’re not hiding a sword, electric hand buzzer or subpoena. Interestingly, most of the ancient references depict the common Vanilla White Guy Rotary Handshake.
For about five years, I played for a rag tag semi-pro team sponsored by the shoe giant, Adidas. We’d play a few exhibition games, taking on such beer-soaked powerhouses as the Sherman Oaks Chamber of Commerce All-Stars, Mexico, the Air Force (ours) and St. Mary’s Acned and Abused Sisters of the Wretchedly Unaccessorized. Our roster carried college all-Americans and a