I HAVE A DIFFERENT TAKE than most on the first presidential debate last night. Donald Trump missed more kill shots than the Toronto Maple Leafs last season. Which means that a 15-24-2 team… Wait. Excuse me a moment. I hate to take a sidebar so early in a political essay, but, why isn’t Toronto’s National Hockey League’s franchise called the Maple Leaves?
Is that one of those curious Canadian speech malapropisms? Do Canadians rebelliously feel that Walt Whitman’s collection of poems should have been entitled, Leafs of Grass? Or, worse, Leafs of Grass — eh — Are You Going To Eat The Rest Of — eh — That Donut?
I would have a simultaneous heart attack, brain seizure and an embarrassing passing of gas
THERE ARE THE USUAL SUSPECTS OF INSANE PEOPLE, jumping up and down on police cars. At this very moment, looters, terrorists, jackanapes, naggers, shamers, bureaucrats, miscreants, droolers, donkey girl scouts, chatterers, the politically correct, the jolly spoiled rottens and the Homerically boring are wandering this very same planet as me. Which ain’t right. But, right now? I don’t care. I simply don't care. It’s Fall.
I USED TO SING, “STEFANIE KOKOT IN MY SOUP,” to a little girl. Still do. It was a nonsensical, head-bobbing a capella. Stef would laugh so hard I thought she’d burst. Children teach us that. How to laugh so that light reaches even the most hardened and acrimonious cells and resentments.
It’s Stef’s birthday today. I couldn’t tell you how old. Seven, maybe now? Twenty-six? Forty-something? She’s one of those old souls, forever young, who is wise yet full of mischief. She publicly blasphemes, in my very presence, that she is the Boss Of The World, knowing full well I hold that honor with no one being a distant second. Still. It’s good to have goals.
FROM TIME TO TIME, The John Boston Chronicles conducts a faux interview with some of the world’s top newsmakers. To save 98-percent of our readers from looking up the word, “faux,” it’s pronounced foe and means fake. After all. In real life, many famous people aren’t very interesting, are certainly disingenuous and often profoundly dishonest so why go to all the trouble of writing down their answers when we can make up better stories ourselves?
This week, we interview Democratic presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton and San Francisco 49er quarterback Colin Kaepernick. Mrs. Clinton has been the subject of more probes than an Arabian oil field and has fatigued generations of Washington Post staff who can’t keep up handing out Pinocchio awards to the former first lady.
Mr. Kaepernick is the 2nd-string multimillionaire San Francisco quarterback who is drawing attention to himself by sitting during the National Anthem.
Here now are the questions mainstream media is too afraid to ask:
TODAY I WAS THINKING THE DARKEST THOUGHT. What if I no longer owned a cell phone?
Bloody blasphemous to say aloud.
I suppose, like alcohol, a cell phone is to be used with responsibility, something a rare few of us do. They are amazing devices and, barring planet-ending gamma ray bursts, one can learn the temperature of a Scottish village at 3 a.m. or scream “HELP!” while stuck on a glacier. You can call a loved one to pour out your heart, use it to buy a latte or spy for the lurk Smilodon of the 21st century: traffic jams. You can even go to a baseball game and pull out your cell phone to watch the baseball game — the one that’s right in front of you.
The technology is warp speed beyond stunning. The culture? Pretty vapid. A cell phone is often our personal, tiny Pandora’s box, holding all the fears, insecurities and bad habits of
I’VE ALWAYS FOUND MR. CUMMINGS ABOVE QUOTE captivating. And compelling. And discombobulating. Hauntingly true, hard to do.
Years ago, I used to hand out eclectic note pads as Christmas gifts. At the top was the letterhead: “Scared o’ Bears Ranch.” I got the name from my dear pal Leslie, aka, Beave (from the old 1950s TV sitcom). When Beave was five, she was scheduled to go on a camping trip in the wilds of Montana. She didn’t want to attend and confessed she was “Scared o’ Bears.” I just loved that.
Hence the name of my home’s origin.
Each year, a fresh and new design on my stationery bore a different and unasked-for secret reminder on how to