Zuzu’s Petals

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George Bailey, the regular-guy hero of Bedford Falls, New York, as portrayed by James Stewart in Frank Capra’s 1946 movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” is one of my role models. I know I’m not alone in this. While I never saved my little brother from drowning (I don’t have one) and I’ve never been known for distributing cash among my neighbors (but I would if I could), I’ve always admired how George was able to balance the big dreams of what he thought his life should have been with the reality of what it was. And how, by his actions, he intuitively made his little world, the one he privately complained of being “stuck” in,  a better place for himself and for everybody around him. It would be ridiculous of me to suggest that I’ve had anywhere close to the same effect on my little world as George had on his, but I’ll tell you what: I’ve done no harm, and like George, I’ve been blessed in having made a lot of friends around town, though I hope I never have to ask them for $8000, ’cause that would be awkward.

And of course, everyone knows that George never leaves Bedford Falls. And me, I have found myself as an AARP-eligible adult landed on a comfy couch right here on the same 60 x 100 plot of land in Valley Stream, Long Island that I started out on 54 and a half years ago. I have a beautiful, funny, successfully employed wife and a smart, good-looking son with who is finding his way through adolescence pretty well despite a school system and social system totally unsuited to his particular genius (which is fixing every single mechanical thing on the planet that has broken). I have a good job, a nice little house, more toys and diversions that I ever have time to get around to (like this blog). I have a big happy yellow lab who is my personal ambassador to the human race and three cats for entertainment and interesting conversation.

Just like George Bailey, I could have done a whole lot worse. I’ve really had a wonderful life and I have no intention of throwing it all away. But I also have no intention of letting it be taken away from me piece by piece by the Forces of Pottersville, at least not without a fight. This is me fighting.

I first saw, “It’s a Wonderful Life” when I was about 14 in 1977, around the time the 1946 movie became public domain and Channel 11 in New York would show it over and over before Christmas. I started telling everyone in my family and anyone who would listen that they had to see this movie. I dare say I was in on the ground floor of the revival that made it Everybody’s Favorite Christmas Movie. And I dare say I do a dead-on Jimmy Stewart impersonation, which I promise I’ll do for you when I branch out into podcasting. I was immediately charmed by the story, the town of Bedford Falls and George Bailey’s character. And I guess the lesson that George learns from his nightmare in Pottersville became part of the unshakable truths that I’ve built my value system on: Success has nothing to do with money or career status and everything to do with the cumulative effects of being a good person and trying to do the right thing. I don’t know if George had anything to do with me never moving more than twenty miles away from where I was born, but that’s entirely possible.

George had his chances to get out of Bedford falls (‘and see the world!”), but he realized early on that the big dreams he had a young man were not as important as being a good guy, which is the most important thing of all. He didn’t necessarily want to be where he was, but until Uncle Billy handed Mr. Potter an envelope with $8000 in it, he didn’t take that dissatisfaction and frustration out on anybody around him. He treated people the way you should treat people. Despite his desire to “shake the dust of this crummy little town off my feet,” George took comfort in people and places and protocols that had remained the same in Bedford Falls throughout his life. He knew where he stood with everybody and everybody knew where they stood with him. Me, too.

George could’ve done something more with his life than holding together the Bailey Building and Loan. (It’s always presented with a pejorative: “Broken down”, “measly”, “penny-ante”). I probably could have been something “more” than a junior high school English teacher if I had applied myself a little more as a younger guy. Before I started phoning it in and getting crappy grades in high school (just like my beloved Dude does now, bless his heart), I was supposed to write great things or be a famous something or other. By the time I was going to Queens College at night to cobble together the credits for an English BA, those dreams of writing novels, or sitcoms in Hollywood, or being a famous FM disc jockey were all pretty much dead, and after two years in the production department at New York Magazine, finding out how unpleasant life could potentially be in the editorial department, I got my master’s and went into teaching ’cause I knew I’d be good at it and I could finally get out of my parent’s house. Those aren’t noble reasons to enter my profession, I’ll admit. But you know what? I followed in my mother’s footsteps, and I’ve helped thousands of kids learn to read, write and think a little better and a little deeper in my “shabby little office” for over 23 years.

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So George and I find ourselves with something else in common: Our professional lives are a tribute to a parent that instilled a sense of values and beliefs in us that neither one of us could ultimately escape from, simply because it made so much sense. George keeps the Bailey Building and Loan going so people have someplace to go without crawling to Potter. I ultimately decided teaching was a better use of my life  than helping to produce a magazine that would be thrown away when the next one came out (though it’s a mostly insane existence from September to June every year, which my archives will tell you doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for blogging).

Plus, I couldn’t help noticing that some of the people who wrote this magazine were terribly impressed with themselves and their Manhattan lifestyles. I spent Sundays waxing floors with a friend of mine from Valley Stream because I wasn’t making enough money. That friend was smarter, funnier and more original than anyone at New York Magazine, but they would never understand why. They wouldn’t get him. In the end, I needed to be with real people. To “fritter my life away playing nursemaid to a bunch of garlic eaters.” as Mr. Potter puts it to George. It was good enough for my mother, and it’s been good enough for me. And I love garlic.

And of course, when not at work, when it’s safe to speak my mind, I continue another one of my mother’s traditions (besides an addiction to Jeopardy, which she actually got from me, and blasting WQXR Classical in the kitchen while cooking dinner, which my Bose Soundtouch has taken to a whole other level, thank you Trisha): The tradition of Good Old-Fashioned Democratic, Bleeding-Heart Liberal Politics.

Growing up, I soaked up both of my parents complaints about that Crook Nixon in the 70’s and that Buffoon Cowboy Reagan in the 80’s. I saw the damage they did, (and later felt that damage more acutely as an adult while W. wrecked the country in the 2000’s). By virtue of working in the New York City high schools, my parents were immersed in diversity before it was even close to a thing. They believed that without labor unions, “the bastards” would rob you blind. They took their children to the Adirondacks and grew flowers and vegetables in the backyard and studied the comings and goings of the ducks on the creek and thus turned us all into environmentalists, around the time it was becoming a thing. My parents always rooted for the underdog and they despised guns and the abuse of power. They were devout, religious catholics who practiced their faith in their lives and knew Billy Graham and the evangelists were full of shit.

Mom was more vocal about all this, as she was about everything. My dad was more of a “do as I do” guy. But I’ll tell you what: If my mother, Joan Marie Duffy, were alive today, she’d be screaming bloody murder about what’s going on in this country. She’d be a voice of Resistance on Twitter, probably with a couple of thousand followers, probably using the expletive “fuck” in all it’s forms to comment on the disgusting developments of the past year. She can’t so I do. They’ll vote with Potter otherwise.

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Because as we all know now, this is what happened: The GOP knew Trump was disgusting, and they pretended to complain about him at the start of the primaries but they knew that their primary voting base was equally disgusting, and the more primaries he won, the less they complained (and the more free air time he got on cable news for the Hitler rallies). And the more disgusting things he said, the more the people in this country who had already been thrown into their own Pottersville Of The Mind loved him for it.

A lot has been said and written about the people and the vibe in the Nightmare Pottersville of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” (For example, the friend who I used to wax floors with thought it seemed like a lot more fun). One has to admit, Capra’s vision of dystopia is a bit over the top, from the amphetamine-driven boogie-woogie piano player in Nick’s Bar to the over-capacity dance halls on Main Street to Burt the cop opening fire into a crowd. I personally always found it amusing that there even was a Pottersville Public Library, never mind the fact that Mary Hatch was an old maid who was just about to close it down. I think it’s more likely that the town council, all in Mr. Potter’s back pocket, probably would have closed it as part of an austerity budget designed to line their own pockets. 

But I think that the point Capra was trying to illustrate with all this silliness was simply this: The rich assholes pit everyone against each other. People lose trust. They turn on their neighbors. They come to believe that not giving a shit is much easier, which it is, and why make the effort to make your town or your country better if those rich assholes are pulling all the strings? Fuck ’em all. Nothing matters. Just lay down a few bucks for some mindless entertainment, get shitfaced and forget about how much better your life could actually be if you got educated and exercised your First Amendment rights, ’cause it ain’t never gonna happen, bub. You’re just too lazy, and they’ve got you by the balls.

Nick the Bartender showed compassion for George Bailey as he breaks down on the bar stool. Nick the Boss is the twisted dictator of his own little band of small-time assholes, a big fish in a toxic pond of deplorables who gets off on spraying Mr. Gower in the face with a seltzer bottle, ostensibly because Mr. Gower deserved it, even though he’s obviously paid his debt to society and is a threat to no one in his current condition. He has no patience for Clarence the Angel, even after George suggests he has a mental disability. If you’re different in Pottersville, you get thrown out on your ass in the snow.

 

 

And Mary Hatch? Why is she an old maid? Capra is suggesting that it’s because there weren’t enough decent people left in Pottersville. She couldn’t find George not because George didn’t exist but because people who, in a fair, compassionate society, may have been more like George were instead being reprogrammed into mean, suspicious, wounded and dangerous animals like Violet Bick, Ernie the Cab Driver and George’s own mother have become in George’s Pottersville nightmare.

As the media narrative goes, in the Rust Belt states where Trump won the electoral college; Pennsylvania, Ohio, Wisconsin, and Michigan, the people were fed up with the status quo and didn’t trust Hillary Clinton. Some of that may be true, but here’s how I and many other people have come to see it: Some of those people are exactly what Hillary said they were, the famous “Basket of Deplorables”. They’re pissed off because they have come to believe that people of color and immigrants are treated better than they are by society at large, ignoring the small fact that those people of color and immigrants happened to have spent the previous ten years working their asses off to get educated, learn trades and build up businesses instead of watching “The Apprentice” in their double-wides and smoking crystal meth in the Wal Mart parking lot. The Deplorables are bitter, nasty, poorly-dressed, poorly-educated, poorly-spoken people who resent everyone, blame everyone but themselves for their troubles and saw Trump as a way to take all us liberal coastal elite smart asses down into the Pottersville Pit of Despair right along with them.

But these people had been like this for years, as anyone who ever watched “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo!” or “Duck Dynasty” for five minutes can attest. And Fox News stoked the fire against The Black Guy for eight years, convincing the most hardcore stupid among them that Obama wouldn’t say Merry Christmas because he was a Muslim, even if he was saying it on every other news channel.

 

And if these people really had that much power in the electorate, how did Obama get elected – and win those states – twice? Those elections, in 2008 and 2012, were won with voter turnout, and with the votes of intelligent, compassionate residents of Bedford Falls America who saw right through The Republican Lie that bankrupted the country at least three times in the last 100 years. There’s way more of us than there are of them and that remains true right now. But especially after Obama’s re-election over the guy with the dog strapped to the roof of his car (who honestly doesn’t look nearly as bad in retrospect), we thought we’d finally turned the corner. The new, diverse, young optimistic America was ready to drive policy and public opinion away from your crazy ass, obnoxious bigoted old uncle who blames everything on minorities and immigrants and suggests that maybe Hitler had the right idea.

The Republican Party was well on its deserved way to being irrelevant on the morning of November 8th, 2016. And then, it happened: Your crazy ass, obnoxious bigoted old uncle who blames everything on minorities and immigrants and suggests that maybe Hitler had the right idea was declared the winner of the Presidential Election.

My take on why: There were people on the fence about Hillary. I could understand that to a certain extent. I supported Bernie in the primaries because I’m a socialist. I know Hillary wouldn’t take that personally.  I had no problem with her prospective Presidency. I figured she’d still have to deal with Republican control of the House at the very least and probably would be limited, like Obama was after 2010, in what she could actually get done, but that I’d agree with 90% of what she wanted to do. I’m sure lots of people felt the same way about her.

But the bastards saw their opening: Besides their usual voter suppression tricks, they leaked the emails that made Hillary look like the politician that anybody with a brain already knew she was. They pushed the server story over and over, despite the fact that it wasn’t really a story at all. And of course, with Putin’s help, they planted lie after lie on people’s Facebook pages and bot after bot on their Twitter feeds.

And those people who were on the fence about Hillary, but at the same time thought that Trump was a disaster, they figured no sweat, there’s no way the same America that voted for Obama twice is ever going to turn 180 degrees and elect a racist, ignorant buffoon. They stayed home and didn’t vote at all because the Forces of Pottersville had sown their doubts about the intentions of the Big Clinton Machine.

As for those that did vote, contaminated by those Putin-inspired doubts, I suppose they found themselves walking into the voting booth like Uncle Billy walking into the bank. They got distracted by the drama of the moment and handed Trump and the Republican Party the United States of America stuck inside a folded up newspaper. The majority of the country woke up the next morning rifling through the garbage can incredulously, with a sense of panic growing by the second, while they smirked at us from behind the door, knowing that they had us where they always wanted us.

Pottersville.

 

 

And here we are, a year later. The evidence in the public domain that Trump stole the election with the help of the Russians is overwhelming, so one could only imagine what’s in Robert Mueller’s filing cabinets right now. I can’t begin to imagine how that whole thing is going to play out. (But most people realize it would be hard to have a Civil War with no Mason-Dixon Line to stand behind). And, just in time for Christmas, the rich assholes who paid for their Republican candidates, from Trump on down – they got what they wanted: Their big, fat, immoral corporate tax cut. My parents always warned me: The bastards will rob you blind if you let them.

Our accountant is a decent fellow. I’ve known him for many years. We both love dogs. But he is a Trump supporter and a Hillary hater. And I know if I asked him, he’d tell me (passionately) that we’re going to do great on this GOP tax cut, although I don’t see how that could possibly be. (My usual reaction when I hear a Republican say anything). Statistically, It turns out that my wife and I, by virtue of getting up really every working morning, keeping our mouths shut, and being really, really lucky, are rich; a notion that’s “rich” in itself as we’re always broke. We may not be part of the doomsday scenarios of what this tax plan will actually do to the middle class, because again statistically, we’re not in it. Despite losing the deduction of the $9,000 we pay in school and property taxes, not to mention losing the deduction for state income tax here in the Incredibly Expensive Empire State, our very successful accountant will probably tell us that we’re going to come out ahead, or at least even. We’ll wait and see.

The problem for me is that the, “I’ll be fine so screw everybody else” mentality is exactly why America has been allowed to turn into Pottersville. It’s very nice if we pay less federal income tax. It would be even nicer if I could be assured that people less fortunate than us will be able to stay in their houses, never mind heat them. It would be really nice if people in Puerto Rico could put food in refrigerators and turn a light on when they use the bathroom right now. It’s what my mother would have been screaming about right now, but no one making decisions in the federal government seems terribly concerned.

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Rich assholes congratulating themselves on stealing money while people live out of coolers and plastic bags in Puerto Rico.

And it It would be especially very nice to know that this mass redistribution of wealth upwards will not be followed as it always is by municipal budget cuts, reduction of school aid, home foreclosures, small business layoffs and personal bankruptcies. We’ve seen this movie before. We know where they’re going with this. Cities and towns all over America cutting back transpotation service, library service, after-school and elderly programs, public assistance for the poor, drug and alcohol treatment. Then they start telling you that you’re getting too much in Social Security and we just can’t afford to support all these people on Medicaid and Medicare. But look! The stock market is doing great! Corporation are making record profits! There’s never been more choices of shit to watch on TV!

Fucking Pottersville. All over again.

So what do you do if you go to sleep in Bedford Falls and you wake up in Pottersville? What do you do when your beautiful, compassionate country has turned more mean and more ugly in a year than you thought possible? What do you do when America is starting to feel like Nick’s Bar and you just want to sit quietly with a friend, sipping at your flaming rum punch, heavy on the cinnamon, light on the cloves, but the motherfuckers are harassing you at every turn and it’s looking more and more like you’ll get thrown into the snow with everyone else who doesn’t fit their Nazi, Deplorable prototype? If they don’t get me because of my political views, maybe they’ll just smirk at me from behind a cracked-open door when the next big hurricane wipes away everything I have, despite paying FEMA $2000 something a year to protect against that. Or maybe flat out kill me with radiation poisoning, in which case, I suppose they win. That’d be just like something they’d do.

Well, for one thing, you take Barack Obama’s advice: “Don’t boo. Vote.” While I regularly employ my First Amendment rights and Internet access to tell Speakers McConnell and Ryan and the Liar-in-Chief to go fuck themselves, I realize they aren’t bothered particularly by my provocations. Though it would be fun to get into a shouting match with Paul Ryan and watch him get all flustered and hysterical.

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I do hope all the people who are screaming outrage and hashtagging themselves with #The Resistance are people who voted in the last Presidential Election, but statistically, I know many of them did not. They did put a nice dent into the Republican Lie this past November, which was nice to see. (And especially nice to see Alabama rise up to stop Roy Moore just this past month). Even here on Long Island, voters booted out Republican administrations in Nassau County and the Town of Hempstead that were as hard to get rid of as cockroaches.

And in the year that starts tomorrow, every seat in The House of Representatives that has stood by and done nothing as Trump has wrecked the country by executive order, enriched himself and his family at taxpayer expense, and proven himself to be batshit crazy – every seat in that political body is up for grabs, gerrymandering and voter suppression notwithstanding. Alabama has shown that anything is possible and maybe people aren’t quite so stupid after all. So if you read this and you agree with me, vote. And if you read this and yout think I’m a naive hippe liberal that has no idea how the world really works, vote. Because it’s your right. I’m going to bet the odds that more people think like me, and would much rather live in a place like Bedford Falls. And that the criminal tragedy of the 2016 Election and all bullshit that’s been thrown at us will still be very fresh in people’s minds come this fall.

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In the meantime, consider Zuzu’s petals, the metaphor. When George finds Zuzu’s petals (in that cool little pocket sewed into his suit pants for which I couldn’t imagine another purpose) he knows he’s home. He knows everything is going to be OK, even though he’s still missing $8000. (“Isn’t it great? I’m goin’ to jail!”) As long as he has his family, and the people and the life he loves in Bedford Falls, it will all work itself out.

Zuzu’s petals represent home. Here in our home, we don’t watch 24-Hour Cable News. We get our daily Trump Disasters on a need-to-know basis from Twitter and respond in kind, often using a form of the expletive “fuck”, just like Mom would have. We watch Stephen Colbert mock the Fat Dotard, the Turtle and the Smirker, reminding us that they might have the power to poison our air and water, and possibly deport our neighbors, but they can’t kill our spirit, the American Spirit. It runs way too deep, and goes back way too far to ever die. We’ll be back in the fight tomrrow, no matter what happens.

The people who brought you Trump and that Tax Nonsense, they weren’t listening to Martin Luther King when he said, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” They thought they didn’t have to listen to him because he was black.

But we were listening, and we believe it.

Zuzu’s petals are the birds and ducks living around Duffy’s Creek, and the garden of colors we let loose in the summertime. Zuzu’s petals are driving down to the Long Beach Boardwalk on a warm day or going out to sit awhile with my elderly father at the nursing home then going for a hike up in Stony Brook. Zuzu’s petals are watching my nephews become husbands and fathers and knowing Joan and Francis Duffy’s family will live well past my own expiration date. Zuzu’s petals are stopping in to our favorite businesses around Valley Stream, where they know us and we know them, just like in Bedford Falls. Zuzu’s petals are in the food we cook, the music we play, the one-liners we trade, the neighbors we wave to, the church we go to, the roof over our heads and the hot water coming out of our faucet. Everything that is good in our lives, that still stayed good this year, despite all attempts by the Forces of Pottersville to turn us into a bitter, selfish assholes just like them.

So I wish you a Happy New Year and offer some unsolicited advice of how to survive a difficult time that may get more difficult before it gets less difficult:

Keep Zuzu’s petals in your pocket. Any pocket will do. You will have hope for a better future, and hope for a better future is really all you need to get out of bed in the morning.

And treat the place where you live like your own little Bedford Falls, even if the sign says Pottersville. Being a good person is the ultimate measure of success. As I regularly tell my son, please don’t be an asshole.

Your reward for being good? You’ll be at the front of the crowd, your heart filled with joy, together with all your good American neighbors, and together in spirit with all the people who made you who you are and imbibed you with that spirit, when we all rise up to tear that fucking sign down for good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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#Resistance is Not Futile. Or Maybe It Is. Depends on Whose.

urlForgive me WordPress for I have sinned. It’s been 202 days since my last blog post. Six months and 20 days. Unacceptable, Dude, he said to himself for a change instead of to his son. I really should not have let all this time go without one single, measly little post. Especially with all the happy positivity I’ve gotten back from other humans with computers since I started “A Creek Runs Through It” two years and two months ago. Never mind the OCD that claws at me when I see all the missing months in the archives. You’d think I would have wanted to keep that momentum going, to discipline myself to finish what I start, and to have found the time to pick away at it a little every day.

But noooo. I booted it. And there is absolutely no excuse.

So here’s my excuse: I have been overwhelmed by resistance. I’ve had all sorts of good ideas for blog posts that I just haven’t put together, that have gotten swept aside in days spent fighting the resistance that comes at me from all fronts every single day. It pops up like I’ve entered Dante’s Whack-A-Mole. I’m a simple, kind and well-meaning electrical current that keeps running into things that scramble me up and send me in different directions. I’m fighting against the resistance. It takes way, way too much of my time, and it’s exhausting.

Wu-wu-wait, you say. You might have clicked on this from Twitter. Or you clicked a Facebook post to see what Duffy was up to now, because didn’t he make an announcement through his cat back in January that he wasn’t going to post political stuff on Facebook?  (And he hasn’t). Or I might have showed in up in you inbox because you followed me. (Thank you). Maybe you know me from real life, or at least what’s left of it.

However you got here (and thank you again) you almost certainly know where I stand on the political spectrum, for better or worse. So you’re thinking whatchoo mean, FIGHTING the resistance? That’s sorta backass, isn’t it? I know you. You’re a lefty, an aging- hippie-schoolteacher-type, a borderline-socialist bleeding heart liberal. Just like your mom, except she was a little less of a hippie. You’re outraged by the State Of The Nation. You’re in there every day exercising your First Amendment Right to tell the President of The United States that he’s an evil, crooked, creepy, demented monster and by the way go fuck yourself. You’re PART of #TheResistance. You follow all the power hitters. You’re up to 2,000 followers yourself now, and at least 500 of them aren’t trying to sell you something, and seem to have some interest in what you have to say.

Well, a tweeted link that I read early in my “resistance career”, which started five days after my last blog post (one wherein  I naively attempted to toss an olive branch into the basket of deplorables) sums up my thesis today perfectly. I can’t find the original so I can’t give it to you verbatim, but here’s a paraphrase, with apologies to whoever the original thinker was. I’m pretty sure it was a link and not something the writer pulled off in 140 characters (A great art form until you realize that’s all the writing you did all day). Here’s kind of what he or she said:

“You’re asking me why I’m on Twitter harassing the President? Listen. I was just living my life and minding my own business.  He started screwing with my neighbors, my environment, my child’s education, my safety, my country’s future and my sense of decency. Hell, I’m not harassing the President. That motherfucker’s harassing ME.”

And so I’ve come to realize that the people who identify themselves with #TheResistance are really the people who are fighting resistance. The resistance is coming at them from the circumstances of the times. People who value intelligence and fairness and honesty, people who were traveling along through their lives on a nice, sensible electrical current, who never thought they’d see the vulgar stupidity and hypocrisy that is unfolding before our eyes, who were suddenly jolted with an unexpected surge, a sudden resistance that threw them off course.  

moransThe people whose thoughts I’ve read and shared on Twitter over the last 202 days (when I really should’ve been writing about my dog) are intelligent, sane folks who figured all but a couple of soreheads around them shared their basic human values, and that The American Experiment was working because the willfully ignorant, backward assholes among us were in the minority, and would never be strong enough to force their will on the country at large.

We suspect now that we underestimated these “deplorables”, not to mention the Fox News I.V. drip they’ve been hooked up to for ten years. (And there’s just no better word to describe them, though Hillary probably should’ve edited that one out. I guess she just couldn’t help it. They are fucking deplorable). We who call ourselves pound sign The Resistance also suspect that the whole damn thing – including the wacky-ass Flag-Wavin, Gun-Totin’ Jesus-Saved MAGA ‘Muricans who were suddenly all over the place with their cult-like worship of the most vile human who’s ever lived – all of it is part of a criminal enterprise without equal in the history of the world.

 

Well, I was out walking Mookie, and I was thinking about the word: Resistance. And my mind traveled to the little pins with the color-coded pegs in the middle that represent ohms of resistance. That’s right, ohms. You bend the resistors of various ohms so one pin goes in B9 and the other one goes in E7 on the motherboard. And I know a little something about electrical circuits because God blessed my wife and I with a child, who is now 13 and knows EVERYTHING about electrical circuits. And he has since he was about four (no shit), around the time he told the guy at Ace Hardware matter-of-factly that he already was an electrician, he just didn’t have his license yet.

So I have a basic, English Major’s / Involved Dad’s idea of the functions of  all the little components that The Dude solders into circuits that ultimately combine to light up little LED lights, or start the coffee maker. This is what I know (with my apologies in advance to my electrical engineer nephew who will read this and say, “uh, close there, John. Not quite”). An electrical circuit only needs a power source, a load, connectors and a switch. Why that’s simple enough. But along that circuit, you can add (integrate) components that will alter that circuit in different ways, usually in order to regulate the flow of electricity, or to store it and disperse it in other directions. These include resistors, inductors and capacitors, which are called passive components. They don’t introduce energy into the circuit, but rather control, retain or redirect the energy already in the circuit. The active components, like transistors, can take the energy supplied to them and amplify it, enough so with help from Russia they can win Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania.

So in terms of the political history of this country, I guess liberals and conservatives, progressives and obstructionists, Democrats and Republicans have taken turns being the active and passive components in the circuit. We’re either amplifying or resisting what comes at us, depending on who’s holding the cards. And of course, I’m very aware that #The Resistance is a direct reference to the French Resistance during the Nazi Occupation, so my whole nonsense about comparing it to electrical circuits is just that, but I like to think about words. And knowing that we are all following in the footsteps of the French Resistance against the Nazis, at least when I’m tweeting snarky comments I can sort of feel like Victor Lazlo or Captain Renault in Casablanca, or hell, even Bogie. And their side ultimately won, and would have even if they had called themselves the Capacitors.

casablanca-mainSo  through my online persona, Up A Creek (with it’s avatar of Woody Guthrie’s guitar, on which he wrote “This Machine Kills Fascists”), I am a proud and permanent part of hashtag The Resistance against the awful people who have overtaken over our beautiful country. It eats my time, but I feel like I have to keep up on it. I’ve always felt a need to bear witness to the parade of events in my lifetime, but now I feel like I have to throw myself in the road to slow it down, or at least hold up a sign to let the record show I did not go along with any of this. For historical value, the week I wrote this was the week we went from inappropriate comments to the Boy Scouts and the Suffolk County Police Department to insulting the Statue of Liberty and The White House, to suggesting that the entire State of New Hampshire is a drug-infested wasteland to #LocalMilkPeople to hey guess what asshole, Mueller’s impaneled a grand jury. The White Nationalist Occupation Of America will not last, but it will cause some significant damage, and it will take a lot of time and political will to repair that damage. The only thing that saves us right now as a country is our most sacred freedom: The First Amendment freedom to call bullshit what it is. Hitler didn’t have Twitter, but if he did, his amplifier would have soon enough been short-circuited by the roar of the The Resistance. Tiny-Handed Orange Hitler doesn’t stand a chance.

But meanwhile, while all this insanity plays out in Washington D.C. and on my magic rectangle, I got my own fish to fry back here on the creek. The Resistance doesn’t end when I put the damn phone down. Sometimes, it’s just getting started.

If you have children, and they’re already older than 13, and you’ve survived and conquered triskaidekaphobia, then when I tell you (which I already have) that we have a 13 year old living here, even if he or she were the very, very best 13 year old in the whole wide world, you would roll your eyes and say, “Oh God!” in a very folksy way. I know this because I’ve spent my entire adult life teaching 13 year olds, and even when they are very, very good kids (and the overwhelming majority are, so relax about the future and worry about the present), when I meet their parents, we all sit around and roll our eyes and say, “Oh God” in a very folksy way.

That is the nature of the beast. 13 year olds are annoying. I don’t know what yours does (though I could guess), but mine regularly snaps angrily at us, takes forever to do the simplest thing, forgets what you tell him from one millisecond to the next, leaves stuff lying around everywhere and blames us when stuff gets lost, gets caught in poorly-executed lies, slams and stomps, talks and talks and talks over you, belabors every point, gets pissy and yells “I KNOW!” when you tell him school work has to get done, then winds up in summer school anyway, even though he knew.

One thing that’s actual kind of fascinating about teaching (and any teacher will tell you this) is how you can see the adult hiding inside the child. Once you get to know a kid, you can sort of extrapolate -for better or worse – what they’re going to be like when they’re forty.  And this I also know from experience: Some kids are not good at being kids. The hidden adult is, on an intellectual level, ready to bust out and get things going, but is emotionally and developmentally trapped by lack of experience and the need to learn through trial and lots and lots of error. So sometimes the kid is the little adult that will emerge easily and naturally in the course of time, and sometimes the adult is there already, has been all along, trapped, doing time in the body of a kid.

The Dude has some trouble with life right now. It’s hard for him to smile. And of course, when you’re 13 and life gives you trouble, you respond by giving life some trouble. It’s not all the time, but enough so that it seriously effects his self-esteem, which should be higher because he’s so smart and so damn good looking if I do say so myself. Social cues are a bitch. Understanding and/or anticipating what the other person may be thinking in a given situation, seeing the big picture. He has trouble seeing himself outside himself. He gets stuck in his own head. And because (maddeningly) has not taken up the habits of reading for pleasure or following a game or losing himself in a song, he can’t get out.  It can be painful to watch and infuriating to deal with. Because he worries and overthinks so damn much, he’s not real good at being a kid sometimes.

Interestingly enough, when he’s moving, mostly on his bike or swimming, he’s at his most kid-like. Movement sets him free from worry. But a lot of time he’s angry or miserable or twisted in knots, and he’s convinced that there’s nothing we can do to help. Because he knows that the advice will give him will involve change from within, and emotionally and developmentally he’s just not ready to come to terms with that.

But in the meantime, between the storms, he can take an entire washing machine apart, switch out the motherboard and replace the broken lid switch. He can tell you the model of an air conditioner sticking out of a window as you pass it doing 40 m.p.h. He’s trying to internalize the map of Valley Stream so he can get further and further away from me on his bicycle. But then again, he’ll have a catch with me now and enjoy it. And something I especially appreciate, he’s developing the ability to have a rapport as opposed to a one-way, monologue conversation. (Two great examples from just yesterday: Upon seeing a guy walking into an intersection unaware that he was walking into the path of an ambulance,  Me: “Savage”. Dude: “Thug Life”. Upon seeing a woman walking a little dog on the Long Beach Boardwalk,  Me: “If I brought Mookie up here, they’d throw me out in two seconds. They’re dogists. That’s what they are.” Dude: “They’re breedists, actually”).

Every adult outside of school (and most adults in school, right before before they say “but”) has told us how smart and well-spoken The Dude can be, and how he’ll eventually be fine. We know this. He makes progress on an excruciatingly long trajectory, and there’s still lots of drama and lots of damage control to be suffered through. And of course, the curse of junior high is trying to fit in. Unfortunately, right now The Dude is trying to fit in by pretending he’s not as articulate as he is and turning his mechanical passions into a hidden secret life because he thinks if he gets found out it will stick him with the geeks. Bringing up this subject, or any subject remotely connected to school, is opening up a big can of verbal whoop-ass, which is ironic because he loves being a part of the school on an emotional level, and even became a Valley Stream South Falcon this year by joining the track team. He just avoids the work as much as he possibly can because he’s not perfect at it and it pisses him off, which of course leads him into a hornet’s nest of resistance. On and on the vicious cycle goes.

Valley-StreamObviously, there isn’t much you can do about somebody going through these kinds of storms at 13 but to just keep working like hell at it. And so I’ll have one of these verbal pissing matches with him, walk away, go out to the patio, open up the magic rectangle and see the latest insult or degradation to civilized life that’s trending on Twitter, then realize we’re out of cat food and take a leisurely twenty-minute fucking drive to the King Kullen a fucking mile away because Long Island is bursting at the seams with people and cars. Usually you get stuck for a good five of those minutes at the light at Merrick and Central Avenue. There’s a Walgreens on the corner. I’ve dubbed it The Corner Of Sick And Miserable.

I’d love to get off Long Island, and not because Twitler called it a blood-soaked killing field when he was out in Suffolk telling the police to rough up presumed innocent suspects and scaring the Trumpbillies watching Fox News in West Virginia with an unfortunate local gang issue being dealt with in Brentwood. And not simply because my fight-or-flight adrenaline suddenly disappears as soon as I reach Rockland County. I’d love to get off Long Island because there’s just too many people on Long Island. They create resistance. They don’t mean to. They’re just here. Like I’m here. But getting anywhere to do anything takes a ridiculous amount of time and effort and the whole thing wears you down. And once you get there, everything costs more than it should. A lot more. Trisha lives at the mercy of the Long Island Railroad every working day. She pays them $261 a month for the privilege of being a sardine in a can that may or may not get to Penn Station or back on time, plus another $100 to our fair village for the right to park her car. Enough said.

I had a cool psychology professor in a summer class at Nassau Community College. I took Intro to Psychology because I had to take something to finish enough credits to get a Liberal Arts degree. I also took Intro to Philosophy. And the professor was just as cool. I learned more in five weeks in those two classes that I learned over years of taking silly English Lit and Education courses for my Master’s. Those people were just stealing money. But I digress.

The cool psychology professor, large and unkept and not the slightest bit bothered by either, sitting in a turned-around backwards student chair and chain-smoking cigarettes that he extinguished on the floor, taught us one night about Sensory Adaptation, the idea that after you are immersed in something long enough, you respond automatically to it without really sensing it. It’s the reason why nothing feels as good the second time and the reason why I can find my way to the King Kullen on Merrick Road. The professor suggested that it’s sort of tragic that we can’t live without it, because while I can grab the cat food out of aisle six without thinking about it, I can’t appreciate that I have this nice big, well-lit store full of food and household products and friendly people a mile from my house. It’s not fun anymore. It’s just a given. I don’t see it. It’s just there.

And I’m not going to lie to you. I had to look up the term that my psychology professor was talking about when he laid out that painful paradox for me thirty-something years ago. And when I checked back on Sensory Adaptation, I also ran across Habituation. This is where an organism, like me or you, will no longer respond to a stimulus because it has no relevance. the organisms psychological and emotional response is diminished because the stimulus is no longer “biologically relevant.” Right now, if I listen, I can hear the constant drone of Kennedy Airport six miles away, plus the big highway and the train track a mile north of the creek. But I can also tune it out. The problem, I guess, is that by virtue of living 48 of my 54 years in the same house, I block out too much of the good stuff, too, ’cause I’m just trying to get through the day while the so-called president I hate screams at me about fake news and the child I love screams at me about losing the 5/8 ratchet that he left on the garage floor.

Sometimes I can’t see how beautiful the gardens we’ve grown around this house truly are because it’s freaking hot out and and I have to pull weeds to keep it beautiful. Sometimes I forget how cozy our house is because the clutter has piled up and the floors are disgusting and I’d just really rather crank up the air conditioner and take a nap with the dog.

Speaking of beautiful, Trisha nailed this phenomenon recently, in her way, which is a way that damn near ruptured my spleen from laughing. We were looking at a red and orange and purple sunset stretching across the northwest sky, reflected in the high tide flowing out along Duffy’s Creek. She said, “You know what it is? You see this sunset, and you think to yourself, “Wow. That is so beautiful!” And then when it’s over, you think to yourself. “Wow. Back to dead inside.”

And don’t think for a second that I don’t know that, as far as the Dude is concerned, I’m part of the problem. He loves Valley Stream, and everywhere we go on Long Island. As hard as his life can be, he loves his home. It’s all still relatively new to him. He’s just trying to find his way through growing up, and this motherfucker’s harassing HIM. He might get out and see the world someday, but something tells me, looking at the adult inside the child, that he’ll be another George Bailey who never leaves Bedford Falls. And of course, between that and the whole going to work thing, we’re not going anywhere. And sometimes that simple fact – you sir, are stuck – a wedged bear in a great tightness -leads to resistance that I’m really just creating for myself, messing up my own circuits by not trying to be content with what I have and stay easy with the world. I could be catching up on Richard Russo’s latest novel sitting next to me on the coffee table. I could pick up the guitar, work on the mandolin, open the piano nobody has touched in months and teach myself something, work on that big extended blog project about all the walks I take with Mookie ,who has the ability to make you lose all sense of Habituation even when you take the same walks over and over, because he keeps looking at you and saying, “Isn’t this great?”.

IMG_0546In other words I could be enjoying my life more. Like Mookie does. I suppose if the Mets were playing better, it would help, but you can never count on that. Too often, instead  of playing that guitar or reading that book or writing that blog, I spend down time looking up Columbia County and Saranac Lake house porn on Zillow and checking in with Twitter every half hour because the fucking world is going nuts and I feel a responsibility to voice my displeasure through blasting out a couple of ohms of resistance.

Turns out I’m not the most fun guy to live with if you’re a 13 years old. He throws me a lot of resistance, but I need to be a stronger conductor.

And like Jimmy Cliff in the song, I don’t know where any of this is leading, but I know where I have been. And I guess I’ve been a lucky son-of-a-gun, because I still look to the future with an overwhelming sense of optimism that usually has no basis in empirical data. My experiences have led me to believe that one may as well.  Our son is going to grow up just fine, the criminals who’ve taken over the country will be served justice and I’ll wake up tomorrow and see the beauty in every flower.

This is how the song goes, by the way:

“Sitting here in limbo / waiting for the dice to roll / Sitting here in limbo / waiting for the tide to flow / Meanwhile they’re putting up resistance / But I know that my faith will lead me on.”

You got that right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Late Bloomer

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For about a year, maybe two or three, I thought about starting a blog. It was Trisha’s idea, originally, as many of the better ones are. She told me about blogs she followed that were really popular, and the people who were writing them weren’t really doing anything much more that writing entertaining stuff about their own lives, which is pretty much what I was doing (and still do) on Facebook. She said that, considering how many people read some of these blogs she’s seen, there was an audience out there for stories about The Dude and Mookie and all the other stuff I post about, and rant about in the kitchen. And she told me that people actually made money doing this, which I found to be a ridiculous but intriguing notion. Some research revealed that the actual chance of making money off a wordpress blog was a long and involved proposition, especially challenging when you go four months without posting anything. But the profitable blogs and the “hobby” blogs all started the same way, a writer sitting down and writing something.

So I started a blog. It was back on June 20th of last year. It was the Saturday night before Father’s Day. I stayed up late because I knew Trisha would let me sleep in the next day. I wrote an introduction for a blog. It was called “Welcome To Duffy’s Creek.” I put a picture of myself and Mookie Dog standing on the left bank of the creek that runs in back of our backyard and I wrote something about what I planned to write about. And I paid 50 bucks for duffyscreek.com and I put it up on wordpress. And it’s clear upon re-reading “Welcome to Duffy’s Creek” that I had no idea exactly what I was going to write about.

But I wrote all summer. I wrote about my 11 year-old son, The Dude, and his faithful dog, Mookie. I wrote about my mother, Joan Duffy, who died in 2012. I wrote about my politics and my backyard, which were once her politics and her backyard. I copy / pasted an article about growing up in Valley Stream that I published in a local newspaper in 2011, with an added introduction and addendum, which I guess is the blog equivalent of coughing up a furball. I wrote a really, really long story / history about The White Fathers of Camp Lavigerie in Onchiota, NY and my connection to Saranac Lake and the Adirondacks, and a White Father named Tony Smyth, who I knew when I was a little boy, linked the blog to the White Father’s website, which made me as pleased as punch. I love that expression.

Then Labor Day rolled around and I began laboring again, and time fell through the cracks, and when October came around, The Mets made it all the way to Game 5 of The World Series, which commanded a great deal of my attention. And there was, as always, a lot to do around here. I told myself I’d get in one blog post a month, just to keep the archives fresh. I told myself they didn’t have to be long, involved posts like most of my first fifteen. I studied how other people were doing it, and doing it very well, on the wordpress blogs I started following, and I knew I could write more punchy little articles to keep the mill grinding and still make it good, but the little writer in my head was telling me there was too much to say on any given subject that I thought of writing about. The Mets for instance. I’d like to write a blog post about The Mets. I said I would four months ago when I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. But if I’m going to write about The Mets, I have forty-seven years of history with them. If I can’t do it right, I’ll just have to wait until I can, and in the interim pick a less demanding subject that I can tackle in a day or two to keep feeding the beast.

On the other hand, the coolest realization I that I’ve had about blogging while I haven’t done any for four months is that once you put it out there, it stays out there. I wrote 15 blog posts between June 20th and September 1st of 2015. Since June 20th, 776 people have visited the site (even though I know a couple of those people are robots, most of them are people, so I’ll just go with that number). Individual posts have brought 1,457 views total. “A Saranac Lake Guy: The Story of Camp Lavigerie” alone has had 269 views. And the best part for me is the visitors and views have come from 38 different countries, representing every continent. I love that. The one guy in Sweden reading about why I named my dog Mookie, or the Ecuadorian woman reading about Amanda’s Village Motel in Saranac Lake, or the young fellow in Singapore reading about my lifelong love of Ancona Pizza. You just can’t beat it.

So based on getting a whole lot more interest and feedback than I ever imagined getting in six months, four of which came and went without writing anything new, I guess I can declare this blog experiment a raging success, and pledge a commitment to try to keep up on it in 2016. And to not entertain for one minute the idea that I will ever get paid for doing this. That was the one thing I got absolutely right in my introduction: This is a labor of love. I love to write. I always have. It is gratifying that I’ve gotten as much feedback as I have, and I’ve really enjoyed seeing how other people do it on wordpress. Some of them (some of you) are phenomenally clever and original. But ultimately,and I’m sure you’ll agree, the ego boost is great, but it’s the process that I truly love: The “right now” of it. I like trying to get that sentence or that paragraph as precise as I can, and slithering in and out of ideas like a snake with an English degree.

The younger me was told by lots of people that I could write for a living, but it seems his fatal flaw was that he couldn’t write what somebody else wanted him to write. Even now, I know if I just focused on one thing, like gardening, or big happy labradors, or high-functioning autism, or my hometown going to hell around me, the blog would probably grow faster in terms of eyeballs and clicks. But I’m too interested in too many things to limit myself to that. Hence the ridiculously vague title of “A Creek Runs Through It”, followed by the subtitle: “Growing Up, Growing Old, Growing Flowers, Grace Under Pressure and Growling Out The Window On Duffy’s Creek.” It’s a great big umbrella, and to my credit, every post I’ve written can be traced back to that little bit of alliterative fun. Work is work. This is fun.

However, if you told the older me today that I could make a living sitting with my dog on the couch while punching a laptop keyboard with two fingers and listening to The Band radio on Pandora, I’d be all ears. Please, get in touch. I’ll crank out any crap you need.

But right now I have to tell you something: This post isn’t about blogging. It’s actually about a chrysanthemum. This chrysanthemum :

This is a chrysanthemum (or a “mum”, if you insist) called a zawadskii that I grew from a teeny-tiny little seed, smaller than a speck of dust, around ten years ago, when I had more time to experiment. At the time I was starting seeds indoors in the winter and planting them out, and since I had indoor seed starting apparatus with nothing in it once I had planted out the salvia and zinnias that I had started in February, I figured I could try growing some perennials from seed. I think I tried some native columbine and chrysanthemums, maybe a couple of others. I had no idea what the seeds would look like when I ordered them. The chrysanthemum seeds turned out to be basically an envelope full of dust. I threw the dust in some wet dirt and put the lights on it, not thinking that they’d ever amount to anything.

I have no idea how many chrysanthemum seeds I planted. Knowing me, probably at least fifty. And 49 of them didn’t amount to anything.

But one did. He lives in the patio garden. He starts greening up with the other fellows when the weather gets warm, and he sneaks up between the big splashy yellow coreopsis, both the low growing bushy ones and the famous 7-foot coreopsis crayzius bastardus, which blooms all through July and August. He spreads out under and around the other perennials wherever he can and he stakes his ground, and he bides his time and he waits.

The summer flowers come and go. The zinnias and the black-eyes suzies put on their flashy song and dance routine until just about the time the leaves are off the maple trees. The dahlias slowly start getting strung-out looking and ultimately give it up just after Halloween, when they start looking like zombies. Trisha’s roses also start their Irish goodbyes in late-October and usually turn out the last light around Thanksgiving. This year, of course, we had a creepily warm December, so a few of the roses actually still have flowers on them here on January 2nd, though it’s good and cold now.

(I just asked her which roses lasted the longest, so if you’re into hybrid tea roses and you want flowers until Christmas in Zone 6, you can order the following cultivars: Dublin Bay, Irish Hope, The Prince, Love and Peace, Fragrant Apricot, High Hopes and Distant Drums. I love that all her roses have fancy names like that. And I love even more how she can rattle them off for you, even though there are about fifty of them on the property. The flowers I grow all have one name: “those guys”).

The chrysanthemum that I grew from a teeny-tiny seed waits until everybody in the patio garden is done. He holds his cards until the last possible moment. Come the second or third week of November, he lays them on the table. The other flowers are all brown or ripped out and thrown in the compost mountain. The pale purple mum with the yellow disks in the center waits until everyone is done talking, then says, “watch this, mother-f*%#&rs.” He opens a suitcase filled with a hundred little daisy-like flowers, but with his own subtle, original colors that you wouldn’t ordinarily associate with autumn.  I’ve never actually seen one in a store. He’s not anything like the happy red, orange and yellow mums that I put on the front step, the ones that announce the autumn colors in a blast of trumpet fanfare (“Hey you! Break out the flannel shirts! We’re back! It’s gettin’ CHILLY!”) No, the chrysanthemum that I grew from a teeny-tiny seed comes back every year in a cool saxophone solo of off white and pale lavender petals around mustard yellow center disks. And he stands in perfect contrast with the antique oranges, reds and yellows on the trees and the bushes. And when he’s in full bloom, everybody else stops and watches him and says “damn, that boy can play.”

I’m going to be 53 years old this year. I got married when I was 38 and became a father at 40. My soon to be 12-year old son still needs someone to tuck him in at night, even though he replaced the motion light over the garage this morning in less than a half an hour. I probably should’ve started this blog ten years before I did. But at this point in my life, I look forward more and more and back less and less, so no regrets. I’m in the here and in the now, and I’m publishing my 16th blog post on duffyscreek.com in five minutes. And I’ve got a hundred more swimming around in my head.

And now that you know all this, you could see why I’d have a special kinship with a late bloomer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m John Duffy and I Approved This Message. Now I’ll Shut Up.

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This post wants nothing from you. You don’t have to yell or scream, or refute your core beliefs, or get mad as hell and swear you’re not going to take it anymore, or shoot holes in my argument, or even submit your email and create a password. It’s just a little slice of life, followed by a little editorial, and it won’t hurt you, even if you don’t agree with it’s point-of-view. I don’t want anybody to eat anybody. I just want everybody to be happy. Really. And I’ll  be back to writing about cute dogs and pretty flowers and precocious children again before you know it.

This is the little slice of life part: I shared two posts on my Facebook page yesterday that were about politics. One post was a share of a Huffington Post report (such a silly name, Huffington) which suggested, as I believe right now, that Bernie Sanders has a legitimate chance to be elected President next year. They had polls and stuff to back it up. We don’t have that kind of technology here at Duffy’s Creek, but we do have fresh broccoli growing next to the garage, which I bet The Huffington Post doesn’t have. The other post was about a trained paramedic who makes $15 an hour, who suggested that fast-food workers are entitled to make the same $15 an hour even without his prerequisite skills because it would in effect force his employer to eventually pay him more, the same employer that sends out emails to the $15 an hour paramedic to tell him how great they’re doing and how much money they’re making. I suggested that this guy’s realization was proof that, in the words of the great Joe Torre, “the goddamn worm is starting to turn.”

A couple of people who I know think the same way as I do threw me a couple of likes when I checked back on the posts after going to the pool, and buying two grape slurpees at the 7-11, and picking up fresh meat and produce from the Hudson Valley out of the back of an SUV in a church parking lot. (I live a full and rich life) . But later, as I was staring at the garden and The Dude was up in his man cave, I got to thinking about my previous forays into political debate on facebook, and I said, “uh-oh” and I deleted the posts.

But then, because I’m OCD and I can’t leave well enough alone, I posted an explanation of why I deleted the posts. And because I’m OCD and I can’t leave well enough alone, I’ll probably delete the explanation later. Here’s what I wrote:

I posted some political stuff today. Then I took it down. Last time I got going on Presidential politics I got some folks upset. Something about the joy of watching a certain guy get caught speaking his mind among his rich friends. The guy who strapped his dog to the roof of the car. Don’t remember his name. Anyway, my philosophy on Facebook sharing since then is it should be the stuff you’d tell people at a backyard barbecue, not from a barstool, ya know? I’m going to hold to that. No politics from me on Facebook. I’m a far-left, pro-union borderline socialist bleeding-heart liberal ’cause that’s the way Mom and Dad raised me. Surprise, surprise. Oh, and screw Facebook. I have a blog. If you want to know what I think, you’ll have to up my clicks on wordpress when I put up a tease. It ain’t all gonna be flowers, therapy dogs and poignant parenting stories, especially when this thing starts getting ugly. I’m voting for Bernie Sanders, and he’s going to need my help, but you don’t need to hear about it, unless you want to. Time to cook dinner. I won’t be posting a picture of it. smile emoticon

That was cool!  I copy/pasted the smile at the end of my rant and it came up “smile emoticon”! You can get away with saying all sorts of things if you follow them with a smile emoticon. Anyway, as you see, I have some history with this stuff. I know people whose politics are as much learned from their parents and heritage as mine are from mine (fun with pronouns, there) and I like those people just fine and I don’t want anyone to be mad at me, ever, for anything. And when I started shooting arrows at…oh what’s his name…Moose? Ripley? (Thanks, Steven Colbert) it started a whole ugly back and forth and I began to realize that Facebook is a really good place to post pictures of your dog and yourself on a ferris wheel and a really bad place to forward your political beliefs. But I know lots of people who do it, on both sides of the Little Civil War we’re all having. And really, I want them to keep doing it. Because I don’t tell other people what to do unless I’m getting paid to. And unlike myself, often they manage to do it in a less snarky way than I would have.

christie_shavingAnd that’s my problem. And everybody’s problem, more and more. I was taught, wrongly, that in a political debate you go in for the kill and you take no prisoners; that it’s as much about proving the other person wrong and proving yourself right as it is about an exchange of ideas. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that this is an awful, un-Jesus-like way to be. Apparently, many people my age haven’t gotten older. I may feel very strongly about my political beliefs, but I’ve come to feel equally strongly that there’s no need to shove them in people’s faces. It’s impolite. Chris Christie is the sitting Governor of New Jersey and he says he wants to punch the leader of the American Federation of Teachers in the face. He was responding to a question that some talking head on a news show asked him, which I find incredulous. The question was, “who would you like to punch in the face?”. Why would you ask that question to a Presidential candidate? Did Christie’s people get to the guy before the interview and say, “Hey! Ask him who he’d punch in the face! It’ll be great!” And then I read the quote that came out of that useless orifice he has there, and  I say to the newspaper: “Oh yeah! Well when you cut yourself shaving, fat boy, gravy comes out. You’re running for President? You couldn’t even run to the bathroom to lose that last ten pounds of red meat you just sucked through a freakin’ straw you disgusting, inert mass of lipids. You wouldn’t even be able to lift your arm to throw the punch. You’d fall forward and be like a goddamn weeble wobbling on the floor until they sent fifteen of your empty-headed people scrambling in to hoist your fat ass back up with a rope and a pulley.”

You see? He got me. I was goaded, and I went in for the kill with a personal attack that has nothing to do with our disagreement of the role of teacher’s unions. (of course, neither does threatening to punch somebody in the face). And when the other idiot with the hair started talking trash about Mexicans, the best we all they could have done was not give him a second of airtime. Not a second. Why would anyone dignify such hateful, vile words? I first heard it with my son in the car at 4:30 in the afternoon and switched off the radio as quickly as I could. The Dude asked me why. I said, because the guy who was talking is a piece of garbage and he doesn’t deserve a single cell of my attention span.

But he got hours and hours and hours of coverage, and everyone on one side said, “Yeah. Immigrants. That’s the problem. See? He said so.” And everyone on the other side started trying to punish the ignorant bastard and take away his toys because they’re all shocked that a jerk would say something jerky if put in front of cameras and a microphone. And he obviously loved every minute of it.

I recently read a great quote from Pedro Martinez when he was being elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Some reporter was goading him into responding to some backwater radio commentator who had something nasty to say about Dominican baseball players. I don’t know what the radio idiot said, but Pedro responded by saying, “I only discuss things like that with intelligent people.” And it’s not like Pedro doesn’t understand winning and losing. He is the owner of the single best baseball quote of all time. When they asked him about the “Curse of the Bambino” that kept the Red Sox from winning the World Series for 80 years, he said, “I’m going to dig the Bambino up and drill him in the ass.” The man understands that a baseball diamond is a good place for no-holds-barred competition, not to mention colorful trash-talking, but it has no place in real life. When we’re trying to figure out where everybody fits in this world, there shouldn’t be any thought given to who wins and who loses. We should try to figure out how everyone wins.

But the politicians get worse and worse. Even Obama, who has for the most part stayed above the fray – sometimes to his detriment – has referred to politics as a “blood sport.” What the hell does that mean? Why do they insist on perpetuating this ugliness? And why do I have to hear about buffoons like Donald Trump and Chris Christie just because I stay in touch with current events? (Even if I stick to NPR). If they want to run for President, fine. Go ahead. But if your rhetoric is obviously beneath the dignity of the office you aspire to, and said just for shock value, just to get yourself noticed, why would the media report it at all?  I suppose they have to, but why do right-thinking people then feel the need to react to or counter these statements at all? Why not just say, “I only discuss things like that with intelligent people.”  What exactly do petulant little gobs of snot with money burning holes in their pockets, who decide they can get a lot of the attention they so desperately crave by running for President, really have to do with the state of the world until the day they’re actually standing in a general election and can directly affect the destinies of the immigrants and schoolteachers (and immigrant schoolteachers) that they openly hate?

But they keep churning it out, they do, both the politicians and the media that covers them. And we keep slobbering it up. It seems a bit contrived doesn’t it? Like it’s being done on purpose. You think? They shove all this garbage at us because we all love to keep hearing it, so people on one side can own new nasty little talking points and people on the other side can let loose and take no prisoners like I just did to Fat Ass and Escalator Man. (Besides, if you asked me who I’d like to punch in the face, I’d have to go with Andrew Cuomo first anyway. I have my reasons).  And though it felt very good when I was writing it, It’s ultimately pointless, not to mention toxic. But the Little Civil War looks like it’s just going to go on and on and it’s never going to stop. Unless, of course, intelligent people who are more interested in governing than in putting on a show are elected into positions of power. And, of course, the endless cycle of stupid could be broken if the media was run by intelligent people more interested in informing the public than in stoking the dark underbelly of people’s fears, or treating political issues with the depth of a kiddie pool. They’re supposed to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” (Finley Peter Dunne. Never heard of him).

They do the exact opposite now. They afflict the afflicted and comfort the comfortable.

So as I was saying, it’s just not going to stop.

But it stops on my Facebook page. And it stops on my TV, and my Twitter feed, and in my newspaper, ’cause I decide what I pay attention to. My ultimate goal is peace of mind and contentment. You can’t get there when you’re covered in slime. At least I can’t. I’m OCD. Less garbage in. That’s my plan. Following the Mets is stressful enough.

I’m going to miss Jon Stewart. He was and forever will be the absolute best at ripping the masks off the pretenders, parsing their insipid sound bites and reminding us of how much shit they think we’ll eat, and why we’re too smart to bite. But I understand that he’s sick of it. I’m sick of watching him do it. It’s funny because it’s our old crazy friend Jon, doing the Mitch McConnell turtle and the Lindsey Graham southern bell and The Dick Chaney growl. But it’s gotten to the point where it’s really not funny anymore, because this country is truly suffering from the incivility. As the mother-in-law character in “Field of Dreams” said when she couldn’t see the baseball players, “I don’t think it’s very polite…try’na make other people feel stupid.”

f445c657751d97a59b6197f0c791815e74b1bf776a2d46bbff9394910959111cTherefore, I’ve decided to write a little manifesto, a little treatise, of what I believe, and how the two people whose images grace the top of this  post, who are losing me followers as you read this, are the best embodiment of the direction in which I would like to see my country headed. Then I’m going to shut way up until the General Election. This is the editorial part. I am not asking you to slap me on the virtual back and tell me how much you agree with me or to slap upside the back of the virtual head and tell me how much you disagree with me. If you would like to write a post on your blog about how John Duffy does not know what the hell he’s talking about, I would not be offended in any way. I’d probably enjoy it, and most likely agree on many points. So I hope you will not be offended in any way by my sharing the beliefs that my parents instilled in me, and that I have taken to heart through my own empirical experience of walking through this world for 52 years. Here’s what I think:

  • I think that everyone has a vested interest in everyone else’s success. If I do better, you do better, and vice versa. Competition is wonderful when you’re playing tennis, or Boggle, but it’s somewhat unhealthy when it determines whether somebody eats or has a home. If I have a big slice of the pie, and you have a big slice of the pie, then we both have more pie than we need, so we can sell some pie, so we can buy ingredients to bake more pie, or if we already have the ingredients to bake the next pie, we can give some pie to someone who has no pie at all, so they can have some pie, too, because when they get their own little slice of the pie, they’ll share their pie with somebody else, because we shared our pie with them. And on and on. There’s enough pie for everybody, and we have the ability to make lots and lots of pie. So there’s no good reason for the richest country on Earth to make it difficult for people to have a slice of the pie. The people with all the pie who won’t share it say, “Let them eat cake.” But cake is not as good for you as pie. The cake is the nonsense they throw at us to distract us, the “shiny objects” if you will: Empty calories and celebrity gossip. Pure sugar and “Mission Impossible”. If you eat too much of it, you get sick. But the pie is education and healthcare and family leave and affordable housing and day care and social security and veterans benefits and food stamps and home ownership and playgrounds and swimming pools and school clubs all the other things that can lead to a better life for a lot of people. And I truly believe that there is enough for everyone, and anyone who tells you differently is working for someone who wants to keep more pie than they should fairly be allowed to.  and has conveniently forgotten that we are all connected. Or sees that he could help and nevertheless couldn’t really give a rat if you have any pie at all.
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  • I believe in the strength of diversity. I used to didn’t. I grew up in a segregated town that itself grew up to be unsegregated, and I went through the learning curve right along with it. My parents taught me not to hate, but I heard a lot of “us vs. them” around Valley Stream growing up. But I know now that there are two kinds of people in this world: People who believe that there are two kinds of people in this world and people who know better. I had a next-door neighbor from hell once upon a time. She was pasty-colored Irish just like me. She was a real estate agent, and she bragged that she was steering people of color away from houses that were for sale in our neighborhood. (This was in New York in 2005. Thought I’d point that out). She and her family did lots of obnoxious things and no one was sorry when they finally left. In one of her parting shots to me, she said, “enjoy the trash that’s moving in here.” Later, I related this quote verbatim to my other next-door neighbor, a hard-working, good-hearted, responsible husband and father of three who was born in The Philippines, who replied with a Buddah-like smile, “I guess I’m the trash that moved in.” If people leave their homes and family members behind to emigrate to this country, they must have a good reason, just like most American’s grandparents and great-grandparents did. Let’s find out what they came here for, and how they can contribute to everyone else’s success. And let’s not let the pie hogs start playing us against each other based on stereotypes. Nobody anywhere in this country should be falling for that crap anymore.
  • I believe in the establishment of a maximum wage. Forget the minimum wage for a second. The real problem is a system where it’s OK to just keep taking and taking and taking. Because the more you’ve taken, the easier it is to keep taking some more. Exhibit A: The Wal-Mart business plan. As I have come to understand it, they pay people as little as they can get away with so they can sell cheap goods to people who work for other employers who pay the least amount possible, then they laugh all the way to the bank with billions of profits while the government, aka the taxpaying citizens, pay for food stamps and other subsidies to their workers, who can’t afford a pot to pee in with what Wal-Mart is paying them. Then the bubbleheads who work for the billionaire that owns Fox News tell you that the people on food stamps are stealing your money. Freaking brilliant. Exhibit B: There’s a small independent college called Paul Smiths College in the Adirondacks. A woman named Joan Weill, whose husband Sandy was the CEO of Citigroup, wants to pay the college $20 million to change the name of the college to Joan Weill Paul Smiths College. First of all, an act of hubris and superego of that magnitude would render Sigmund Freud dumbstruck. But more importantly, where did these people get $20 million to throw around in the first place? By systematically figuring out a way to take all the pie, and leave the rest of us with the crumbs. And I’m sure every bit of it was legal. Maybe if that $20 million had been fairly distributed in return for honest labor and productivity, the people who pay tuition to Paul Smiths College could be asked to chip in a little more, and they would. And Joan Weill would have just enough to maintain the insanely luxurious place she owns in the Adirondacks and would be happy enough to keep her name to herself.

And that’s why I think the time has come to burn down the mission, to redistribute the wealth and rebuild the ladder and the safety net; to “eat the rich” as it were. If that’s Socialism, then I’m a socialist. I believed all this before Occupy Wall Street. Before it was hip. What you take from society, you should give back in kind. If you’re successful, you got that way because you moved your goods and services on roads that were built for everybody, using everybody’s power and water. Maybe you even went to a public school. If you become rich in this country, you could have only done it on the backs of other people. And there’s nothing wrong with that as long as those people benefitted in some way while helping you get there. The ideas of the “self-made man” and “the job creators” would be laughable if people didn’t buy into them so freely. And if you turn around and try to deny others the same advantages you yourself used to get rich, you suck, and you deserve what’s coming to you.And here they come.

hillaryThere are two politicians in this country who have addressed these issues bluntly and consistently: Senators Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren. Obama has made a slight dent in the conversation, but he’s always been worried about choosing his words carefully, so it comes off as as more college professor than street fighter. Hillary is likable enough, but she’s too closely tied to the establishment. She talks the income inequality talk right now because Bernie has forced her into it. I’m sure she’s buddies with Sam Walton, as a matter of fact there’s a picture of them together right there. I’m sure she’s exchanged pleasantries with Sandy and Joan Weill. She takes a lot of money from the takers, who took all the money from you. She would obviously be the better choice if the general election were between her and any of the current Republican nominees, and she will probably win, firstly because the make-up of the Electoral College makes it almost impossible for a right-wing Republican to win a general election, and secondly because the Republicans will continue to talk non-stop until they’ve alienated and pissed off everyone except the extreme right wing, who are mostly angry because they’re a dying race.

Bernie is running for president. In a way, he has already won, because he forces Hillary to veer left. If her plan was to try and please everybody like her husband did, it’s not going to work this time. (see prison building, gun rights, draconian drug laws, defense of marriage act – loved ya Bill, but you were a goddamn suck-up, and a bit of creep). She needs to be a True Democrat, in the great tradition of the three great ones: Franklin D. Roosevelt, Lyndon Johnston and My Mom. Or she needs to get out of the way.

And it’s possible, in my little dreamworld, that Bernie Sanders could actually beat Hillary and be the Democratic Nominee, because she plays it too safe, and she frustrates the base and they decide to go for broke. I’ve already made the decision to do just that.And if that happens, what a wonderful thing it would be if Bernie could get Elizabeth Warren to run with him as a Vice-Presidential candidate.

Besides being true to the Democratic Party traditions, there is something that those two people have in common, which is exactly what we need now. When they argue, they argue facts. They can easily dispel the myths of the “job creator” and the “too big to fail” banks. They can reveal the arguments against showing fairness and compassion towards your fellow man for the greedy ugliness that it all boils down to. They don’t throw shiny objects in your face to fool you into voting for them. They can tell you that people are being greedy without needing to vilify those people. They can show you why you are where you are, and what can be done to change it. They are not suggesting that anybody punch anybody in the face. They are suggesting changing the laws.

Of course they would hit the same gridlock as Obama has. But Obama has managed to significantly change the tone of this country if not the direction. People like that $15 an hour paramedic are starting to get it. We need to double down on that, we need to drive the point home that the rich are too rich and need to pay their fair share of taxes, and the corporations they control and hold stock in need to be regulated and monitored, so that the government has enough revenue to ensure the well-being and the equal rights of all its citizens. That is only asking what was more or less true of this country up until about forty years ago, when Nixon first tricked the people in the Deep South into voting against their interests by scaring them with liberal boogeymen. Then twenty years later, Reagan fired the Air Traffic Controllers. As far as fairness and income equality, it’s been all downhill from there, and that’s pretty much my entire adult lifespan. My parents didn’t have to live paycheck to paycheck. We do. vonnegut-cheap

If what Sanders and Warren are both suggesting is Socialism, then maybe Socialism is the way to go. Kurt Vonnegut had this to say, in a college commencement speech back in the 1970’s: “I suggest you work for a socialist form of government. Free enterprise is much too hard on the old and the sick and the poor and the stupid, and on the people nobody likes. They just can’t cut the mustard under Free Enterprise. They lack that certain something that Nelson Rockefeller, for instance, so abundantly has.”

I think that’s it in a nutshell. How you get people who can’t see the forest for the trees to understand this notion is something that I will have to leave to Mr. Sanders and Ms. Warren, who I hope, for the good of the country, will combine forces. I will follow what they have to say and ignore the ignorant opposition for as long and as much as I can. And to this you say, oh – well – you’re doing exactly what they do – you’re just hearing what you want to hear and shutting out those who disagree with you. And to this I say, when I hear somebody on the right talking about anything else but cutting government, giving tax breaks to their buddies, defending their “traditional values” (of everyone in the restaurant being lily-white), breaking up labor unions, demonizing immigrants or bragging about who they’re going to punch in the face next, then I might tune in. Right now, they’re just blowing hot air, and I only discuss these things with intelligent people. When next Labor Day rolls around and the real election is at hand, I’ll be screaming my politics from the rooftop. And the Creek carries sound very well, so you’ll hear it. Until then, I will carry on with my life and hold to my beliefs in the way I live it. Though I will not – from this point forward- crawl down in the mud with the likes of the Christies and Trumps of this world, I will – in the words of a very smart fellow named Bruce Cockburn – “kick at the darkness ’till it screams daylight.”