March 10, 2017--Skip the Betty Ford Idea

A good friend, Lynne Roth, sent me these musings which are riffs from a series of my recent blogs. I love her sensibility and thought you might like to listen in--
Honestly, I have been sparing you by not sharing my views. I have even refrained from checking your blog first thing every day.  It is difficult.

As for rehab--skip the Betty Ford idea you and your partner in love have your own retreat in Delray Beach, the rehab capital of the country. Another perk is you do not require searching for a halfway house. 

Last night on The Last Word, Lawrence O'Donnell read a letter allegedly written by Trump's grandfather, begging not to be deported from a European country

Yesterday Dr. Carson spoke to the captive audience he now lords over. He struck a nerve when I heard him refer to slaves, upon the backs of whom this nation's lopsided economy was built, as immigrants!  As if they had a choice. Then he back-peddled more than once and said we needed to look up the definition of "immigrants." I was not the only person who took offense.

A visual of three cabinet members holding the new Executive Order on immigration was broadcast. The body language spoke volumes.

Like you, I have rationed my intake of the news but have failed. Playing bridge with a group of people, refraining from discussions of politics helps but is not long lasting.

Frustrated, I am still awaiting for citizens to use the correct term  Affordable Care Act and drop the "Obama."  The new version will soon be labeled as unaffordable and cause a few Republicans to find new jobs.

Anyone in government or the legal business knows if someone is worried about wiretapping or surveillance you have the premises swept. Parinoid attorneys I worked for had it performed frequently on a daily basis.

Your reference to geese is on point. Many folks know geese are as fierce and intimidating as ferocious dogs.  I speak from experience having been chased as a child while visiting a farm.  My father warned me, but it was too late. I was five years old and the same size as the snowy white monster waddling across the lawn. The simmering sounds of a few quacks errupted into terrifying screams from my throat as I turned and ran for safety. My short legs were reliable and I clamored up a fence, ripping my dress as the goose chomped and tore a hole in the edge of the skirt.

My second encounter was in the Dominican Republic. I drove into the parking lot of a road side stand to refill some propane tanks. A young man bounded out to my car and carried off the two tanks. He invited me to shop for fresh vegetables and eggs. We practiced our language skills as I casually gathered some eggs.  The eggs varied in color and size.  Simultaneously, as I asked about and picked up a goose egg, a gaggle of geese appeared.  I needed no warning! I left my eggs and vegetables  and jumped in the car. The gentleman placed the full tanks in the car trunk and came to collect payment.  He grinned and said, "You're a smart lady, not everyone knows geese are the best watch dogs. Many men have tried to steal from me but my geese are good workers."

When I learned the long tradition of daily briefing journalists was winnowing into a gaggle I hoped the geese would be as aggressive as those I have encountered. This tradition of maintaining democracy should not be forfeited for good ratings.

Our nation is paying a terrible price to educate an uncouth illiterate thug on the law, diplomacy, and the art of faking forgiveness. 

While Nixon drank and spoke to his demons, Nancy consulted the stars and Hillary channeled Eleanor Roosevelt, Roy Cohn is whispering in Donald's ear (as he did in Joe McCarthy's) reassuring him a job well done while his dogs lay bleeding in the west wing, exhausted from the mandatory battles, hoping one of the messages leaked to various agencies will reach the ears of some brave citizens able to end this nightmare.

The rockets are being fired at our bases in Japan. 

When the daily Trump news is interrupted by breaking news and now a word from our President,  who will appear and tell us we are at war?  But don't worry, "trust me."

Where are our leaders?

Roy Cohn & Donald Trump

March 2, 2017--Week Without Him: Gala Girl

Did you see Gala Girl's comment attached to my Wednesday posting? About how I was struggling with, you know, not mentioning, well, him?

In case you missed it, here's part of what she wrote--

Seems you're doing pretty well [she's not talking here about my "battle" with Lyme disease and is probably being facetious]. Only having mentioned "Trump" NINE times (ten if you count the title). [My detox guide I am certain would not count mentioning him in the title as evidence of a turn for the worse. But to be sure, note the title of today's posting.] Baby steps [Gala Girl continues] as Bill Murray keeps telling himself in "What About Bob." [Which I haven't seen and thus do not know what she is saying to me. I'm certain it's intended to be helpful and, knowing her as I do, amusing.]

I'm not sure how to take this. We've been close friends for more than 30 years and I have always been able to count on her for being there for me when I've been struggling with something. Something physical, something psychological. Just what you'd hope for in a good friend.

So now I'm clearly dealing with a combination of both--physical (the Lyme and maybe some Lyme-related neurological issues--I'll know more about that Friday when I see a neurologist) and psychological (how I regressed yesterday. Nine, ten mentions! Will I ever be in recovery?)

There are only today and tomorrow to go and then I can take stock. But I'm not feeling optimistic and have begun again to think about Betty Ford.

I should, though, be feeling optimistic. Note that I haven't mentioned him. Alluded to him, admittedly, and quoted Gala Girl's citing him by name, but I have managed not to mention him directly.

I mean Trump.

Gala Girl

February 27, 2017--A Week Without Trump: The Curated Life

This is not going to be easy.

I am addicted to Donald Trump and the only way out is to go cold-turkey. I am obsessed with all things Trump from the entertaining to the outrageous, the infantile to the crypto-totalitarian, and also the hallucinatory. So I need to dose off for a week to see if that works. If it doesn't, I may have to check into the Betty Ford Clinic. I suspect they're offering a new Trump Intervention Program for which there's probably a waiting list.

This means no Fox News, no MSNBC, no CNN. And of course no Steve Bannon, no Reince Priebus, no Ivanka, and, the one I'll miss the most this week, no Kellyanne Conway.

But if I want to cleanse myself, after writing and posting 207 pieces about Trump and his world, it has to be for me no-Trump-none-of-the-time. I'll leave all-Trump-all-the-time to the cable news networks.

One caveat--if it is revealed that Trump knew about or, better, orchestrated the reach-out to the Russians working to undermine Hillary Clinton's campaign in order to help himself win the election, or if the gossip in the infamous BuzzFeed dossier is confirmed, I will not be able to contain myself. I know I will fall off the wagon and immediately resume blogging about Trump.

So, between now and then, here is Monday's Trumpless piece about curated lives--

While waiting for the Trump era to implode, out in LA, some, a few, are living the very good life. A life of unimaginable luxury or vulgarity--take your pick--that is being curated for them because they lack the confidence and taste to figure out what in fact constitutes a lavish life.

For example, there are a couple of places for sale, one asking $250 million, the other twice that, both of which can serve as metaphors for this new Trompian version of conspicuous consumption.

The former, the one that can be yours for $250 mil, at 38,000 square feet, sprawls across the hills of Bel-Air and comes with12 bedrooms, 21 baths, a four-lane bowling alley, and three kitchens. It has an 85-foot infinity pool and a 40-seat theater with reclining seats and a film library stocked with more than 7.000 pre-selected titles. There is a mammoth wine cellar with nothing by the finest wines, carefully pre-selected because, I am certain, the Russian oligarch who will likely buy this pleasure palace does not have the taste buds nor nose to appreciate anything other than icy shots of Stoli. Wine to him will be all Gallo. Dare I say a case of Lafite Rothschild before swine.

But here's my favorite part--as the New York Times reported four-weeks ago, a story that got lost in all the Trump clutter, in addition to the multi-million dollar art collection (included in the purchase price) the less expensive of the places comes with a 12-car garage, or "auto gallery," that includes a collection of collectable cars, including a 1936 Mercedes worth, they say, $15 million. But--a downside--there is no car elevator like the one Mitt Romney famously had in his La Jolla beach house. Nothings perfect.

And how could I forget--in this Age of Trump for two years the place also comes with a fully-paid seven-person staff, including a chef, chauffeur, and masseuse.

As the seller said, "It's all about the feeling and experience you get when your in the house." Or pool, or bowling alley, or movie theater, or one of the nearly two-dozen bathrooms.

*   *   *

For the second day of my week without Trump, with spring training underway, I am working for Tuesday on a baseball story.

So far, so good. Today I managed to mention Trump only four times. For me I consider this progress. Tomorrow . . .