Idiot Wind

Someone's got it in for me
They're planting stories in the press
Whoever it is, I wish they'd cut it out quick
But when they will, I can only guess

As I write this, John Kelly has just denied that he has called the current Commander-in-Chief "an idiot." Since lying has become a popular sport in United States government, we the people get to try to figure out who the liar is: the Chief of Staff? Or the White House staffers?

For many of us, Kelly's presence in the West Wing has been our last hope for some stability there. Clearly, he has become a flawed official (as seems to happen to most of the current staff appointments), but it was at least comforting to believe that he is not an erratic, impulsive, undisciplined character with personality disorders in charge of our nation's survival. To put it simply, we believed that Kelly could keep his boss under control. Given that boss' rant on Fox & Friends the other day, that clearly is not the case.

So does anybody want to place any bets on when Kelly will be unceremoniously fired? And if that happens, who will take his place? Hannity?

You'll find out when you reach the top
You're on the bottom

And while the news of the day seems focused more on whether or not Michelle Wolf should apologize to Sarah Huckabee Sanders, we have real issues that threaten our reputation and our future: teacher walk-outs, cruel ICE deportations, the plight of asylum-seekers at the border, a potential policy shift in Afghanistan with a subsequent return to isolationism, climate change, the never-ending issue of gun control, "that Rusher thing," ad infinitum. And Flint, Michigan still does not have safe water, and Puerto Rico is still reeling from storm devastation.

But, but, but . . . Sarah's feelings were hurt!

Perhaps the end of John Kelly's stint in the West Wing will echo the end of Dylan's song:

I been double-crossed now
For the very last time and now I'm finally free
I kissed goodbye the howling beast
On the borderline which separated you from me

The only question is: whose lines are they? Kelly's or Trump's?

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I have now become one of those annoying people who post pictures of the food they are about to eat. But this morning's breakfast at Lucile's in Fort Collins is worthy of a picture. This is my third visit to Lucile's, and I don't think it will be my last.

I rarely indulge in a mixed drink, but a Bloody Mary is a great way to enjoy a Sunday morning. And perhaps my choice of a title for this post was unfortunate, since the subject of that U2 song from 1983's War is about as far from enjoyable as one can get. On January 30, 1972, thirteen unarmed civil rights demonstrators were shot dead by British paratroopers in Northern Ireland. The city in which this occurred is as divided as the island of Ireland is. While the southern part of the city is called Derry, the northern part is known as Londonderry. Several years ago, on a bus tour of Ireland, we crossed from Derry into Londonderry, and it most certainly felt like we were entering another country, which we were.

But back to this morning's breakfast. Lucile's, an unassuming house on Meldrum Street in Fort Collins, serves up New Orleans style food generously and efficiently. While Andrea enjoyed a grapefruit mimosa and Sam sipped on a "beermosa" (who knew?), I went with the traditional Bloody Mary, although it was listed as a Cajun Mary on the menu. Something to do with the shrimp and the pickled okra on the cocktail toothpick, I guess.

We started off with beignets, those deep-fried choux pastries smothered in confectioner's sugar. And I was already full! Then came biscuits. (I could feed a family of five on one of those babies.) But my main dish was "Eggs New Orleans," a layered delight of fried eggplant slices, poached eggs, Creole spice, and hollandaise. Potatoes and grits on the side. Would it surprise you to know that half of my meal came home with me?

I have been to Ireland, but I have never been to New Orleans. I need to remedy that. In the meantime, my twice-yearly visits to see my son in Colorado will give me the opportunity to pretend I am in New Orleans by eating breakfast at Lucile's.

And now you, too, can vicariously dine Creole-style by staring at the picture of my breakfast.

You're welcome.

Biscuit, Cajun Mary, and Eggs New Orleans

Baseball High

I will never again make the mistake of eating a veggie hot dog at a ball park. Or anywhere. Bad food choices aside, I had a great afternoon yesterday at Coors Field, home of the Colorado Rockies. And my beer choice, a Dales Tall Boy, was perfect.

Having been decidedly Floridized, my arrival in Denver on Tuesday was a bit of a shock, cold and snowy. But the weather gods made up for that the next day with abundant sunshine and temps in the mid-60s, perfect for a ball game. And when you're a mile up, the sun can make 65 degrees feel like 75 degrees.

My son had purchased tickets for the three of us (Sam, his girl Andrea, and me) ahead of time, and he chose wisely. Front row of the third tier, right behind home plate. If you look up to the Upper Deck, you can see that the 20th row of seats are purple instead of green. That row marks 5,200 feet above sea level, a mile high! Coors Field is the highest park in the major leagues! Not only that, it is the third largest baseball park (by capacity: 50,445) in the United States, bested only by Dodger Stadium and Yankee Stadium.

And those mile-high seats are purple for a reason. The Rockies' mascot, Dinger, is a purple triceratops (not to be confused with Barney, the purple tyrannosaurus), a tribute to the dinosaur fossils found during construction of the stadium in 1962. Workers unearthed a 7-foot long, 1000 pound triceratops skull, believed to be 66 million years old. (What do you think of that, Young Earth Creationists?)

Coors Field is inarguably the most hitter-friendly park in the country. The low air density at such a high altitude means that hit balls will travel farther than in other ballparks. And the designers of Coors Field knew that ahead of time, placing the outfield fences farther from home plate than they are placed at other parks. Consequently, Coors Field has the largest outfield in Major League Baseball. Hitters love the increased chances of hitting a homer; pitchers, not so much.

We watched the Rockies beat the Padres 5 - 2 with Jon Gray pitching eleven strikeouts. Although there were no home runs, David Dahl hit a two-run triple in the third inning. Seeing the Padres play, I couldn't help but remember being at AT&T Park in San Francisco with Sam on September 25, 2014 to watch the Giants beat the Padres 9 - 8. Not only was it memorable to be at a ballgame in San Francisco with Sam, but we got to see Brandon Belt hit one into McCovey Cove, a feat known as the "Levi Splash." This has happened 78 times in the ballpark's history; we witnessed "Splash 68." And to make the experience even better, Sam and I happened to be seated in the section that won gift cards to the Levi Strauss store on Market Street!

Coors Field is known for many things, including the fact that the Blue Moon Brewery at the Sandlot produces the same fresh beer that you can get at the Coors Brewery in Golden, Colorado. I will confess to having done that tour, and I will also confess to having had a second tall boy at the game yesterday . . . a Blue Moon, of course. (It helped me digest that horrid veggie dog.)

At Coors Field: me, Sam, and Andrea

It Was a Dark and Stormy Earth Day

We  are getting some much-needed rain here in south Florida, so I am not out there picking up litter or planting flowers or otherwise contributing to Earth Day. I would like to think that I contribute every day. I recycle, reuse, compost, avoid plastic whenever I can, grow my own vegetables, and conserve energy. Of course, I could do more. We could all do more.

Earth Day began in 1970. I was a sophomore in college then, and I still remember being excited about this new hippie holiday! And here it is, 48 years later, and Earth Day is still a thing! So how come the Earth is in worse shape than it was then?

For some perspective, I turned to Vox and found "Seven Things We've Learned About Earth Since the Last Earth Day." (Hang in there; it's only seven things!)

1. The Plastic Problem: Do you remember the one word Mr. McGuire had for Benjamin Braddock in 1967's The Graduate? "Plastics." It was 1967. Fisher-Price was using plastic for parts of its toy phones. We were being enticed to buy inflatable armchairs, pink plastic curlers, and Bic pens, all made of plastic. It was a brave new world . . . of plastic. Earlier this year, a 6-ton sperm whale washed up on the shores of southern Spain with 64 pounds of plastic in its stomach. And the "Great Pacific Garbage Patch," located in the Pacific Ocean between California and Hawaii, has now grown to 80,000 tons. What's being done? Theresa May, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, recently proposed a ban on plastic straws, swabs, and stirrers. It's a start. But we've a long way to go. If nothing else, bring your own non-plastic bags to the supermarket, okay? Every little bit helps.

2.  Northern White Rhino: The last male of this species died last month at the age of 45. This is only one of the many extinct, endangered, or threatened species on this planet. While I don't know exactly what the average citizen of Earth can do to prevent extinction, I would guess that environmental regulations would aim at saving these creatures. With this current administration, the EPA has become ineffective, propelling us backward instead of forward in saving our planet. What is there to do? Vote blue!

3.  But there's some good news:  The California Academy of Sciences added 85 new species of plants and animals to its catalog last year! Long live the sulfur-eating giant shipworm that lives at the bottom of muddy lagoons!

4.  Goodbye, Greenland?:  (I'll wait until you google a map to see exactly where Greenland is. Got it? Okay.) One section of Greenland's ice sheet has started melting 80% faster than before. If the entire Greenland ice sheet were to melt, it would raise global sea levels by more than 20 feet. Looks like we might be saying goodbye to more places than Greenland.

5.  The Return of Seagrass:  The Chesapeake Bay is the largest estuary in the United States. For years, it was suffering from pollution. But now, seagrass is regrowing, covering more than 42,000 acres, the highest cover in the Chesapeake in almost half a century. Unfortunately, seagrasses worldwide have declined by nearly one-third over the last century. Good news and bad news.

6.  Natural Disasters: It seems we have not learned much from the onslaught of natural disasters we've been experiencing. In 2017, natural disasters (hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, etc.) caused at least $306 billion in damages across the United States. Are we any better prepared? One only has to look at Puerto Rico for the answer to that.

7.  Another Earth?:  According to Vox, we are getting closer to finding another Earth out there. Is this good or bad? I am too old to consider the possibility of moving to another planet. How about you?

It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.  ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Backgammon, Baby!

It's an exercise in frustration -- you can make the right moves and lose, or you can make the wrong moves and win.  ~ Paul Magriel, known as "The Best in Backgammon"

I can still recall the year and the location and the person who taught me how to play backgammon. Although my college roommate and I had had a falling out our senior year, we did get together with a mutual friend in New York a year after graduation, in 1973. Margaret, who minored in math, patiently taught me the basics of backgammon, and I was hooked enough to purchase a backgammon board for my own. Ten years later, when I was first dating Pete (my late husband), I brought out my backgammon board. On a summer afternoon on my back deck, Pete taught me how to play acey-deucy, a variation on backgammon. What I recall is the patience he had as he walked me through the game. He did not seem to mind that I was a slow learner. I will admit that today, I have no idea how to play acey-deucy. But backgammon? It's like riding a bike.

No, it's not like riding a bike at all. There is no strategy in riding a bike. And while strategy is not my strong suit, I have enough of it to win a few backgammon games. And I think luck plays as much (if not bigger) a part in backgammon wins.

Backgammon is one of the oldest known board games with origins in the Middle East dating back over 5,000 years. There are a lot of rules to backgammon, but it is possible to enjoy the game without getting too involved in all the ins and outs of play. There's a Murphy Rule, a Jacoby Rule, a Crawford Rule, and a Holland Rule. Do I know what any of them are? No! But I can still play. I have no idea what that "doubling cube" is for, but I can still play. I sort of know what a "gammon," a "backgammon," and a "double backgammon" are, but they're not important.

Paul Magriel, who died just last month at the age of 71, was known as the best backgammon player in the world. He played George Plimpton blindfolded and still won. Magriel began as a renowned chess player, but he switched over to backgammon in Greenwich Village in the 70s while he was a doctoral student at Princeton. (He later turned to poker as his game of choice, becoming known as a gambler.) In 1982, in Oregon vs. Barr, the question of whether backgammon was a game of skill or chance was debated. Skill won, removing backgammon from the regulations of gambling games.

In a 1978 interview in Gambling Times magazine, Magriel had this to say: "Games are controlled violence. You can take out your frustrations and hostilities over a backgammon set, where the rules are clearly defined -- in contrast to life, where the rules are not so well defined. In games, you know what is right and wrong, legal versus illegal; whereas in life, you don't."

Well, I don't know about "controlled violence" in this instance. But I recently got out my 45-year-old backgammon board, and my guy and I you-tubed some information to refresh our memories in regard to how to play the game. Our subsequent backgammon marathons have been full of laughter and groans. If that's "controlled violence," so be it.

I think we're just passing the time and having fun.

Eggplantation

It took me a couple of years to find this wonderful produce store out on Rt. 441. I'm from New Jersey. The idea that you can buy beer and wine at a produce store in Florida is just amazing. But clearly, I go there for the produce, which is fresh and inexpensive and often homegrown. The other day, eggplant was on sale, displayed in front of the store, three for a dollar. No price per pound nonsense, just three eggplants for a dollar. Of course, I bought three.

Knowing how easy it can be to ignore produce in the fridge, I decided today to do something with the eggplant. I have a foolproof recipe for eggplant rollatini, but I left it back in New Jersey, so I went online to find another one. Alas, I have no ricotta in the house, and I don't feel like going out to get some, so I was limited as to what I could do with this eggplant. I found an eggplant parmesan recipe that got rave reviews. I had all the ingredients. Okay, let's do this!

Well, it turned out okay. Not great. Maybe by the time I eat up all the leftovers, I will have a better assessment of the dish . . . or I'll vow to never eat eggplant again.

So, in search of something to blog about, I did some eggplant research. (Meaning I googled it.) Did you know there are 30 Sanskrit names for eggplant? This fruit (and yes, it is a fruit, not a vegetable) dates back 2,000 years in the recorded history of India. Eggplant belongs to the nightshade family, which always conjures up "deadly nightshade," the most poisonous of plants. Belladonna ("beautiful lady") is one of the plants that Harry Potter and company study at Hogwarts. But don't be too alarmed: tomatoes and potatoes are also part of the nightshade family . . . and they haven't killed us yet, have they? Never mind that ancient Mediterranean people called eggplant "mad apple," believing that if you ate eggplant every day for a month, you would become insane.

My "research" led me, of course, to the Urban Dictionary, where I learned that "eggplant" is a reference to the anatomy of a man who wears skin-tight pants, revealing his eggplant for all to see. Ugh. And then I found that one of the most popular emojis used by Americans is the eggplant, but it's not because people are sharing recipes. "Eggplants are dicks," said one source.

In Asia and Africa, eggplants are called "brinjal." In Great Britain, they're "aubergine," a prettier word than "eggplant," for sure. Whatever you call it, the fruit has nothing to do with eggs, although back in the 1700s, the fruit was smaller and whiter, making it look like eggs.

I have enough leftover eggplant to eat it every day for a month. Watch this space. I'll let you know how it all turns out.

No Matter Where You Go . . .

. . . there you are. That simple but complicated wisdom was given to me by my dear friend Bill, who would have turned 69 today. Bill, a victim of ALS, died last August. I'd been able to visit him at his home in North Carolina last spring, and we strolled several miles down Memory Lane. We recalled our teenage habit of "playing" with that cursed Ouija Board, tool of the devil. (Please realize that my tongue is currently in my cheek.) Bill asked me if I remembered asking Ouija when we would die. I was grateful that I could not. But Bill remembered what Ouija told him: that he would die when he was 69.

Well, Ouija fell almost eight months short of being accurate, but still, the prediction came pretty close. Does it mean anything? No, it's just one of many memories that I cherish about my friendship with Bill. We were an unlikely combination in many ways. While Bill was in the stands at drag-racing events, I was attending Catholic "religious instructions" and Girl Scout meetings. While Bill was always giggling and telling stories, I was often sunk in teenage depression. And while I was filling out college applications, Bill was preparing for Vietnam.

During Bill's tour-of-duty in that horrid war, I became his #1 pen-pal. For years, I hung on to the 96 letters he sent me, but they got lost somewhere along the way. (I just realized that 96 backwards is 69. I don't even know why I've always remembered the number of letters he sent. And '69 was also the year that Bill was in the war. Again, does it mean anything? I don't think so. They're just numbers, right?) Bill and I continued our friendship after he returned from Nam, a friendship in which we resumed our love of music. And just thinking about that puts Rod Stewart's 1970 solo album Gasoline Alley in my head. I can never hear those songs without thinking of Bill.

But I don't need music to think of Bill. Anybody who was lucky enough to know him would agree. His easy manner, his childlike laugh, his soothing voice, his crazy stories . . . being in Bill's company (especially when sitting on a barstool) was "good old country comfort" indeed. Bill collected things: rocks, arrowheads, baseball cards . . . and cats. He was passionate about the people and things that he loved. And Bill had a way of making you feel loved.

"That's drag racing: you win some, you lose some, and some get rained out." While Bill may have tweaked Satchel Paige's axiom to fit his own chosen recreational activity, I will always consider this bit of wisdom as Bill told it to me. And, of course, it matters little whether it's drag racing or baseball or beach volleyball. It's all about the game of life. Bill got rained out, but he did not lose. He lives on in the hearts and minds of the many friends he gathered together on the playing field.

Birthday greetings, dear Bill . . . wherever you are.

Sunday Blues

Miracles don't happen. Sweat happens. Effort happens. Thought happens.  ~ Isaac Asimov

Yesterday, I accompanied a friend to the weekly meeting of his humanist organization. Although I am not a member of this group (being a snowbird non-resident and all), I have been to a few of their meetings and found them to be intellectually stimulating. Yesterday's was no exception. Joanne Gillespie led a discussion on Roy Speckhardt's book Creating Change Through Humanism.

In the meetings that I have attended, there is always some introductory time devoted to the humanists' challenge of making clear their positions and purposes to the general public. Well aware that many Americans believe that we reside in "one nation under God," humanists have to advocate for the reality that not everyone agrees with that concept. (Don't forget, that phrase in the Pledge of Allegiance was added in 1954, never a part of the original pledge, created in 1892 and recognized by Congress in 1942.) Humanism is basically "the radical idea that you can be good without a belief in god."

And you might have noticed that I did not capitalize the word "god" in that last sentence. That was deliberate. Who or what is God or god? I learned a new word yesterday: ignostic. Yes, I spelled that right. Whereas an agnostic claims neither faith nor disbelief in a higher being, an ignostic demands a definition of "god" before engaging in a discussion of his/her/its existence. Now that makes sense to me. The implication in the phrase "one nation under God" is that it is the Judeo-Christian God that is being recognized. Of the 313 religions practiced in the United States, only 36 of them fall under the umbrella of "Judeo-Christian." The phrase, therefore, marginalizes a large number of people, including atheists and humanists.

Humanists are not devil-worshippers. The humanists I have met are kind, gentle, thoughtful people who spend a lot of time volunteering in acts of goodness. And yet, they have to fight to be recognized in places and events that welcome religious figures and dogma. Prayers and invocations that open secular meetings and events have long been the practice, but this preferential treatment often dismisses the humanist community from contributing in like manner. And this flies in the face of our separation of church and state, implicit in our Bill of Rights. While humanists respect the individual's right to practice a religion of choice, the same courtesy does not always seem to apply to those who choose to "be good for goodness' sake."

After the meeting, we found shelter from a brief shower in a tiki bar, enjoying a Bloody Mary and a breakfast flatbread. That was followed by an afternoon on the St. Lucie River, enjoying some incredible blues put forth by the Jeff Jensen Band, a trio from Memphis. I contemplated the amazing capabilities of humans existing on this planet. We benefitted from the skills and service of the bartender and the chef. The innate talents and dedicated practice of the musicians were manifested in a gift to the community on a Sunday afternoon. These skills and talents spoke to the mantra I wish I could recite every day: Life Is Good. We all have something to give: art, music, compassion, drama, comedy, craftsmanship, cuisine, education, parenting, kindness, service, care-taking, medical assistance, companionship, charity . . . all goodness.

The goal of humanism is a free and universal society in which people voluntarily and intelligently cooperate for the common good. Humanists demand a shared life in a shared world.  ~ Tenet #14 of The Humanist Manifesto I

We're all human, with or without a god. We are all capable of goodness. It's that simple.

Tippy-top Shape

If you have not yet viewed Seth Meyers' "A Closer Look" about the annual White House Easter Egg Roll on Monday, and if you need a good laugh and a good cry at the same time, by all means, google that sucker. I swear, the late night comedians hardly have to work at all these days. All Seth Meyers had to do was punctuate the nonsense that sputtered forth from that orange man's mouth. There is no name for that large white house or building (whatever you want to call it)? Seriously? But don't worry, it's in "tippy-top shape." OMG.

It's amazing that we can still laugh. Sometimes. And then one has to wonder if the idiocy put forth is a deliberate ploy to distract us from the terrible things being done by this administration. While we were laughing about happy little kids on Easter Monday being lectured about the size and strength of our military when all they really wanted to do was roll eggs, plans were underway to weaken fuel emissions standards, send the National Guard to patrol the border with Mexico, and escalate a trade war with China. The look on the Easter Bunny's face pretty much says it all.

Is there any point in me pontificating about the incompetence, the ignorance, the arrogance, the meanness, the bullying, the racism, the misogyny, the buffoonery, the dishonesty, the egotism, the deception, the fear-mongering, the illiteracy, and the abuse of power which define this fake President? I'd either be preaching to the choir or to deaf ears. I will spare you my rant.

But we are NOT in tippy-top shape, not by any means. We are in a perilous place, and if we survive this nightmare, it will take decades to repair the damage being done on a daily basis.

Thank you, Seth Meyers, Stephen Colbert, Jimmy Kimmel, Bill Maher, John Oliver, Samantha Bee, Alec Baldwin, Kate McKinnon, and all the other generous entertainers who help us get through these frightening times. Keep doing what you do.

Snowbird Alert!

It's a busy week here in SoFlo. Despite the fact that many snowbirds fly back north after Easter and Passover, there are lots of spring breakers here for their week off from jobs in the Northeast. And none are as grateful to be heading south as my dear friends, Kathy and Bonnie. They were supposed to have taken off from Newark at 9:30 this morning but were delayed four friggin' hours because of snow! I think the April Fool gods were off by a day. Kathy and Bonnie are en route now, and I will be picking them up and taking them straight to happy hour. I think they will need that.

As I am told by friends who are permanent residents here, Floridians hate the snowbirds . . . but love their money. That's kind of harsh, I know, but the point is that winter in the South is too trafficked, too busy, too crowded, too much. But having spent nearly all my life in the Northeast winters, I applaud anyone who can find the means to spend some time in a southern climate. And if you can't, I hope your home has ample warmth. (I do miss a winter fireplace, snuggly blankets, and Crockpot comfort food, although not in April.)

Tourism is big down here, so the snowbirds support that industry. I don't see that changing. In fact, it is likely to become more and more congested here as the last of the Baby Boomers reach retirement age. And all of this begs the question: are we born into the geographical area that best suits our personalities and needs? Perhaps that was true at one time, but it seems less and less likely now. I have always been drawn to tropical climates, before I even knew where they were located. Reggae music touches my soul. I was 22 years old before I ever flew in an airplane, and that was a flight to visit a friend who'd moved to Florida. So it's not like I was well-traveled and wanted to spend time on Oahu or in Bali. I knew nothing of tropical locations; I just wanted to exist in one. Had I been part of the Yanomami tribe of South America in a past life? Maybe I bore my children in a Polynesian country?

Or maybe I was an Inuit and desperately prayed for a different reincarnation.

The bottom line is this: life is easier down here. Native Floridians know nothing of the hard work required to get through a Northeast winter. Shoveling snow, chopping wood, cleaning the ash out of a woodstove, navigating a power outage in sub-zero temperatures, flushing a toilet with snow, slip-sliding your car on black ice . . . People of the North are tough and resilient by necessity.

Been there, done that. But look! The sky is blue, the temp is 82 degrees, and girlfriends are on their way! Here's to the warmth!