Must the Show Go On?

What’s on my mind? So six campaign staffers setting up Donald Trump’s rally in Tulsa tested positive for COVID-19, today. A warning sign, to be sure. Trump’s rally is in the “great state” of Oklahoma, the state of Oklahoma’s health unfortunately not so great. Just today, Oklahoma reported 352 new cases (and counting) of COVID-19 infections. The show must go on!

So Trump consiglieri Bill Barr Friday fired Geoffrey Berman, the federal prosecutor for the Southern District of New York (SDNY). Berman was actively investigating Trump associates including personal lawyer and friend, Rudy Giuliani. The show must go on!

So Trump claimed Barr acted on his own and “I knew nothing about it.” Barr, on the other hand, said Trump personally told him to fire Berman. The show must go on!

So Trump - master of the three-ring circus in his head - falsely bragged “nearly a million people” sought rally tickets. The arena that was to hold 19,000 instead held 6,000. The outdoor venue intended for the overflow crowd was quietly canceled when no one showed up. Trump earlier said he wouldn’t be “shamed” into canceling or postponing the event because of COVID-19. The show must go on!

So despite warnings that the indoor venue would be a virus “spreader,” Trump told rally-goers he ordered COVID testing “slowed down.” Trump’s not a fan of science; he’s not a fan of social distancing; he’s not a fan of masks. The show must go on!

So later this week, showman Trump takes his act to Arizona, where the number of new coronavirus cases has risen more than 147% over the past two weeks. Maybe the naive and the trusting will buy what he’s selling, but the smart ones won’t be hoodwinked again, knowing the ol’ pea and shell game when they see it. The show must go on!

So now it begins. “Step right up, folks! Step right up! See the World’s Greatest Con Artist, right before your eyes!” 

I half-expected to hear that. So there he stands, naked before the world - capo dei capi, the 45th President of the United States - a shambling, lying, unfit, unstable revenge-seeker whose preferred governance is through bullying and intimidation.

How dare this egotistical blowhard be so easily willing to sacrifice human lives during the most serious global pandemic in written history? And for what? So he can preen at a rally. 

Trump can order a Berman fired, a Mueller probe redacted, a Bolton sued ... But just as they and others have recorded their observations, so will future commentators. Donald Trump can lie about - well, everything - but whatever the art of his deal with the devil, Americans have the right to know and will know. 

The show must go on - even as the court of public opinion prepares to render judgment in November, and even if it’s not to the liking of America’s Thug-in-Chief.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

America is Burning

What’s on my mind? The old expression used to be that if someone’s behavior tipped toward the dangerous and bizarre, “the men in the white coats” would haul that person away. Where are they now, those men in the white coats? 

This has not been a good week for President Donald Trump. In interviews advance-publicizing author John Bolton’s forthcoming 592-page book (The Room Where It Happened: A White House Memoir), Bolton has been singing like a canary freed from its cage. 

“Memoir”? A legal dodge, I’m sure: “That’s how I remember it …” Bolton - by all reports an assiduous note-taker - remembers a great deal.

As Trump’s handpicked former national security adviser, Bolton remembers that Trump didn’t know if Finland was an autonomous country or part of Russia; that he thought Venezuela was part of the US; that he solicited China’s help in the upcoming US election; that he called China’s concentration-camp incarceration of its persecuted Muslim minority “exactly the right thing to do.”

The cruel, wanna-be dictator who is Donald Trump floated the idea of executing journalists who don’t divulge the identities of their confidential sources. That is breath-taking.

In threatening to sue, Trump calls Bolton’s leaks “highly classified information.” That Donald Trump is a self-serving fool is highly classified? 

The President has yet more problems. 

In a 4-to-5 ruling released this morning, the Supreme Court repudiated Trump’s mean-spirited desire to send America’s 700,00 dreamers home - even though they’ve never broken the law, even though most pay taxes and are gainfully employed, even though “home” is a country they’ve never known. 

Given the news, Trump tweeted this morning: “Do you get the impression that the Supreme Court doesn’t like me?”

Me-me-me-me-me-me-e-e! Always “me.” In a compassionate consideration of the dreamers’ situation, President Barrack Obama signed an executive order allowing DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) an extension of their stays. Obama did this? Get rid of it - just as Trump has rescinded other Obama executive orders and legislation intended to move the country forward.

People around the world have protested in the streets for the three weeks since Black American George Floyd’s death. The message is loud and clear: Black Lives Matter. This week, the US Supreme Court made it clear LGBT lives matter, too - something with which the Trump administration disagreed. 

Earlier today, Facebook removed Trump campaign ads containing inverted red triangles identical to those the Nazis used to identify political prisoners. The Trump campaign denied doing anything wrong. Is the statement evil, or merely stupid and insensitive? Because those are the only options. Using inverted red triangles can hardly be termed a “coincidence.” 

In recent weeks, Donald Trump criticized the Voice of America for its news coverage of China during the coronavirus crisis: “Voice of America is run in a terrible manner. They’re not the Voice of America. They’re the opposite of the Voice of America.”

The VOA News reported today that the newly appointed chief executive overseeing the Voice of America fired two agency heads and their corporate boards, this week. Their replacements? According to the News: “... unqualified political people, fundamentally undermining the mission and work of the organization. It’s now obvious why the White House wanted (the new appointee) so badly, so they can transform the agency into their own personal mouthpiece.” 

Tuesday, a New York Times editorial stated: “The specter of turning VOA into a propaganda tool of the White House should be frightening to all Americans, regardless of political leanings.” 

It’s not like Donald Trump doesn’t already control the news as he sees it. Until recently, Trump daughter-in-law Lara Trump (wife of Trump’s son Eric), hosted the propaganda-style Real News. The YouTube channel recently disappeared - or perhaps I need a subscription and credentials to view it; I don’t know. 

It would be stretch to claim Donald Trump isn’t racist (“I am the least racist person there is anywhere in the world.” - President Donald Trump, July 30, 2019). His comments about Muslims, Mexicans, Jews, Blacks and White Supremacists speak for themselves. His views on women, immigrants, and people with disabilities are despicable.

Wherever he goes, whatever he does, Trump missteps, drawing attention to himself and further dividing the country and the world. 

This weekend’s Tulsa campaign rally was originally scheduled for tomorrow - the day known as “Juneteenth,” marking the 155th anniversary of the end of slavery in the United States. 

Knowingly or unknowingly, Trump’s campaign committee planned the rally in Tulsa, site of one of the worst episodes of racial violence in the US: The 1921 Race Massacre. Using guns and explosives - some dropped from planes - white mobs targeted Black residents, their homes, and their businesses. More than 300 Blacks died; 10,000 were left homeless; no one was charged.

Initially reluctant to change the rally’s June 19th date, Trump is shameless, claiming to The Wall Street Journal that he made Juneteenth “very famous” and that “nobody had ever heard of it before.”

And finally, the coronavirus - the pandemic Trump wants you to forget, and which he scarcely mentions these days. On Saturday, each of the 19,000 Trump supporters packing Tulsa’s Bok Center rally will have signed a waiver, disavowing Trump and his campaign from liability should anyone later develop COVID-19. 

This week, Trump allegedly acknowledged to WSJ White House reporter Michael Bender that “a very small percentage” of rally-goers would get probably develop COVID-19 following their attendance.  

Which is it - a political campaign rally, or the value of human lives - that tip the scale more, in Donald Trump’s me-first world? The President seems not to care. He doesn’t wear a mask. He doesn’t display social-distancing. He promotes phoney “cures.” He false claims the coronavirus is “dying out … We’re very close to a vaccine … It’s fading away …”

Trump claims “more than a million people want to attend …” his rally. Donald Trump is a practiced liar detached from reality. Why should anyone believe him?

So here’s what I believe. I believe there will be riots, this weekend in Tulsa. I believe Trump will flee the stage early. I believe the man who  says COVID testing  is “over-rated” and “makes us look bad” will immediately be tested himself, as he regularly is.

I also believe sanity will prevail and this disgusting, disgraceful, delusional President will be kicked out of office in November.

America is burning: Donald Trump is the pyromaniac who struck the match. Bring on the men in the white coats.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Just a Closer Walk with Thee

What’s on my mind? We bushwhacked in the cemetery, the other day. That’s not a reference to sex. We took a walk in the woods at the edge of our village-that-calls-itself-a-town, wandered onto what we thought was a shortcut, and got lost. 

We didn’t choose the cemetery; it chose us. Not in a Just a Closer Walk with Thee sense, but in a “Help! Help! I’m lost!” sense. 

Not in a “Help! Help! I’m lost because I’ve lived my life in sin!” sense, but in a “Help! Help! I’m bloody well lost and can’t find my way out of the woods!” sense.

That these particular woods border the cemetery was semi-comforting. At least, we knew where we were.

On one side of the cemetery was the road into town. Between it and us was the cemetery’s high iron gate, its heavy chain and lock visible despite the day’s bright sun. 

And so, with the gate locked, we returned to the woods and began to bushwhack. The forest was dark and dense. As long as we heard cars, we knew we were near the road. Our village-that-calls-itself-a-town is the size of my coat pocket. We heard no cars, that day. 

On the other side of the cemetery is the ambulance station. We heard no ambulances, that day. Alone in the woods, we heard no birds singing and no bears huffing. The only sign of life was an empty vodka bottle, over which I tripped and had a little cry. I did this twice, over the same stoo-pid bottle. 

It was hard, plunging through those woods. Not quite an hour later, we found ourselves back in the cemetery. As can happen to lost hikers, we’d traveled in a circle. 

(My mind’s eye pictured two sad little skeletons, found in the cemetery next August. Neighbors we’d never met would say: “They kept to themselves … They died doing what they loved to do.” Our kids would shake their heads, feeling vaguely guilty for assuming we’d snapped and gone to Vegas, unable to take mask-wearing and social-distancing one day longer.)   

To my wails of “What can we do-o-o-o?” Himself said: “We’ll never give up! We’ll go to the gate and plead for help through the bars!” Neither of us said anything, but in this village-that-calls-itself-a-town, we prayed someone - anyone! - might come along to hear us. 

Mumbling: “I’m hun-gry …” I trudge-trudged behind Himself, drawing ever closer to the gate. 

With the sun now behind us, we saw … we saw … we saw …! 

The gate was locked, for sure, but between it and the woods was an expanse of grass so broad and so welcoming that a whole herd of village idiots could easily pass from road to cemetery and back.  

Indeed, we were only two village idiots, and easily walked through. With the sun in our eyes, we hadn’t seen this corridor earlier. 

Our parked car was where we’d left it - near the entrance to the well-marked trail from which we’d strayed, in this village-that-calls-itself-a-town.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Icky Sticky Licky ...

What’s on my mind? I’ve been eyeing one of those Costco sticky toffee puddings - the kind available only at Christmas. It somehow made it to the sanctuary of the deep freeze, probably assuming no one would ever find it. Wrong-o! I did. It was cowering behind a package of two-year-old frozen blueberries.

Day 1: Chip pudding from ice. Stare at pudding until I freeze and it thaws. Replace pudding behind blueberries. Envision pudding in icky sticky licky tortuous overnight dreams.

Day 2: Reposition pudding to upper basket of freezer. Fondle packaging as one might a long-lost lover, musing: “Why didn’t I find you sooner, mein Schatz?” Conceal pudding under bag of frozen peas. Calmly close freezer lid.  

Day 3: Lick packaging of frozen pudding for 30 minutes. Tongue sticks to picture of pudding on package front. Lose portion of tongue. Thay five Hail Maryth ath penanthe. Calmly clothe freether lid.

Day 4: Himself questions bloody tongue bandage. Employ non-sequitur to minimize finding: “That thupid toffee pudding wath taking up thpathe in the freether and ...” 

Himself interrupts: “Are you kidding? We bought that pudding three Christmases ago! Throw it out!”

“Yeth,” I lie.

Day 5: Pudding gone. Thith ith true. Thkip over dithpothal method. I think I’m going to be thick ...

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Waltzing on Sand

What’s on my mind? We had a picnic at the beach, this week. No one was there. Two folding chairs. Two clip-on umbrellas. Two ham sandwiches. Fruit, shared. Cheese, shared. Love, shared.

We walked and walked on the hard, flat sand, never reaching the end. We asked ourselves: “Where do we go from here?” We weren’t thinking about the beach. 

It’s only June. Maybe that’s why the beach is so quiet. That’s what we told ourselves, complicit in the lie. 

I’ve changed. So’s he. Fingers laced, I tightened my grip on his. He began singing - quietly, as he always does, to calm me down. Loosening my fingers, he extended our arms as I leaned into his body. We waltzed on the sand as the waves crept closer. 

Florida has been seeing 1,200 new cases a day. Arizona, more than 1,000. Texas, 1,500. South Carolina, Oregon ... All in trouble. The President demanded every State open. Money, first. Lives, last.

Stay home. Stay calm. Stay safe. We’ve stopped having dinner parties, of course. We always had dinner parties. We heard on the morning news that a family reunion of 30 led to 15 new cases of COVID, not far from where we live. 

“The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on ...” Carl Sandburg wrote that in 1916. 

Have you read On the Beach? Nevil Shute’s brilliant book about the end of the world? If you haven’t, do. If you fear death, don’t. 

Have you read T.S. Eliot? The Hollow Men? When I read it years ago, it was immediately etched on my soul: 

“This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

As the President rages and tweets, we waltz on the sand with our little cat feet, the fog and the waves ever closer.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

One Moment, She was Fine

What’s on my mind? An old friend died, a couple of weeks ago. It was actually a couple of years ago, but who’s counting? I didn’t see the obit, and knew no one in her circle. She just ... died.

I told two women who’d vaguely known her. Neither knew she’d died. Each said the right things even as I said the wrong ones. As much as I admired and respected her, she had deep problems she’d hidden until our friendship neared its end. 

I once invited her and another woman on a brief vacation. With neither warning nor provocation, the first woman - the one who died - suddenly went berserk. One moment, she was fine; the next, she tried to kill us. 

In the middle of a not-unusual conversation about not-unusual topics, she grabbed a kitchen knife, began screaming, raised it high, and ran straight toward us. Terrified, we locked ourselves in a bedroom. 

Fully clothed, my friend and I jumped into the bed, trembling in fear as the the first woman raged and pounded on the door for what seemed like hours - until suddenly, she stopped.

There was a phone in the bedroom; I could have alerted the front desk. Someone would most certainly have called the police, who would have come instantly. I couldn’t bring myself to do that to a friend, but nor could I understand why she’d snapped. 

Opening the door after a very long silence, we found her on her back, unconscious. Knife still in hand, she’d peed her pants. My second friend cleaned her up, put her in fresh clothes, gave her a pillow and a blanket, and left her on the floor, still unconscious. 

In retrospect, we should have summoned medical help. We were too afraid to move her - afraid she’d come after us, again.

My friend, wiser than I, methodically searched for a bottle, finding it behind a stack of towels in the main bathroom. Although I’d known the woman who’d tried to attack us more than three years, this was my first realization she was an alcoholic.

Later, came other alcohol-related clues ... Her hospitalization for the DTs; the throat ulcer that nearly killed her; her frightening, irrational rudeness to another friend when I foolishly tried to repeat the ruined vacation. After that, we lost touch. And now she’s dead. 

I wish I’d known, sooner. I could have scribbled a few words of condolence on the online obit - now closed for comment.

Over the past few days, I’ve been surprised to find myself grieving. There hasn’t been a day since reading her obit that I haven’t thought of her with fondness and sadness. She was a wonderful woman - tough, smart, wise, giving. 

She volunteered selflessly for the poor and down-trodden on Vancouver’s mean streets, asking nothing for herself. She was supportive when I went through a life crisis years ago, and others turned their backs. Friends like that are hard to find, and harder still to lose. I miss her.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Patience is Its Own Reward

What’s on my mind? A study in patience.

When they ask: “What did you do, during the plague?” I’ll say: “I learned to cut my hair!” (The results of that  will never, ever become public. Now, my sister’s attempt, I’ll show you. She didn’t respond to blackmail.)

What has Himself been up to? Himself has been using his time to enhance his gardening skills, as well as teaching himself astral photography. Despite all of that, if anyone were to ask, he’d shrug and say: “I did a jigsaw puzzle.” 

Being the modest type, he won’t say the puzzle required a magnifying glass and a ruler to examine its 1,000 tiny pieces. He won’t say his wife tried, failed, and stomped off in frustration several times, unable to find even one piece of the puzzle.

For him to say: “I did a jigsaw puzzle,” minimizes the feat. So this is how things went:

May 5: Gung-ho. 

Purchase, unpack, place and sort puzzle pieces on dining room table. Begin with edges. Hmmm ... (Muffled cuss words will occasionally escape this room. Hours will meld into days, with all becoming a blur. Himself doesn’t know this, yet). 

May 9: Cautious. 

May 11: Measured.

May 16: Persistent. 

May 18: Undaunted.

May 22: Tireless.

May 23: Again. And again. And again.

May 24: Relentless.

Early morning, May 27: Bathrobe. 

Mid-morning, May 27: At last!

Victorious!

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

The Major Problem-o with Mr. X’s Pickles

What’s on my mind? When Mr. and Mrs. X came to dinner in December, Mr. X handed me a jar of pickles as he sailed through the door.

“Made ’em, m’self,” he said.

With the appropriate thank you, I tucked them into the fridge.

We love pickles, but - with two jars already open - we soon forgot about Mr. X’s. Seemingly unaided, his jar of pickles migrated toward the back of the fridge. Once in awhile, I’d spot them, thinking: “Must use those pickles!” 

And then I’d quietly close the fridge door and forget about them again. Until yesterday, when … 

“Hi, hi, hi! Imagine running into yo-u-u-u!” It was Mr. and Mrs. X, their car next to ours at Home Depot. Himself had already dashed off to get whatever Guy Thing it was he needed.

Stuck for words at the best of times, I now stared into Mr. and Mrs. X’s happy faces, clueless about kicking off a meaningful conversation. 

Feeling downcast, my eyes went in the same direction, which meant I was staring at Mr. X’s crotch. And then it came to me! Words to say. Not Mr. X’s crotch.

Smiling broadly, I raised my eyes and said: “I lo-o-o-ve your pickles!” No need to say we’d never opened the jar. 

Mr. X looked mortified. Mrs. X looked shocked. 

(What did I say? What did I say? I must have put my foot in it! Oh, gawd … They probably thought I meant …)

“I didn’t mean that in a sexual way!” Now Mr. and Mrs. X both looked shocked. 

“You didn’t mind the slime?” asked Mr. X. 

(Oh, gawd … oh, gawd! What can I say? What can I say? That I LOVED the slime? That I didn’t NOTICE the slime? Either way, I’m in too deep - or Mr. X wants to be … And WTF - WHAT slime?)

So, wanting nothing more than for Himself to arrive in the parking lot with his Guy Thing, I innocently asked: “Slime?” 

“Slime,” nodded Mr. and Mrs X, grim-faced.

“The cukes were slimy when I bought them,”confessed Mr. X. 

Bravely holding up my end of the conversation, I asked: “Huh?” And then: “Huh?” 

“I rinsed them,” he continued, “but couldn’t get it all off. They just kept getting slimier in the jar.” 

“Slimier in the jar,” repeated Mrs. X, shaking her head in sympathy.

(BLOODY HELL! She’s sympathizing with the DOUGH HEAD who bought slimy cucumbers to make slimy pickles??? Why the EFF would he give them to us as a PRESENT???)

That’s what I thought. What I said, was: “Oh, dear.” 

The Xs were pleased - but uncertain - I was telling the truth when I said loved Mr. X’s non-sexual pickles. If at first you don’t succeed, lie, lie, again. Before we parted ways, I reassured them Mr. X’s pickles were perfect, even if my words (BLOODY HELL!) produced a marital rift between them.

When Himself returned to the car, Guy Thing in … um … hand, I told him about the pickles, neatly dodging the sex stuff.

Indeed, when we peeked in the fridge, Mr. X’s pickles were entombed in grey slime. “Ew-w-w-w!” I said, with my usual eloquence. 

Himself makes pickles, too. He knew Mr. X’s were a Major Problemo.

“You can’t lie!” he said. “I’ll send the Xs an email to clear things up.” Which he did.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. X!” he wrote. “It seems Nicole was mistakenly praising Mr. X’s pickles, the other day. What she really intended was to praise my pickles.” 

I bit my lip when I read that. Didn’t say a word. I’m a happily married woman. It would be mighty fine to keep it that way. 

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Bunny Bulletin!

What’s on my mind? Bunny Bulletin! 

After sitting smack in a formerly beautiful bunch of sedums (flattened by overnight chewing), a very fat rabbit starts to eat her way ’round the sedum’s edges before progressing to the flowering ground cover between the flagstones in our garden. 

I was once neighbors with an otherwise pleasant guy who shot the rabbits in his garden. This was in Arizona, so not completely unexpected, but still upsetting. 

Himself and I merely yell SHOOSH!, clap our hands, and apply stinky stuff to what we think of as our garden and rabbits think of as their exclusive buffet. 

Our tactics work reasonably well until a heavy rain. When that happens, we’re disinclined to run outside shouting and clapping, and the stinky stuff washes off. Right now, it’s raining cats, dogs, and rabbits.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Double or Nothing

What’s on my mind? Budgeting 101. 

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to manage money. Even when I had none, I was able to shave a nickel and get four cents change. “It’s a gift,” say spendthrift friends and relatives. 

Sigh! “I can’t help that I’m talented and clever.”

Even now, as the world plods through COVID-19, I’ve managed to stay above water, putting away a few nickels when no one else can.

“How ever do you do it?” asks my banker. 

(I almost never see him these days: The bank’s doors are bolted. I’d barge in wearing a mask, but someone would probably press the alarm and I’d be off to the hoosegow, which is a $2 word for the clink, which is a $1 word for jail, which returns me to the subject of my money-management skills.)  

My banker is always eager for me to share my tips with him, so he, in turn, can share them with his multi-millionaire clients slowly drowning in debt. 

“I already know how much you’ve got,” he whispers, prying for information.

Clutching my purse, I think: “Not true. Why would he look at my puny bank account?” 

“You have a puny bank account …”

(Gasp!)

“So how do you manage? What’s your secret? You can trust me-e-e,” he says.

I can’t. But I’ll tell you, blog reader, why I have money jingling in my jeans when others don’t. And yes, it is in coins. And no, there’s nowhere to spend it, or I probably would.

Gambling! That’s my secret. I am a wild, unrepentant gambler! Sometimes, I even bet double or nothing and lose everything - but always win it back. I’m a gambler of the know-when-to-hold-’em, know-when-to-fold-’em persuasion. Lemme tell you my “system.”

With COVID’s arrival, Himself and I emptied our pockets and checked under the couch pillows and looked under the bed to come up with precisely $35.70 between us.

And then gambling fever hit us - big time. 

Each afternoon, Himself and I began sitting down to a cut-throat game of cards at a nickel a point. Once in awhile, our neighbors Mr. Harris and Mrs. H heard shouting coming from the direction of our house. After hearing one of us yell: “That’s cheating!” Mrs. H ran around telling the whole neighorhood we had an “open marriage.” 

When the news got back to me, I told Mrs. H the only things open in our house were the window and the door, and she was welcome to exit either. Mrs. H seemed disappointed to hear all we do is play cards, and that (as I bragged) I usually win. 

Unfortunately, as I later heard, Mrs. H sought out each neighbor to say: “It’s a den of inequity! She usually dominates!” Also unfortunately, Mrs. H neglected to say we play cards, so what everyone heard (and spread further) was that our house is a “den of iniquity,” and I’m a sadist.

Which is quite a different thing from the “inequity” of my domination - my winning streak - at cards.

As everyone knows, gambling has winners and losers. Himself and I start with the money equally divided, but after we’ve tallied the score, the loser forfeits a nickel a point. When we eventually lose our shirts (a term known only to professional gamblers), we apply $35.70 to our line of credit, thus bolstering our credit rating. 

A couple of days later, when gambling withdrawal produces the sweats and the shakes, we borrow $35.70 from our line of credit and start over. 

So that’s my secret! Pssst … Don’t tell the bank.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020