It's a Big Beautiful Day

 I love the smell of deportations in the morning. — Kindly, Your President

Art by KCS

I've come a long way since those youthful days in Queens. Who would have known that I would become the most famous, greatest man not only in the world, but in the history of the world. Beautiful. If you think about it. Which I like to do. Some say I'm the "most beautiful" ever. Maybe that's the same thing but it's worth saying again. I like to stare at the ceiling in the middle of the night and pretend that I own everything, which is really not that unrealistic if you think about it realistically. 

But I can only stare at something for about a second before I grab my laptop and post something on my own social network called Truth Social. Don't you think that's a beautiful name for a social network, putting the word "truth" in front, which, by the way, begins with the same letters as my name T-R-U. I am a very stable genius and just starting to reach my potential, which a lot of people are saying, is the greatest the world has ever seen.

I like to post something that scares the shit out of people and then watch them squirm. It's in my make-up. Not the goop I put on my face but in my essence. People don't realize that I am familiar with essences. I tell Melania every day that her essence smells beautiful. She adores me for it. She really does.

When I'm not golfing, which is 25 percent of the time, I'm very busy looking in the mirror, watching television, figuring out ways to comb my hair so that it looks real, and getting mad at my staff of ... well, losers, really. But they think I love them. And that's the key to making a beautiful deal which I constantly am doing every second, even when I'm golfing. I always win.

Right now, I'm going to call my good friend Vlad the Mad Putin. He doesn't know I call him that because I am constantly working him into a corner. It's called making a deal and only I can do it. I've got his private number that he only gives to me. Okay: listen, Vlad's phone is about to ring: buzzzzzz, buzzzzz, buzzzzzz... buzzzzzzz... (no answer).

He's probably out riding his horse. I'll call back a little later. 

I once said that "tariff" is the most beautiful word in the world. It has a ring to it and it starts with the letter "t", the same as my name. Tariffs are another way of making people squirm. I just love it! I don't love the people. I just like watching them react so quickly, very quickly. That's one of my secrets to success, threaten people with words and scowls, including my lazy mob-boss way of talking. It's how you make America great again, the same way you train a tiger. My scowl is my whip. I love my mettlefor, er, however you say it, of people as tigers and my words as the whip. I know, it's very clever. Some say the most clever they've ever seen.

Some say you have to forgive your enemies, which is the biggest joke I've ever heard. You don't forgive anyone. Period. That's a loser. It's like not beating your dog for shitting on your carpet. You think a dog will stop shitting on your carpet if you forgive the dog? Get real. Threaten the dog. Punish the dog. Set an example. Same thing with democrats or anyone who disagrees with you or insults you. Post a line on social media calling them scum of the earth or vermin of humanity, and use their name.

I love firing people from their jobs or whatever. I got famous for doing that on my TV show, The Apprentice, which, by the way, was the most beautiful and famous show ever on television. Practice makes perfect and I've been doing it ever since.

You probably have heard that I am the President of Peace. That's what they say. I've ended more wars in the world than anyone ever. Now that I've renamed our Department of Defense the Department of War I will be ending even more wars. Which reminds me, let's try Vlad again on the phone, his personal number of course, only I have that number.

Buzzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzz. 

(Gruff voice answers) Who is this?!!!

Vlad, it's me, Don.

Don who?

You know, Don Trump

I told you not to call me anymore, Yankee. For that, I'm going to send another drone strike, over Estonia this time.

Very funny, Vlad.

(Click).

That's beautiful. What a guy. I've got him where I want him. I'm on roll. I'm going to order some more gold for the Oval. You know I'm building a big beautiful ballroom, 150-thousand square feet, to go next to the White House. They say I'm the greatest ever. Do you want to buy one of my meme coins. I get 75-percent. 

THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS MATTER!!!

Mosquito Dharma

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished. -- Lao Tzu

PHOTO:KCS

I met with my guru recently. I say "guru" for lack of a better word. He's a person just like you and me, but unlike me he has studied various religions of the world and their histories. His Tibetan Buddhist studies and practice have earned him the honorary title of rinpoche.

He helps me to understand the greater picture of what's happening in our world and what we might do about it as individuals. I always learn something from him. We met at a coffee shop in Santa Cruz while construction was taking place nearby. The din of tractors and graders beeping and grinding served as our background. Soon those noises faded away as time passed while we talked and laughed.

Following is our conversation:

Me: So good to see you. It's been too long. 

Rinpoche: Yes, too long. What a beautiful afternoon to see you. 

Me: Agreed. What have you been doing?

R: Nothing.

Me: That's funny. I said that to my high school football coach when he asked what I had done over the summer. He answered sharply: "Nothing! Don't tell me you did nothing!" I was taken back.

R: He was obviously trapped in what we call samsara, the state of always having to do something but never going anywhere. Like running in circles.

Me: What's wrong with running in circles? 

R: That's fine as long as you know you're going nowhere.

Me: Where should we be going?

R: Nowhere. There is no should. We are not given orders. We make that up.

Me: Don't we need direction to get along and accomplish things, like building homes and acting civil to each other?

R: Yes, there is a balance to maintain. But our primary activity to sustain life is to act with compassion for all sentient beings.

Me: Does that include our enemies, even mosquitoes?

R: It includes all sentient beings.

Me: But a mosquito could transmit an infectious disease to me, like malaria. I could die. Is it wrong to kill a sentient being who can kill you?

R: What is WRONG? Let's for a minute dispense with right and wrong. Mosquitoes are not calculating right or wrong. They are just being mosquitoes.

Me: And I'm just being human.

R: Are you?

Me: Yes, I'm protecting myself from disease.

R: Must you kill the mosquito?

Me: I guess I could run away, or spray repellent on exposed parts of my body.

R: That's an idea I like.

As we stood talking in the patio twilight, I could hear the buzzing of a mosquito nearby. A second or so later Rinpoche slapped at his forehead, leaving the remains of a dead mosquito stuck to his skin.

Me: You just killed a mosquito, Rinpoche, after telling me to show compassion for all sentient beings.

R: Do you DO everything anybody tells you?

Me: No, but I don't understand your lesson. I don't consider you just ANYBODY.

R:  Would you rather that I had simply allowed the mosquito to bite me?

Me: No, but...

R: As a human being I am not perfect.

Me: But isn't the mosquito perfect?

R: It is certainly more perfect than I am. Shall we drink tea?

September Song

My father Frank Samson in our driveway with his '57 Studebaker Silver Hawk, Pomona, Calif., 1958.  San Gabriel Mountain peaks barely visible in background. Shot with my Brownie Hawkeye camera.

September always meant going back to school following a long hot summer. In Pomona, where I grew up, it also meant the Los Angeles County Fair. 

We students were given free tickets to the fair since the Fairgrounds were located just north of the center of town. My memory tells me there was a little piggy on the face of the ticket welcoming us to the annual show of agriculture, all sorts of exhibits and of course the Midway where the giant ferris wheel was located. That Ferris wheel was so high it identified the Fairgrounds from miles away, a landmark that stood vacant and fallow for most of the year.

There was -- and may still be -- a horse-racing track at the Fairgrounds with a large grandstand. As I got older, I began to look forward to the races that were held in conjunction with the Fair. If I had earned extra cash during the summer, I would place two-dollar bets on "the ponies." I liked the long shots whose payoffs were more substantial, although I was never much of a bettor, although some of my friends were. I played my money conservatively. I enjoyed watching the horses race, their hooves pounding under long legs and slender ankles. Betting enhanced the experience. Curiously, you didn't need an ID to place a bet.

My favorite exhibit at the Fair was the photography show of mostly black and white pictures that captured unique perspectives of mundane scenes, some of people doings things as simple as eating an ice cream cone or standing on a corner. Why were they so interesting? What made me stop and study these photos? I never spent too much time wondering about it, but I was intrigued and never missed the opportunity to pass through the photo exhibit.

The Midway with its rides and music and roaming kids was a big draw for teenagers. One night I watched a girl dance, amazingly, to Ray Charles's "Hit the Road, Jack", her lithe body floating above her dazzlingly quick-moving feet, her hair hanging over her face glazed in concentration. She had become the music. Watching her, I was entranced by the rhythm and beat...  don'cha come back no more, no more... hit the road...

We met high school friends at the Midway on Friday night, hung out, enjoyed a few rides and took in the scene and when we got home our shoes were covered in black greasy oil. You never wanted to wear white shoes or pants to the Midway.

At St. Joseph's, September meant seeing kids you hadn't seen since June. The girls changed the most with their new hair cuts and smiles. Their bodies were changing, too, as they were becoming young women with budding breasts that made you realize the wonder and excitement of sexual arousal and the awkward activity of flirting, if it only meant a second look.

The nuns attempted to keep the boys and girls separated, in the classroom as well as during periods of recess. So we met at the bowling alleys and movie theaters. There was always a workaround. There were actually three bowling alleys in town! I was bowling before I knew how to drive.

September weather could be brutal in our inland valley of Southern California. Temperatures could reach into the 100s, my forearms dripping sweat on my desk and notebook after coming in from recess where we boys never seemed to stop running, playing keep-away, a crude form of rugby. We lined up at the water fountains our mouths parched from the heat, gulping and splashing each other with wonderful water, quenching every last cell in your body.

In the mid-thirties, Pomona was known as the Queen of the Citrus Belt, with groves of oranges surrounding town. We were the eastern-most city in Los Angeles County located at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains and Mt. Baldy, separated from the rest of the county by Kellogg Hill, near an Arabian horse farm and the campus of Cal Poly Pomona established on 1500 acres in 1938. The major department store was The Orange Belt. Some of the kids' parents acted on TV shows and in commercials. With its historical craftsman houses adorned with stonework from local quarries and streets shaded by leafy trees, old Pomona was early-on a taste of small-town America, a get-away from the bustle of L.A., 30 miles west. 

The rural foothills ran east from L.A. and Septembers were dry and became the peak season for wild fires. Those blazes became backdrops for L.A. noir crime novels by Ross MacDonald, The Underground Man 1971; Don Winslow, California Fire and Life 1991; and Jonathan and Jesse Kellerman, The Burning 2020, among other more recent stories.

September also meant the beginning of football season and two-a-day practices, in the morning and again in the afternoon, with full pads and blocking sleighs and drills like "blood on the moon." They began a week or so before school started and after the morning session we would meet at Pascal's hamburger stand and drain tall cups of Coke with ice. One afternoon, the coaches ended practice early because we were hacking and coughing from the heat coupled with the smog that settled against the foothills blown into the valley by onshore winds from the coast, the opposite direction of the warm Santa Ana winds that blow in from the Great Basin in winter.

The temperature reading on the bank downtown read 105 that day. The air was tinted brown.

September means life, the birth of my eldest daughter, Molly, and the loss of her mother, Linda, 29. Bittersweet September. 

My father, Frank, was also born on the 21st of the month.

September 21-24 brings the autumnal equinox, the end of summer and oncoming of fall. It announces change, a seasonal pivot. It means storms forming up north near the Aleutians, generating major swells resulting in larger waves on the West Coast, the beginning of a new season of surf. It also means the upcoming Santa Cruz County Fair, apple pie and pig races.