Mindfulness for a New Year

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                                                                                                                                Photo by Helen Lindsey

If enlightenment is not where you are standing, where will you find it? -- old Buddhist saying

I recently received a photograph of a beautiful gate from a friend, Helen Lindsey, with the words "Let's open the gate to a new year." The gate was made of wood with a pagoda-like header, surrounded by lovely plants and reminded me of a gate leading to a Buddhist temple.

It communicated to me a serene, grounded feeling as well as a sense of mystery, and the opportunity to enter a new place.

Gates are of course symbolic of entry into something different. Christianity embraces the idea of gates. There are the Gates to Heaven, where St. Peter checks you in, if you're so fortunate to be on his list. Conversely, there are  the Gates to Hell, and you know what that means, and the character who resides amidst the raging flames, ever ready to tempt your base desires, which supposedly will lead you inside his inferno.

Over the years I have let go of those gates. Letting go of bad juju, however it clings to your person, is advised by my Zen teacher.

My teacher would also point out that you cannot have Heaven without Hell, or good without bad, light without dark. Our duality of language defines its opposite, lest everything be the same. But, if everything is the same why would we want to fight, or steal or win? These are human games we play. We are very clever and much too smart for our own good.

Yet games are fun in themselves. In their essence, we find ourselves. Not to boast or gloat or humiliate but just to be in the moment, that thrill of being alive. To compete for the sake of competing. As cliche as it might sound, “it’s the journey not the destination."

When this Covid thing started there was talk of us slowing down and appreciating the simpler elements of life, like the feeling of sunshine on your skin when you're cold, or the flavor of the first bite of a good burrito, or the sensation of endorphins rushing through your body after exercise,  the comforting sound of a nostalgic song or melody ...

...  or perhaps the touch of the hand of someone you love, or maybe the sensual curve in a work of art or bend in a river, the scent of incense in a quiet room or fresh apple pie in your oven, a knowing smile from a friend, the satisfaction of making something with your own hands.

Handmade gate by Chris Meehan

I believe there is an essence, “life force,” that is inside each one of us, that holds us all together. My Zen teacher calls it a "suchness." It exists outside of language. Our community, our planet and our universe are all part of this totality. 

Have you ever wondered about the coincidences in your life? Why you find yourself among like-minded people? How the fickle finger of fate has determined who you are? Each tiny element in your life has been a factor in forming you.

This is a beautiful thing. We are all different, yet alike. Remember our duality of language. There can be no same without different. This is the irony of who we are. This concept can be embraced through the metaphor of a gate.

Let us open the gate to better understanding of both our limits and our unlimited imaginations and how they can bring us, and hold us, together.

As an elder -- a kupuna in Hawaiian -- I like to believe that I am wiser as the years go by, that I must have learned something over seven-plus decades. My wisdom, if I can be so bold, has taught me to listen, consider, not fall victim to anger, be forgiving of others and myself. I am still working on compassion and understanding and I hope to be there sooner than later.

Twenty-twenty has not been a good year for understanding since our common reality was not only challenged, but called a "hoax," by a false leader.

My teacher would remind me that enlightenment is transitory. Anyone who walks around claiming to be enlightened is most likely a charlatan. 

Here's hoping 2021 will be our year. Simply enter the gate while being mindful of each precious step.

"In making the handle

 of an axe

By cutting wood with an axe

The model is indeed near at hand."

                      from 'Wen Fu' by Lu Ji, Fourth Century AD     

"When making an axe handle

The pattern is not far off."   

                     Ezra Pound, 1915     

"We'll shape the handle

By checking the handle

Of the axe we cut with"

                        Gary Snyder, 1983

Real Men Don't Wear Coconut Bras

Island Joe and the Aloha Boys. PHOTO:BBS

Remember when we could get together and party? Let our hair down and dance around? Rub shoulders, press the flesh and even hug?

Those were the days, my friend, they seem to have come to an end.

At least through this holiday season.

Which reminds me of a holiday gig some years ago at the fabulous Cocoanut Grove Ballroom on the Main Beach in Santa Cruz, the very same ballroom where the Royal Hawaiian Orchestra played on opening night in 1907. Over the years the stage has been graced with the likes of Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Les Brown, Merv Griffin, Count Basie, the Beach Boys, the Talking Heads and local favorites, the Clamtones.

This was a private affair for employees and guests of the Seaside Company, parent of the historic Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.

This annual, gala event was the most well-attended and looked-forward-to occasion of the year for Seaside employees, strewn with good cheer, plenty of tinsel, lots of cool prizes, champagne, cocktails, awards, and a four-entre' banquet with numerous sides the likes of a Las Vegas Strip casino, including carefully prepared desserts under the direction of the grove's exceptional pastry chef. Think fluffy cream puffs, lemon cakes and piled-high decadent chocolate confections. 

Guests were dressed to the nines in their jackets, ties, dresses and gowns. Photos were taken. The Bay View Room sizzled with conversation and good cheer.

With bellies full and moods juiced with libations, let the entertainment begin!

I should preface this section of my story by telling you that I was employed in the Marketing Dept. of the Seaside Company for nearly 17 years, during which I was initiated and became inebriated by the spirit of fun. Having fun was our motto. It was not forced fun, more an organic, spontaneous cheerfulness from the top down.

We were a classic seaside amusement park and our product was nostalgia and FUN!

"Howz it goin?" the president of the company, Charles Canfield, would greet me in the hallway with a big smile. He took me to play golf at his private club. One time he even ran into a ravine covered with poison oak to retrieve my errant golf ball.

"See what he does for you," remarked a fellow golfer.

It was true. It was like being a kid again. The culture brought out my inner child.

So I had this idea. And I had an ukulele and a straw porkpie hat. I convinced two guys in our department to don grass skirts and go on stage with me as Island Joe and the Aloha Boys. Mike, the younger guy, had no problem with the costume, but Marty, was not so sure about dancing on stage in a grass skirt in front of 250 people. At least we didn't ask him to wear a coconut bra.

I would sing the first chorus of Mele Kalikimaka and play ukulele while they danced. Then for the second chorus we would all sing together, just like Bette Midler and Jimmy Buffet had recorded their separate versions of the song. Jimmy was backed up by the Coral Reefers. I had the Aloha Boys.

Sandi Jo from Human Resources hosted the event. Sandi has a great singing voice and a moxie as saucy as the aforementioned Ms. Divine, Bette Midler. She knew how to make President Charles the butt of a good-humored joke.

And, of course, Charles would be in the audience with his lovely wife, often sharing a table with a roller coaster mechanic and a plumber, with their partners. A good president understands humility.

"Please welcome to the Cocoanut Grove stage," announced Sandi Jo,  "Island Joe and the Aloha Boys!"

We ran onto the elevated stage like Peter, Paul and Mary used to do, with high energy and a poignant message. Our message was not so much political as comical. No doubt, much funnier than we realized.

Marty bounced around in his grass skirt with a sublime expression on his face. Mike wiggled his butt and hammed it up. I strummed away and sang my heart out as though I were channeling Bing Crosby. The crowd loved it!

Mele Kalimkaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day

That's the island greeting that we send to you from the land where palm trees sway

Here we know our Christmas will be green and bright

The sun will shine by day and all the stars at night

Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way to say Merry Christmas... a very very Merry Christmas...

a very Merry Merry Christmas... to you!

Following our act, we ran off stage into the dressing room. The guys took off their skirts and I removed my straw hat. We surreptitiously resumed our seats in the audience of dinner tables. Some did not realize who the three performers had been, although they talked it about for weeks and by then we were stars. Or so we imagined.

Those were, indeed, the days, my friends. The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, sadly, has been shut down for nearly a year due to COVID. Jobs have been lost. There was not a holiday party this year.

Here's wishing for an uplifting, healing and fun comeback in 2021! 

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year! 

Mele Kalikimaka to all!

Copyright: Kevin Samson from Silence of the Oranges, working title memoir.

  

The Day I Stood Next to Joe Montana

"Joe," I called. 

The defense was on the field and he was taking a break near the bench, the greatest quarterback of his generation, captain of what would become the best professional football team of the 1980s, the San Francisco 49ers, the most storied in the history of the "city by the bay."

Between us, Hacksaw Reynolds ambled like a hungry gorilla, his torn-up body affecting his gait. They say he hacksawed an automobile for recreation, sliced it up with a saw blade like he sliced through opposing offenses with his flailing arms and legs.

I had media credentials as editor of The News, a weekly newspaper in Santa Cruz County. These were the days when a media pass could get you into press room interviews and on the sidelines of a professional football game. I took full advantage.

The sun was bright, the air thin with a San Francisco-in-December bite to it. The Niners were playing Tampa Bay at Candlestick, a forlorn stadium stuck on a wind-blown point on the water's edge. Home to both the 49ers and the San Francisco Giants, Candlestick on a good day was miserably uncomfortable. During its lifetime from 1960 to 2013 it gave fans a legacy of memories good, bad and inexplicable.

To whit:

SF Giants pitcher Stu Miller is blown off the mound by a nasty gust of wind during the All-Star Game on July 11, 1961.

A Giants fan becomes so inebriated that he tumbles to his death from the upper deck, 1984.

The amazing Willie Mays, the "Say Hey Kid," smashes home runs and sprints around the outfield performing his incredible and unique "basket catch," 1960-71.

That skinny quarterback from Notre Dame creates magic leading the Niners to four Super Bowl seasons: Joe Montana, 1979-90.

What a name! What a football player! A winner! Four Lombardi trophies!

Since its inception, football has anointed its heroes with nicknames: Red Grange was "The Galloping Ghost." There was Alan "The Horse" Ameche, "The Golden Boy" Paul Hornung, Dick "Night Train" Lane. And there was "Hacksaw" Reynolds. Who even knew his first name?

But Joe Montana?  How could you improve on that. The slight, blue-eyed, reddish-haired kid whose legerdemain overshadowed his physical presence, needed a nickname, or so they said. They said he was once a high-jumper.  He had played point-guard in basketball. Now this Super Bowl stuff, last minute passes to win the most important games. The Candlestick winds never affected Joe. He deflected the breezes the same way he eluded defensive linemen. If it came down to third- or fourth-and-one, Joe performed the "quarterback sneak."

A contest was called to give Joe a sobriquet, like all the other stellar football heroes. Fans were asked to send in their ideas, to immortalize the kid.

Herb Caen, San Francisco's famed three-dot-columnist who had admonished those who called his city, "Frisco" -- he made clear it was San Francisco" -- rallied in his column, calling for monikers for Montana.

"I like Joe Cool," pronounced the columnist.

Caen was right on. If Montana were to have a nickname, it had to be "Joe Cool." He personified coolness in the clutch, the proverbial chill cucumber, as fresh as the under-side of a pillow.

Was it the PR department or the Chamber of Commerce that came up with the winning epithet? They declared the quarterback would be called Joe "Big Sky" Montana. 

Wha?

If ever there was a dud winner, that was it. No one ever called Joe, "Big Sky." The name died a quick death, a pathetic PR failure, a dime-a-dozen dream that had no legs.

That day at Candlestick, December 4, 1983, when I saw him up close, Joe completed 21 passes out of 31 attempts for 227 yards, leading the team to a 31 to 25 victory over Tampa Bay. Although he did not throw a touchdown pass, Joe scrambled, in his own inimitable way, 12 yards for a broken play touchdown. It was classic Joe being Joe, drawing magic out of thin air.

Of course he didn't hear me when I called his name. The crowd was too loud and frenzied. I moved in as near as I could get to him, perhaps hoping that some of his coolness would rub off on me. In his red and gold uniform, Joe stood about my height, 6' 1". His legs and arms were thin, unremarkable. Standing on a corner in San Francisco in Levis and running shoes, he could have been mistaken for any Joe Schmo. 

But Joe was no Schmo, anything but.

Some guys are just too cool to be named.

 

Big Wednesday

PHOTO:KCS

For surf, this was the week that was. For three days this past week, waves appeared along our Central Coast the likes of which hadn't been seen in months, maybe years.

PHOTO:KCS

The lines were drawn from the north Pacific setting up a paradise of steeply faced waves that attracted surfers, gawkers, photographers and just about anyone who heard the thunderous noise of breakers near shore and had to have a look-see.

While Middle Peak at Steamer Lane drew the largest crowds in town with mountainous waves as far out as third reef, ripping sets of long peeling waves gave the Westside coastline between Sacramento and Swift streets the appearance of Hawaii, according to one happy surfer.

PHOTO:KCS

"It rarely breaks here, but when it does I need to re-shuffle my deck."

A couple of riders were towed out to avoid paddling through the strong current. 

Both surfing and golf have become more popular during COVID, since they're outdoor sports and allow for reasonable separation of participants. Local surf breaks, especially beginner spots like Cowells, have been inundated with COVID surfers. The parking lot at our public golf course, De Laveaga, has been full daily.

"It's a mad house out there," said Tony Loero, an experienced wave rider who grew up surfing and fishing in Santa Cruz.

Tony has spent his life in the water, including a stint in the Navy when he worked on nuclear submarines. That was enough to give him a few nightmares of how near to nuclear mishap we've been.

"Kevin, you don't even want to know."

Today he volunteers for Operation Surf, a group that provides disabled veterans an opportunity to enjoy the thrill of surfing. Tony is also a popular surf instructor, imparting his savvy understanding of the ocean to beginners of all ages.

"For most of them it's a one-time thing."

Surfing is a lifestyle for locals like Tony. It involves tracking the wind and tides, watching the currents, studying where the sandbars form and the direction of the swells and shape of the waves.

The recent big swell put our lifeguards and first-responders on alert. One rescue involved an experienced local who was knocked unconscious. He survived thanks to the aid of a buddy.

One young wannabe showed up on Thursday when the ocean had settled down. It changes minute by minute.

"It's as flat as a pancake out there," he said. "Yesterday there were huge waves?"

He must have been from Fresno, seeking COVID relief.

The Great Bike Ride

“After a time, habituated to spending so many hours a day on my bike, I became less and less interested in my friends. My wheel had now become my one and only friend. I could rely on it, which is more than I could say about my buddies."  -- Henry Miller, My Bike and Other Friends

I've spent a good part of my life on a bicycle. If I were to calculate my hours on a bike, I bet the time spent would come close to my time spent sleeping. 

It occurs to me that sleeping and cycling have a lot in common.

When we sleep our consciousness travels through cycles from wakefulness to unconsciousness to subconsciousness through dreams to wakefulness again. When we ride a bicycle, our legs spin causing the wheels to turn and subsequently the gears in our head to cycle. The bicycle and sleep account for two of life's great necessities.

At times, while riding a bicycle, I relive periods of youthful exuberance, those halcyon days of self-propulsion riding down a sidewalk, into the street and through the neighborhood, rolling along, smile on the face, wind in the hair and bugs on the teeth. 

There was a period between junior high and college, when bicycles were verboten by the mentality of high school coolness. You didn't want to be caught riding a bike to school, or on a date with your girlfriend. You either rode in a car or hitch-hiked. Buses and bikes were not cool.

So I hid my bike at Richie Ramirez's house less than a block from school. From there, we walked together to the institution of male adolescent mayhem and teenage angst that was Pomona Catholic Boys High School. Ours was an internment under the directorship of clergymen most of whom were fresh off the boat from that cold, green island across the Atlantic known as Ireland.

Sexual frustration by the staff was tempered by punches to the gut and knees to the groin of the male student body. Discipline was augmented by the hands of a few mean-spirited deviants from the athletic department.

Conventional wisdom dictated that you either played football, raced muscle cars on the side streets or partied like it was 1999. But you did not ride a bicycle.

Due to the geography of our Southern California environment, beaches -- sandy, sun-drenched picture-postcard places -- were within our reach. Coastal oases with bikini-clad girls and foamy surf served as our first and foremost refuge.

"Let's ride our bikes to the beach!" I said to my brown-eyed piano-playing friend, Richie. He also played organ in a rock band and he owned a Schwinn 10-speed. We both had 10-speeds. I had purchased mine with paper route money -- $65 -- at Coates Bicycles in Pomona. It was a blue beauty, a Continental.

By automobile, it took about an hour to get to the closest beaches, Newport and Huntington. The auto route required a few highway interchanges through burgeoning Orange County, before it became The OC. A few citrus groves remained. Knots Berry Farm was no longer a farm but not yet a full-scale amusement park. Disneyland was in its prime. The scent of orange blossoms lingered faintly.

By bicycle, it would be a little tricky, but I convinced Richie that it would be an adventure. We could do it. I studied a map to plot our route.

"It'll be bitchin!" I said.

"Bitchin!" he agreed.

We rolled out of Pomona early Saturday on our bikes with sleeping bags strapped to rear racks, heading toward the tiny rural enclave of Walnut and the La Puente Hills beyond. Today this area is plastered with freeways, strip malls and houses. The morning sun spread light over the undulating yellow hills that smelled of horses and hay.

We told our parents that we would be staying at a friend's parents's beach house on Balboa Island.

By mid morning we reached California Highway 39 -- an early road from Azusa to Huntington Beach -- a section of which became Beach Blvd as it ran some 40 miles through a series of cities without distinguishing borders except for their names: La Puente, La Habra, Anaheim, Buena Park and finally Huntington Beach. This would be our long, but straight shot to the ocean.

Beach Blvd. turned out to be a less-than-hospitable road for bicycles. It was a main drag of stop lights and commerce. We had barely begun this section of our journey when oranges were thrown at us. We were nearly run off the road by joy-riders who gunned their car engines and burned screeching rubber behind us.

The traffic noise and heat of the day bore down on us, but we kept on pedaling toward the beach, a distant paradise.

By mid-afternoon with the golden sun in our eyes, we hit Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) where a strong on-shore head wind held us up, blowing a cool breeze in our faces and making harder to pedal. We had reached the Western edge of the continent. On our bicycles! 

We found Balboa Island, the hub of beach vacation fun. Its narrow streets and bustling sidewalks left little space for bicycles, although the aroma of hamburgers and french fries at Jolly Roger's restaurant was more than welcome. We ate juicy burgers. We soaked in whiffs of suntan lotion and sweet candy confections. It was a scene of bare feet, legs and arms and bleached hair.

I'm sure we appeared to be a couple of vagabonds with our sleeping bags, bicycles and sweating bodies. 

"This is the life," I told Richie.

"Yeah," he said, not too convincingly. But we were smiling. We were there, in the moment. With our bikes. 

That night we rolled out our sleeping bags and fell asleep in somebody's back yard. The house was vacant. In my mind, it was never a worry. We were free and mobile on our 10-speed adventure.

The following day it was much hotter as we rode along the same main drag, retracing our route home.

Somewhere in the middle of Orange County between the beach and home, Richie said: "I need to rest." His face was dripping sweat; his flushed brown skin gleamed in the sun. He was exhausted. 

We found a hamburger stand with an awning and shade. Richie stretched himself out on a bench, lying on his back with his eyes closed. I brought him a paper cup of water. He was trembling.

The shade felt good as I allowed myself to relax and keep an eye on Richie, who had fallen into state of stillness. His trembling had stopped, which reassured me. We must have traveled at least 80 miles yesterday and today and we were still a long way from home.

Because I was not tired it crossed my mind that Richie just wasn't in very good shape. I was hardly sympathetic. Even a bit perturbed with the interruption. We were so unprepared for any disruption. When I look back, I realize that he was likely dehydrated and his condition could have been severe. Much worse than I was able to admit.

After about a half hour of recuperation, he said, "Okay, I think I'm ready to ride." He rose slowly from the bench, a resurrection of spirit and will. We took it fairly easy the remainder of the way.

We crossed the hills and pedaled into Pomona Valley at the foot of Mt. Baldy, although we rarely saw the mountain during the summer when the dingy, stinking brown smog backed up against the San Gabriel Mountains. Unleaded gas has changed that, one of the best things ever for the air quality of Southern California.

We had completed our round-trip, full cycle, to the beach! It wasn't anything we could brag about. It sounded insane. But it was an accomplishment that we shared and fondly remember to this day. I couldn't have done it without a friend like Richie. I was impressed by his comeback on the ride home. Today he runs 10K races, while I settle for the cushion of a bicycle saddle, forever attached to the two-wheeler.

That evening, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, which I hadn't seen in two days. I saw an unfamiliar, dark face the color of a purple onion. I was sunburned to a crisp and I loved it. 

"I even got burnt," Richie told me later.

I had proved to myself the power and independence we had on a bicycle.

© Kevin Samson, Silence of the Oranges, a working title memoir

The Shorts & Longs of It

My dog Frida and me on a balmy winter day in Manhattan Beach

My late good friend John Gilchrist would not be caught without his shorts on.

I'm talking about outer shorts, not under shorts.

Through rain or sleet or hail or snow, John wore his shorts as a statement. Although he never explained that statement, I knew him well enough to understand that it was his way of expressing independence and lifting a middle finger toward convention.

I don't believe he owned a pair of long pants. He lived most of his life bare-legged, with a wry smile on his face.

Today, it seems that a good percentage of the male population are wearing shorts, and will continue to do so through the coming winter. Come hell or high water.

Google "men in shorts" and you will see a gallery of male adults, many in GQ-style jackets and shirts, exposing an array of hairy knees and calves.

Is it a "chick magnet?" 

Or "just men being men."

"My legs don't get cold," says one proud shorts-wearing guy from New Jersey.

Some say it's macho. Full-length slacks and jeans are for babies.

When I hear that, I think to myself: Wild Bill Hickock didn't wear shorts. Superman wore tights not shorts. I never saw Paul Newman in short pants. James Bond doesn't prance around in Bermudas. 

Bare-legged macho stride

Some men retire and don shorts for the rest of their lives, but who wants to brag about being retired? Why not just wear pajamas.

"Shorts are more comfortable," is the most oft-heard explanation from men who wear shorts.

Granted, when I'm in Hawaii, I wear board shorts, ever ready to dive into the ocean for a refreshing cool-off. 

If you dive into the frigid Pacific in Santa Cruz you had better be wearing more than board shorts, dude, or prepare for a case of hyper hypothermia. 

Still, the question of whether to go long or short has been a minor conundrum for me. 

That hasn't stopped me from pulling on a pair of cargo shorts, currently on the "very bad choice" fashion list. 

But who's into fashion? If I'm going to be puttering around in the yard on a hot day, I like a place to put my things. Like in a cargo pocket. 

I always seem to have a lot of things: cell phone, tape measure, clippers, keys, pocket knife, screwdriver, pair of gloves, sunglasses, reading glasses, a glass of water (scratch that last one). I put my canister of water on the table next to the lounge chair and always forget where it is.

Hey, I'm not perfect. And I like shorts. But year-round?

It works in Florida

Actually, I've never tried it for the entire year. Maybe I'll start on December 1. I'm sheltering anyway. It's not like I'll be going to any galas or anything. My social calendar is, as Larry David would say, prittay, prittay spare. Come to think of it: I've never seen him in short pants.

If I get really cold I can always pull on a pair of long socks. But that would be cheating, wouldn't it? The whole idea is to show off your bony legs. 

And what about those guys who wear shorts over tights! Lame. As cousin Jimmy says: "You can't have it both ways."

Why not slip into a pair of comfortable long trousers. A pair of Levis. 501's. Red color for hipness. What am I trying to prove?

I know what John Gilchrist would say. He was very good at throwing out playful insults, while walking around in shorts.

"Lose the long pants, Samson. They make you look older than you are."

Easy for him to say. He lived in Santa Barbara.

Accepting Loss

More than a quarter of a million people in the U.S. have died from Covid since March. They say that most every citizen knows of someone who has perished from the disease. We learned of two such deaths last week.

These weren't people that we know, but they were family members of someone we met, a furnace installer from nearby Watsonville. 

"People say it's no big thing," he told us. "But I tell them it's real. I tell them my story."

As soon as he vacated our premises, Barbara and I looked at each other, our eyes as large as saucers.

She immediately went to work sanitizing everything he had touched. We aired out the detached room where he had been working. Of course we had been wearing masks and only momentarily within six-feet of him.

Covid cases are rising by the hundreds almost every day in Santa Cruz County as we draw near Thanksgiving, a favorite holiday of our spread-out family. It's a time when we try to get together. Not this year. Not in person.

I am thankful that our family are all healthy, but it is a loss and sacrifice not to be able to touch them and feel their physical presence. I want to joke around with my grandchildren, watch their eyes light up and their expressions turn to smiles.

As an old guy who has been sheltering for months, I can't think of anything I'd like more. I never had grandparents, three of them had died before I was born, the other not too long afterward. I fear my grandkids will lose out, too. By the time we can get together they won't be kids any more. 

Times are very strange and I'm old enough to have already lost a few good friends and a spouse, and I'm cruising through the "at risk" demographic of septuagenarian. I accept the pandemic. I've made peace with my losses.

Which brings me to this curious election situation. Our two, and only, choices for President of the United States in the confounding year of 2020 were both seventy-something old white men. The two oldest dudes ever to run for president. It's crazy.

The guy who won, at least, is able to talk about his losses -- three children and a spouse. And how many attempts at running for president did he lose? Yet here he is, the president-elect. He accepted loss and moved forward. 

The other guy, who's lost a brother and a few casinos and now an election, cannot accept loss. He refuses to acknowledge that he is not the winner. His pathology is very clear.

Thousands of his supporters gathered in Washington this past week to protest the election, claiming that he won, that the election was stolen, blah blah blah. The reason they believe this is because the old guy tells them so. It makes them feel better. They take whatever he says at face value. It makes the old guy feel better to see them applaud him, and that's really all he wants.

At the expense of the truth, at the expense of his country and the expense of a pandemic.

Grow up, old man. It’s a good day to lose.