I’m so exhausted I can’t even
think straight and I fear I am
now condemned to watching The
Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3-D
nonstop for infinity or count-
ing over and over and over
Donald Trump’s lies during his
first year in office. At least
it seems that way. Until now,
we never had to clean out a
condo we have owned for twelve
years two thousand miles away
from home and now we have and
we are ready to get back on
the road after two offers fell
through and we are in the
motel and I’m thinking about
home and Willie Nelson and On
The Road Again is in my mind
and after a couple of glasses
of pinot grigio wine served up
in plastic, motel glasses and
maybe six hours’ sleep, we will
be on the road again.
His father had all kinds of
issues given the fact that he
was orphaned in a strange
land at age thirteen and de-
parted the scene when his
son was just seventeen, but,
by the grace of God, perhaps
given his background, he en-
couraged his son to be all that
he could be and do all that he
could do in whatever field he
chose except that his father
did have a bit of a bias toward
the ministry and, low and be-
hold, his son became a minister
and got his doctorate and taught
for a bit in seminary as well as
having had a wonderful vocation
as a pastor, campus minister,
hospice chaplain and interim
minister over forty-five years.
All things considered, that en-
couragement, early on, meant
all the world to a seventeen-
year-old kid who had been
lost without his father but
grateful for everything his
dad did for him in those
few, short and in some
sense sad but glad years.
They traveled two thousand miles
on the assurance that the transaction
was a slam dunk and then they got
slammed without a dunk. They sat
in their condo with only the internet
and cable to keep them company
before they had to empty the place,
return the cable boxes which they
will do in two days before embarking
on a return two thousand mile trip.
Buying and selling used to take a
handshake. Now it takes an army
of attorneys and, due to the in-
credible advances in technology,
they now only have to stay on the
line for forty-five minutes before
speaking with a human who will then
begin the game of pass the buck
faster than a hot potato tossed from
camper to camper on a chilly week-
end camping on the closing weekend
of a state park back home, which
makes them homesick just thinking
We outran the Arctic cold
coming down from up north
spreading across the country.
Thank the Lord the sky was
clear all the way west. It
was nineteen degrees in Gallup
when we left for the Valley
of the Sun and sixty-three when
we got there only to be accused
by several people of bringing
the cold their way. Sixty-three
degrees Fahrenheit. Seriously?
Damn balmy. What’s wrong
with these people? Sun stroke?
Tomorrow? Seventy-eight in
December. Please, give me a
break. Of course, they were
People who didn’t know me fifty years ago
think I look great and are kind enough to
say so. Those who knew me fifty years ago
or longer and see me again after all those
years exclaim, “What happened to you?” And
so it goes. I now pay attention to those who
say, “I can’t believe you are seventy-three.
You look great.” In appreciation, I humbly
say, “Thank you,” and then do a fist pump
and embrace my stylishly shaved head.
A good friend has told him that
if life circumstances had been
different, the sky would be the
limit on what he could have done.
He could have gone to Ivy League
schools, gotten a Ph.D. from one
of the best divinity schools in the
world and become a distinguished
professor at a top rated school.
He thought about that and thought
about the life circumstances that
he couldn’t change and what he
does with the cards he is dealt
and he smiled and felt really good
as he sat at the table once again
with the cards in front of him
and sunglasses over his eyes and
a smile in his heart for the
support he felt from those who
struggled in a way he never would
and for what he is without any of
the cards and because of that,
the sky could never ever be a
limit on an eternity of gratitude.
The (p)resident is the pawn of chaos
being dictated by the real boss —
the real boss being Bannon
who shoots chaos out of a verbal cannon.
All around the world,
all is coming unfurled
from the Far East to the Middle East,
all geography is a fascist’s feast.
Through Russia, Europe, Britain, Scandinavia,
the seeds of destruction are the mania.
And in what was once the good, old USA
a nation facing further destruction everyday,
white, evangelical, Christian Republicans
are happy to elect a despicable, pedophile, Southern bumpkin.
Will Bannon, the Rasputin, get his way
and send civilizations hurtling into rapid decay
only to be rebuilt in some godforsaken, demonic way?
The big, ugly, white, evangelical,
Republican monster watched TV
and saw an interracial couple in
bed in a mattress commercial and
went ape; then an Asian woman
was in a commercial for another
mattress company and she was by
herself enjoying her regular size
mattress, but the aroused and
ashamed (never) monster thought her
movements to be way too provocative;
then, in a commercial on internet
service, a black guy answered the
door of his palatial mansion and,
of all horrible things but under-
standable, because these are the
end time signs of the end times,
he is not the butler. Enough,
enough, enough! The monster can’t
take it any longer and yells,
“A white, Republican, evangelical,
pedophile, really big monster is
my kind of monster to save us
from the invasion of human beings.”
Rollin’ down Rt. 66 at 66 miles
an hour we came upon the sign
that read, “Fantasy,”
and another that read
“73 Ounce Steak For Free,”
(caveat: You have to consume all 73)
and then we passed the
75’ aluminum cross at the spiritual
rest stop and we knew we
were just 20 miles out of Amarillo city.
My pulse quickened as the highway became
a race track of Ford 150’s, 250’s
and three's roarin’ down on me
and up my rear
as Amarillo came near.
My guess was the first stop for those big horse
powered cowboys would be “Fantasy,”
and was not the spiritual rest stop with the
75’ sparkling clean, aluminum cross that looked
like no one had ever hung from
such a monstrosity
let alone a 65’ sparkling clean, aluminum
Jesus in a hundred gallon hat.
We were on our way to Texas high society.
In light of a self-incriminating tweet by
the president pertaining to possible ob-
struction of justice, the fired FBI director
tweeted a pithy aphorism by the Buddha,
“Three things cannot be long hidden: the
sun, the moon and the truth.” Forsooth!
Mark Twain wrote that he tells the truth
because lying takes too much work:
“If you tell the truth, you don’t have
to remember anything.” Forsooth!
If I had been around, I would have
voted for Mark Twain for president,
but his real name was Samuel Clemons.
Mark Twain was considered a nom de plume,
I presume. But a nom de plume is a pseudonym.
Is a pseudonym a phony guy? I thought, for sure,
you were my guy. Did you tell a lie?
Oh, Samuel Clemons, why, oh, why!
Why all the fume about a nom de plume?
Everyone knew the pseudonym was the pseudo-him.
Unlike never the twain shall meet,
Twain and Clemons were one and the same.
Mark Twain for President! He’s too lazy to lie.
Finally an honest guy!