Deliver us from evil?

Last Sunday, I watched the livestream of the Easter service from San Francisco’s Grace Cathedral. The recital of the Lord’s Prayer brought me up short.

I have always mentally heard the prayer as asking the Lord to “lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil,” but it’s not. In other words, I always thought the prayer asked for us to be delivered from the evil others directed our way. It isn’t.

The prayer instead asks the Lord to deliver us from evil that we are tempted to do. As originally stated in the Bible (Matthew 6:9), we are to ask the Lord to “deliver us from the evil one.” We are to be delivered from the clutches of Satan – and how do we place ourselves at the mercy of Satan? By committing evil.

All of which asks, “What is evil?”

As one can see from the prayer, a lot of evil follows temptation. At least five of the deadly sins result from giving in to inducements to desire – avarice, lust, gluttony, sloth, and pride all come readily to mind – but is there a temptation towards anger? It seems to me that to be tempted requires at least a modicum of awareness of the temptation being fought. Too often anger seems to arise almost with no warning, with no knowledge of how near it is. Anger is often a sin, but not always: sometimes anger is a righteous answer to injustice. Jesus was angry when he cleansed the temple, and I do not know any Christian who would claim He was acting sinfully. Too often we do not engage in enough anger – or at least not enough of the right type of anger, the anger that means something.

Everyone thinks they understand sins of commission: breaking of the Ten Commandments, say. We actively do unto others – sometimes unto ourselves as well – indefensible things. Sins of omission…they’re trickier.

It is accepting credit where we deserve none.

It is, by what we do not say, causing emotional pain to another human being.

It is staying silent in the face of injustice.

It is allowing ourselves to slip into despair.

It is indifference to the plight of others.

It is all the “You were great”s, all the“I’m proud of you”s, all the “I love you”s never said.

These may be small evils, or maybe not. But evils they are. All of us, at some time, commit them. It’s the human condition; nobody’s perfect. 

May God deliver us from these evils.

Posted in God faith and theology | Leave a comment

Words matter.

CW: Sexual Assault, Rape

In the March 31, 2021 New York Times, Marta Blue had a moving article about the unwanted touch that women are subject to through their lives. She wrote an interesting piece discussing the boundaries of consent and the ways in which those boundaries get elided by experience of the world’s – i.e., men’s – expectations.

Much of what she wrote about stroke a chord. Like her, I have experienced non-sexual situations where consent to touch is explicitly required, but where my refusal of that consent met with passive-aggressive disapproval. I have found myself subject to unwanted hugs from male acquaintances – without making my displeasure known. (Those hugs ran from perfunctory to creepy, such as the male “friend” who used to massage my back when he “hugged” me, to my silence.) The only case that comes to mind when I pushed back forcefully was when a man I had met only a few hours before tried to “comfort” me after my car had been broken into. He was offended when I snarled “leave me alone,” replying “I’m just trying to offer support.” I have sometimes asked not to be hugged, and had those requests ignored. It was only after I developed fibromyalgia, where hugs can be not only unwanted but physically painful, have I been able to rebuff hugs not only feeling comfortable doing so but fairly sure that my refusal of consent would not be taken badly.

One part of her piece, though, bothered me even more than the rest. She described how, as a girl, she had ended up in a bathroom with a group of boys, including one who slid his finger inside her and coerced her into giving him a hand job. A pretty horrible experience for a young teen. But later, when discussing the issue of consent and her stint as a sex worker, she stated “Likewise, I’ve never been sexually assaulted.”

I said out loud when I read that, “Oh, honey, you sure have.” How else would you describe her unwanted sexual experience as a girl? Although, in context, she may have meant that she had never been sexually assaulted during her time doing sex work, the sentence was ambiguous.

I have railed at people over the term “sexual assault.” All too often, it has been used simply as a euphemism for rape. That does a disservice to victims of both. It softens “rape” into something that sounds less violent, less destructive. On the other hand, if “sexual assault” equals “rape,” victims of sexual assault that do not fall into the category of rape may view their experience as being less important than it is.

Call rape “rape.” Call sexual violence that cannot be characterized as rape, “sexual assault.” Don’t use those words to minimize the experience of both rape victims and those whose experience is something other, but not automatically less.

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Happy Birthday, Kid.

Twenty-seven years ago, Railfan came into my life. It’s not always been easy, but I would not wish it any other way.

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Thank you, I’ll be here all week.

During the course of this epidemic, our family has begun to create that which before we would have simply bought. We don’t sew our own clothes, but we do cook our own pizza and bake our own bread and… brew our own beer.

This is not entirely new: the Rocket Scientist and I have been homebrewing off and on for decades. (When we were looking through our homebrewing materials, we found a recipe for a “milk stout” that we brewed when I was expecting Railfan, some twenty-seven years ago.) Ales, stouts, lagers, you name it. (Except for India Pale Ale, which no one in the family likes.) We haven’t brewed lagers much because we generally lack the cold necessary for lagering. (When we did it before, we were in Virginia and had a crawl space next to the basement.)

One year ago, we brewed a porter, which we named “Pandemic Porter.” Yesterday we brewed a red ale, which we will name…


(In all honesty, I didn’t come up with the name.)

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My most vivid memories from travel, both good and bad. (I have previously written about some of them.) In no particular order:

  1. The feel of a baby sea turtle in my hand as I helped him to the ocean (Cumberland Island, Georgia).
  2. Experiencing the Sagrada Familia (Barcelona, Spain). Words fail me.
  3. Wandering the Metropolitan Museum of Art after having had two Apple Martinis in the museum bar (New York City).
  4. The homicidal sheep-truck driver who tried to force me off the road in rural New Zealand.
  5. My chant driving through Illinois on the way to Chicago (“It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we have a full tank of gas and a half pack of cigarettes, it’s dark, and we’re wearing sunglasses,” Elwood Blues, The Blues Brothers). My family was not amused.
  6. Driving Big Sur by myself for the first time (mainly to get over my fear of driving Big Sur).
  7. Learning a lesson about democracy in St. Isaac’s Cathedral (St. Petersburg, Russia).
  8. Falling in love with Puppy, a flower sculpture outside the Bilbao Guggenheim (Bilbao, Spain). In fact, falling in love with the entire country.
  9. The “Prado moment,” where I nearly passed out due to jet lag and Hieronymus Bosch (Madrid, Spain).
  10. Penguins in their native habitat (Ushaia, Argentina).
  11. The one of the happiest days of my life, spent on a boat motoring in the waters around San Cristobal Island (The Galapagos, Ecuador).
  12. Going to the Musée de Orsay with the kids, especially the Not-So-Little Drummer Boy (Paris, France).
  13. The majesty of the Grand Tetons (Grand Teton National Park).
  14. The drive from Vancouver to Whistler (British Columbia, Canada).
  15. Driving a thousand kilometers in one day through Bavaria, and arriving after dark in a rainstorm at the castle where we were staying (Germany). I half expected Count Dracula to meet us, although the lodgings were quite nice, if dark and sort of “hunting lodge” in decoration.
  16. Eating king crab at a small local restaurant in Tierra del Fuego (Ushaia, Argentina). There are pictures of me with the crab; I named him Bertie. He was delicious, and absolutely fresh, having been pulled from a salt-water tank after we ordered.
  17. Echidna Quest (San Diego, California).
  18. Disturbing a black bear along a deserted road in Great Smoky Mountains National Park (Tennessee). We were frightened, but he was more so.
  19. Antietam, one of the most profoundly sad battlefields I have ever visited (Maryland).
  20. Sitting in front of The Kitchen Maid in the Vermeer Room in the Rijksmuseum (Amsterdam, the Netherlands).
  21. The family – the mother in a hijab – in the nearly deserted St. Mark’s Square at nearly sunset after the tours had left. (Venice, Italy). The boy (who appeared to be about ten) put pigeon feed on his younger brother’s head, thus proving that boys are the same the world over.
  22. Walking through St. Peter’s Cathedral (Rome, Italy). Michelangelo’s Pieta moved me nearly to tears. I lit a candle for my dead sister, and thought of my mother, and wished she were there.
  23. The Service of Lessons and Carols in Westminster Abbey (London, England). Lessons and Carols has always been one of my two favorite services of the liturgical year, and being a participant at the seat of my religion was special.
  24. Wandering through a nearly deserted cathedral in Magdeburg (Germany). While I was looking at “the angels in the architecture,” ethereal music began drifting around me. A choir had chosen the cathedral because of its acoustics to record an album, and they were practicing.
  25. The beautiful New Mexican backroads we drove on a clear November day, the fields golden in the slanting late afternoon sun.

I have many more memories, but I decided that twenty-five was a good number to write about.

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That’s one blessing counted.

I find myself struggling. The stress of the ongoing pandemic, and the knowledge that until everyone in the household gets completely vaccinated I am not going anywhere (we agreed on this as a family), gets to me. Having a relatively healthy twenty-something in the household means that won’t be until May, probably. (As for me, thankfully, I have snagged an appointment for my first shot for tomorrow. Hurrah! I will be getting the Pfizer vaccine, as though I cared.) Having gone well over a year since my last hair styling, I will endure at least a couple of months more looking like the most disreputable of Macbeth’s witches.

In order to look past all that upsets me right now, I decided to following the lead of a college Facebook group and list the places that I have been by letter. Turns out I have traveled more extensively than I thought I have.

My travels have taken me to places that cover every letter of the alphabet except X. (Unless X marks the spot. Or a lot of spots.) My most recent acquisition, Quito, where I stayed overnight (and saw a performance of the Ballet Folklorico) a year and 793 days ago, covers “Q.” The list encompasses Alabama and the Alhambra to Zion National Park, and includes cities in twenty-one countries on five continents, and all the states except Alaska, the Dakotas, and Idaho. (I am a little hesitant about Africa, because all I have seen of Africa is Tangiers. A day trip to Morocco doesn’t seem like it should count, somehow, but I included Tangiers anyway. The Rocket Scientist had a conference in Capetown which was supposed to have happened last May, but which is now going to be held over Zoom instead. Damn pandemic.) The only continents I am missing are Asia (which, given that the Not-So-Little Drummer Boy lives in South Korea and is likely to remain there, I should see sometime) and Antarctica (where I am never likely to set foot, not that I care that much).

I have seen the sun set over Tuscan hills. I have stood on a cold winter’s day experiencing the magic of Stonehenge. I have driven in Paris (and Madrid – Spanish drivers are if anything worse than French drivers). I have gawked at the splendor of the tsar’s quarters in the Hermitage and the stunning grandeur of Versailles. I have looked at Picasso’s Guernica with tears in my eyes. I have walked on Omaha Beach on the Fourth of July, reflecting somberly on the sacrifice of the men who crawled up on that shore on D-Day. I have giggled over baby tortoises, after viewing their huge elderly relatives. I have beheld in wonder the geysers in Yellowstone, the stunning waterfalls of the Columbia River Gorge, and the majesty of the Grand Canyon.

It’s a humbling list. My parents never traveled across country until I had my first child and they were in their sixties. My brothers have never traveled west of Texas. One of my sisters lives in Alaska, but beyond that has seen little of the country outside the South. My eldest sister has traveled in Europe, but not as extensively as I have.

I have been so many places, and done so many things, that it takes my breath away when I actually contemplate it. I have been unbelievably fortunate to have a husband who is forced to travel so much for work, and to have the wherewithal to accompany him. Sometimes we have gone without other things so I could go along, and I am more grateful than I can say. We traveled with the kids as well: giving them experiences of other places was more important to us than getting them the latest toy or game.

I have so many blessings in my life – from my family to the roof over my head to the food that I eat without worrying how we are going to pay for it – and traveling may be the least of them. But when I have trouble remembering the good in life, it oddly helps to think about how big the world is, and how small my place in it is.

There’s a whole big world out there, and I have been blessed enough to see quite a lot of it.

Posted in My life and times, Travel (real or imaginary) | 1 Comment

Aliens, and the rapture that didn’t happen, and Q-Anon.

I caught Cocoon on FXM the other day. I only saw about the last hour of the movie, but it nonetheless brought back waves of nostalgia.

For those who don’t remember Cocoon, it concerned a group of St. Petersburg, Florida nursing home residents who discover a source of youth and vitality in the swimming pool of a mansion next door to their home. It turns out that the pool is the nesting area for alien eggs, and the aliens who came to retrieve them take most of the elderly people with them when they go. Directed by Ron Howard, the movie starred Wilford Brimley, Jack Guilford, Hume Cronyn, Don Ameche, Jessica Tandy and Gwen Verdon.

Cocoon was filmed about a mile and a half from where I lived. The creepy old house in the film was the empty Barnett mansion, a little over a mile away. I had never seen what the old house looked like before the movie came out; all I could see was the high white stucco wall surrounding the property and the thick tangle of banyan trees and undergrowth I glimpsed through the wrought iron gates that closed off the white shell driveway. 

I played all the time at the park where the final chase scene started. My father fished for bait where the Wilford Brimley character and his grandson fished. There was a field close by where we would park our motor home on a Friday night so dad could catch small fish to be used the next day, when he went out in a small boat looking for snook. Given that Wilford Brimley is a dead ringer for my father, that scene caused me to miss my dad, who died in 1996.

All in all, watching Cocoon was a lot of fun.

But the movie brought back other, less welcome, memories as well. And thein hangs a strange, unsettling, tale.

When I was in middle school, I had a best friend, Ann. She and I were in almost all of our classes together; I was the fourth saxophonist in the band, she the second clarinetist. (She was more ambitious than I, always trying to move up, whereas I simply resigned myself to being mediocre at best.) We used to walk home together, and I would sometimes hang out at her house in spite of the fact that she had been told in no uncertain terms that she was forbidden to have friends over. I wonder now why I became friends with her; she browbeat me into giving her a birthday present, and told me I needed to use the diet supplements her father sold for a living because that was the only way I would attract the attention of boys.

In the spring of our eighth-grade year, Ann became cagey. She hinted that she knew a great secret, and since I was her best friend, she would tell me eventually.

She did. Apparently, she and her parents would be whisked away by an alien spaceship about a month hence. She seemed completely sincere. Since I was her friend, she could get a place for me on the spaceship as well.

I totally fell for it. Partly it was her clear belief that yes, the alien rapture would happen, and partly her faith in the omens she kept pointing out to me. (I later realized that these “signs and portents” consisted of a combination of natural phenomena and coincidences.)

I was all in. At that point, I would have done anything to escape a miserable home and school life. Being taken away to outer space seemed like a good deal to me. We were to get our best things and put them in a suitcase, and on the day of the ascension wear something attractive but comfortable. I put on a satin caftan I had snagged from my elder sister: pretty and cream-colored and covered with blue roses, and sneakers.

Obviously, the deal fell through. We were not taken up into the skies. Ann gave me a lame excuse that she had called off our participation in the pseudo-Rapture because she had an important part in the upcoming spring concert and she didn’t want to let people down. To say I was disappointed was an understatement – I’m not sure I ever forgave her.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she told me. “If you do, I will say you’re lying. They will lock you up and throw away the key.” After some thought, I decided she was right. Besides, I was embarrassed that I had ever been that gullible.

I went through high school – and Ann and I drifted apart. I finished high school, attended college, got married, graduated law school, had children, and never told a soul. Not my other high school friends. Not my friends in college and law school. Not my husband. I was frightened – had I really been so psychotic as to believe such craziness? – and ashamed – had I really been so stupid?

Fast forward to 1997 and Heaven’s Gate.

You remember Heaven’s Gate, right? It was a cult who committed suicide in San Diego. They were discovered all wearing new track suits and sneakers.  The more I looked into it, the more the cult resembled the bizarre plan my friend had told me about in eighth grade. At least one member had ties to the Tampa Bay area.

Had my friend participated in an actual cult? Had her parents? Had their friends? Had she been initiated or simply overheard things she was not meant to hear? What was the real reason she didn’t continue? Clearly, the Heaven’s Gate founders had not gone through with a suicide pact in the 1970s, if indeed they had planned to at that time. 

At any rate, Heaven’s Gate raised a question I thought I had answered in the affirmative years before. Had Ann simply created the scheme out of whole cloth? All of a sudden, I could no longer answer that with a definitive “yes.” I asked a friend of mine, a priest, whether it sounded like she had invented everything.  That depends, he answered. Was she bright enough and imaginative enough to create such a ruse? And why would she?

No, although somewhat bright, she lacked the imagination and the acting skill to carry off such a complicated hoax. She was also egoistic enough that she would have tried to bamboozle the whole school, not just me.

I broke down and told my husband and psychiatrist, both of whom seemed unconcerned. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” the psychiatrist told me when I asked if I had been psychotic. “Everyone’s psychotic when they’re thirteen.”

I think about my brush with cults every now and then when I read about some of the far-right conspiracy theories making the rounds. Q-Anon makes alien abduction seem almost quaint. What are a few spaceships compared to a Democrat child-sex trafficking ring run out of the basement a DC pizza parlor, that’s going to be exposed and smashed by Donald Trump? Or a massive revolution (“The Storm”) that’s going to remove the legitimate government and install Trump as “rightful” president/dictator?

I know the seduction of a cult, of a secret knowledge that only a few special others know about. I know what it’s like to believe the unbelievable. I know how some of these people are going to feel if they come to their senses. If they were not so damned dangerous, I might almost feel sorry for them.

Almost. But not quite.

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Scones for Brunch

This recipe belongs to Ree Drummond (“The Pioneer Woman” on Food Network). I am duplicating it here because I am changing the measurements to make 12 scones instead of 8, and adding cherries.

Chocolate Chip Scones

  • 3 3/4 cups baking mix, such as Bisquick, plus more for dusting
  • 3/8 cup brown sugar 
  • 6 tablespoons salted butter, diced and chilled 
  • 3 large eggs, beaten 
  • 3/8 cup buttermilk 
  • 1/4 tsp vanilla extract
  • 2 cups chocolate chips 
  • 1 cup dried cherries
  • (optional) 1 cup chopped pecans


  • 1/2 cup milk
  • Splash vanilla extract
  • 3 cups sifted powdered sugar 
  • Pinch kosher salt 
  • 1/4 cup mini chocolate chips (I don’t usually do this)

(I reduce the amount of icing by 1/3, usually)

  1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment.
  2. Mix together the baking mix and brown sugar in a large bowl. Cut the butter into the baking mix until fine crumbs form. Mix together the eggs, buttermilk and vanilla in a small pitcher. While mixing with a fork, slowly add the wet mix to the dry until just combined. Gently fold in the chocolate chips (and cherries and pecans if you use them).
  3. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Form into a 3/4-inch-thick rectangle, then into 6 equal squares. Cut each square in half, creating 12 triangles. Transfer the triangles to the baking sheet and bake until lightly browned, about 18 minutes. Allow them to cool slightly.
  4. For the icing: While the scones cool, mix together the milk, vanilla, powdered sugar and salt in a bowl until smooth.
  5. Drizzle the icing over the cooled scones, then sprinkle with the mini chocolate chips. Allow the icing to set slightly before eating.

If you don’t have Bisquick (or run out, like I did), you can reproduce it with 1 cup AP flour,  1 1/2 tsp baking powder, 1/4 tsp salt, 1 tbsp shortening, vegetable oil or melted butter. Mix dry ingredients, cut fat in until it resembles fine crumbs. (I used this for 1:1 cup Bisquick, although I probably should have used slightly less.)

Homemade butter: Put heavy cream in mixer with whipping attachment. Whip until butter forms. Drain off whey and rinse in cold water to get rid of remaining whey.

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Dorothy was right.

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

“Resume,” Dorothy Parker

Growing old sucks.

This thought intrudes into my consciousness right now because I have hurt my hip. I’m not sure exactly how, but I think it was related to me in a fit of spring fever mowing the lawn a couple of weeks ago, instead of nagging Railfan to do it. (Northern California seems to have skipped winter this year.) The hip hurts to the point of tears. I am breaking down and seeing the doctor, after minimizing medical appointments due to COVID-19.

I’m not old by many measures. And I feel as though I stopped getting older at the age forty. Due to mental illness, I never expected to live past then. I felt it was a pretty good bet that, if I didn’t die from outside forces (car accident, flu, etc.), in the depths of depression I would slit my wrists or take a bottle of Klonopin washed down with Cuban rum.

As some point when my children were young, suicide turned into an ethically insupportable choice. I had a social worker baldly state the grim statistics for suicide among children of maternal suicides. “Do you really want to do that to your children?” she demanded. All I could do was shake my head. “You need to find a reason to live for yourself, but in the meantime, I’ll take it,” she continued gently.

All during my children’s childhood, whenever I thought of self-harm, I would chant to myself, “Suicide is not an option.” When they grew up things were trickier, but by that time I had entered into a “Cooperative Care Contract” with my family. On page three, among other clauses about taking care of myself and seeking help, in 36-point bolded type is “If I am a danger to myself or others, I will contact my doctors or go to the emergency room.”

It helped that a) I have a sense of responsibility to others, and b) Railfan is, ahem, a rail fan. He explained to me that engineers who are driving trains that run over people suffer from severe PTSD. I to thought about the effect my death on other people: the bus driver who would run over me, the EMT that would have to resuscitate me, basically every person who might have to deal with my body after I killed myself. Not a pleasant thought. I would never want people – my family or anyone else – to suffer emotional pain on my behalf. Not to mention that I had signed a contract, right? I try not to think of the lack of enforcement mechanisms.

Oddly, I fear death now. Life has a lot of problems, and the world s a scary, scary, place, but most days I can find something good.  So here I am, well past 40, dealing with all the issues resulting from aging. I even find myself grumbling about “kids today” occasionally. Growing older sucks.

But, as Maurice Chevalier said, it’s not so bad when you consider the alternative.

Posted in Health, My life and times, Politics | Leave a comment


I am stuck in my room today. The rest of the family are moving furniture, so I am trapped watching the cat. 

I could be viewing the defense speak in Donald Trump’s impeachment trial, but instead I opted not to. I should; my civic duty almost demands it. Fairness, and all that.

I don’t know if anything the defense could say would change my mind. I don’t know if anything could change the mind of enough senators to convict. The bits I did catch showed the defense lawyer arguing that Democrats use the word “fight” all the time, including about the demonstrations over the summer. They are also using the First Amendment defense, as expected. From what I have seen, they are being much more effective than would have been thought given their opening statements.  The meeting with three Republican “jurors” – all experienced lawyers – probably had nothing to do with the defense’s increased competence. Maybe.

Instead, I watched High Society. This movie includes “Well, I Nevah,” my favorite musical number in any film. Full stop. Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra have wonderful chemistry, and the lyrics by Cole Porter shimmer.

I will wait until the inevitable acquittal. The impeachment prosecution has nonetheless managed the important function of creating a coherent public record of that fateful and terrible day. Now everyone knows exactly how close we all came to a mass assassination and the destruction of our democracy at the hand of a would be dictator. The record will be invaluable in teaching future generations of historians and political scientists.

Thank you, Jamie Raskin, Joaquin Castro, David Cicilline, Diana DeGette, Madeleine Dean, Ted Lieu, Stacey Plaskett, Joe Neguse, and Eric Swalwell.

Now, back to High Society. And then Philadelphia Story.

Posted in Culture (popular and otherwise), Politics | Leave a comment

The trial.

The impeachment trial begins.

The Constitutional question seems straightforward enough: did the Framers intend a “January exception” (so named by House Impeachment Manager Jamie Raskin) to the clause requiring impeachment for high crimes and misdemeanors? Can a President wait and commit any crime he wants to in the last few weeks of his term?

Could President Trump really shoot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue and get away with it?

The answer to that question is no, but only because murder is a state crime, not a federal one. Trump may be able to avoid the federal charges but not evade state ones, for the same reasons he can’t pardon himself for potential tax indictments from the state of New York.

I find it odd that this is even a question. The logic of the Constitution here is incontrovertible. Importantly, by deciding when to have it, a complicit Majority Leader of the Senate can hold up the trial until after the President leaves office. Republican Mitch McConnell did exactly that, by refusing to call a special session to have the trial. I find that Republicans now arguing that the time has passed for the President to be tried disingenuous, to say the least.

The Republicans ignore the second remedy available to Congress. Not merely removal, conviction allows Congress to bar the elected official from holding federal office in the future. Does anyone think that Trump will not run again in 2024 unless barred? That he will not claim the election is rigged if he loses? That his acolytes will not again swarm the Capitol in an attempted coup?

Republicans have argued the trial would divide the country. I cannot for the life of me see how the country can be more divided than it is. Instead, a conviction would help heal the bleeding wounds, the naked fear, so many of now carry. The election and inauguration of Joe Biden helped assuage some of that fear, but left open the possibility of insurrection and destruction the next time a Republican (or, to be fair, a would-be Democratic dictator) wins the Presidency.

The forces of destruction might not even need a new cult object. Donald Trump insists on using the Presidential Seal in his correspondence and calling himself “the 45th President,” as though there were not a 46th in office. Were a mob to successfully overrun the Capitol and the White House, they might attempt to reinstate him to his former position. Given the fallout against the members of the House of Representatives who voted for impeachment, and the efforts of the Arizona State Senate to invalidate the results of their election, a lot of Republicans would welcome his return.

The country faces a catastrophe. The worst crisis that we have imposed upon ourselves since the Civil War looms before us.

I have never prayed harder for Donald Trump to die. I would prefer he get struck by lightning while playing golf at Mar-a Lago, but a sudden heart attack or stroke would suffice. The last thing I would hope is that he get assassinated.

The country definitely needs for him not to become a martyr.

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Update, “Fear and Politics.”

For some reason WordPress is not allowing me to update previously postst. It will not even allow me to change the post to draft, thereby unpublishing it.

Update: in fact, as it turned out, in spite of Trump’s previously reported wishes, Trump’s lawyers did not argue his speech was factually correct. In addition to the “you can’t impeach ex-Presidents,” they are arguing that Trump’s words at the rally preceding the insurrection (in which he urged his followers to go to the Capitol and “fight like you’ve never fought before”) were not incitement from protected First Amendment speech.

Really. And once again this raises the question: if this is not incitement, what is?

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Fear and Politics

Predictably, Democratic Senators have called on Donald Trump to appear before the Senate during his impeachment. Likewise, Donald Trump has rejected the request. I have no doubt his refusal arises from his scorn for the Democrats, but just as likely may come from his disdain for the Congress, the separation of powers, the Constitution, and the rule of law in general. Add in his repeatedly stated belief that he, not Joe Biden, is the duly elected President of the United States (the lie he has told so often it seems as though he must believe it), and his likewise less firm but definitely implied belief that the President is above the law, and his refusal to talk to Congress seems less predictable and more inevitable.

I want the House impeachment managers to subpoena Trump. He will not appear, and they will hopefully have him thrown in jail. I rather doubt they will, though.

His defense seems to center around the argument that what he told the mob on at the January 6th rally was factually correct: the election was indeed stolen. My mind boggles at the thought such a tactic might actually work, at least with some Republican members of Congress. They would like to acquit on the grounds that the Constitution does not allow for the impeachment of a president no longer in office, but that’s not what Trump wants. Their chosen method of letting him off the hook might allow for criminal indictment for insurrection, but they probably don’t want that, either.

The Republicans in Congress are nothing if not consistent: Trump matters above all else. They are his party, his toadies, his sycophants. They claim to be afraid of his base, and willingly throw aside any semblance of real patriotism and honor to cater to them.

Take the treatment of Liz Cheney and Marjorie Taylor Greene. Liz Cheney, who voted for impeachment, escaped the vote to strip her from her leadership role in the House by a comfortable margin. Then we have Marjorie Taylor Greene, a woman who espoused bizarre conspiracy theories (Jewish space lasers, anyone?), who approved of statements condoning assassination of Nancy Pelosi, and who in a campaign ad showed herself in front of pictures of several young members of Congress holding an AR-15. She lost her committeships, but it took an act of the entire House (read: majority Democrats) for that to happen. Only eleven Republicans stood against conspiracy and violence. And as one commentator noted, “if her behavior is not beyond the pale of Republicans, then what is?”

The difference between the two votes is obvious: one occurred in a closed caucus session by secret vote, and the other took place on the House floor with all the world watching. Given how hard it is to see how a Republican could support both Cheney and Greene, more than a hundred Representatives split their votes – courageous in secret, cowardly in public. 

Perhaps they fear violence at the hands of the hardest of the hard core Trumpers: Q-Anon, the Proud Boys, the Oathkeepers. God knows Democrats do – especially the newer, more liberal Democrats. On the floor of the House during the debate about Greene, Representative Rashida Tlaib tearfully related how she started receiving death threats even before she was sworn in. 

Imagine what it must be like to go to work every day with someone who just a year ago indicated they would like to shoot you. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez has stated that white supremacist Representatives walk the halls of Congress, and she is afraid for her life. Given that Lauren Bobert of Arizona was tweeting the location of Speaker Pelosi as she was being moved to safety, and the reports that a member of Congress escorted people around the building the day before the insurrection, and that the House has had to consider rules levying fines for bringing firearms into the House chamber, AOC’s fear seems completely justified.

We find ourselves in a very dark place, when elected officials let fear guide them rather than principle. That has always been true to some extent, but never like this. I don’t know how we get back to the normal level of political opportunism.

Maybe we don’t.

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Got to keep the old grey cells active.

Learning matters to me. What I have done best in my life was always being a student. I may not have been able to transform what I learned into anything that I could get paid for, but I console myself by insisting that my presence in the classroom has been valuable to my classmates. I don’t know for sure that this is true.

In any case, you have to keep learning, or your brain rots. In order to stave off inevitable decay, I take online classes. Sometimes they even prove useful.

MOOCs (Massive Open Online Courses) I have taken (from Coursera and edx):


  • Modern and Contemporary Art & Design (MoMA) (four classes)
  • Good with Words: Writing and Editing (U Michigan) (four classes)

Stand alone courses:

  • Leonardo to Rembrandt to Goya (University of Madrid)
  • Hollywood: History, Industry, Art (Penn)
  • The Age of Cathedrals (Yale)
  • Roman Architecture (Yale)
  • Witchcraft in the Middle Ages (U. Barcelona)Post-War Abstract Expressionism (MoMA)
  • A couple of classes about learning from UCSD

Currently: Race and Cultural Diversity in American Life and History (U Michigan) — just started

Most useful thus far: the Good with Words Specialization (I liked it so much I wrote a thank-you note to the professor)

Most boring thus far: the learning classes

Hardest: Roman Architecture (the material was hard, the final was a bitch, but the project — create a map of your own Roman city — was a lot of fun)

Most interesting: tie, the Good with Words Specialization, and the Contemporary Fashion Design that was part of the Modern and Contemporary specialization

I discover myself running out of humanities classes to take from Coursera and edx. I may need to find other sites, or break down and take something commercially useful, like Python for Everybody.

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Things you don’t ask.

I have family who are Republicans. Some things I just don’t ask them.

Like: Marjorie Taylor Greene is your representative. Did you vote for her?

Marjorie Taylor Greene is the QAnon Representative from Georgia who in 2018 tweeted approval of the execution of Democrats. She liked a tweet calling for Nancy Pelosi to be shot. Her constituents knew her views at the time they elected her, views she has never repudiated or publicly regretted.

I haven’t asked the Republicans in my life what they think of Greene because I am frankly afraid to. I have worked hard to stay on speaking – even friendly – terms with people who hold different opinions than I do, but I can’t overlook someone approving of Greene’s beliefs. Such approval would be a bridge too far for me.

I find it horrible enough that Republicans in Congress refuse to repudiate her. I can chalk their seeming deference to her up to simple cowardice, to needing to appease their base for political purposes. My relatives have no such excuse: they don’t have voters to placate. Knowing that they don’t disapprove of Greene – or worse, agree with her – would destroy whatever respect I had for them on both moral and intellectual levels.

I also don’t ask my Republican relatives if they think the election was stolen. I will not because I do not want to have to hold my temper while explaining the total lack of evidence for what they believe. I might be able to keep my cool while discussing support for Greene; I could not while struggling to explain why what they think about the elections in Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Georgia are just flat wrong.

I am sure there are questions they won’t ask me, such as: do you support Black Lives Matter? Or approve of the Democratic bills that would protect voting rights? Or think the stimulus package is a good idea?

We love each other. Maybe that’s because we don’t know everything. That’s a shame: we should be charitable towards each other regardless of our beliefs. I suspect that would be as impossible for them in some cases as it would be for me in others.

So, sadly, we just don’t ask.

Posted in Personal Relationships, Politics | Leave a comment