In the Still Unlikely Event that Donald Wins ...

My plan is to immolate myself.

Right in the Culdy, as we here on Raintree call it. On the asphalt very near the center, possibly over the manhole cover, to minimize the possibility of the gasoline-enhanced fire spreading to, notably, our big beautiful ash tree out front. I plan to use a wooden chair and spare fire wood and construct a backdrop that will go off like fireworks at the zenith of the burn, that spells out: GOOD-BYE CRUEL WORLD! Or maybe: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, AMERICA?!!

For those who can't plug their noses enough to vote for Hillary Clinton, who are sick of "Establishment" politicians yet continue to see a dentist rather than a barber, an "outsider" with a pliers, when their tooth hurts, who don't necessarily feel they could do just as good of a job as some liver transplant surgeon from an establishment hospital if they needed to switch out their liver, that they or their Uncle Walt, who's good with his hands, could do it just as well and for a hell of a lot less money if they just watched a few YouTube videos and got the instruments and other shit they needed on Amazon, let me just say this: Donald Trump is not the solution to your or my dismay. He isn't going to help any of us One Fucking Bit.

A vote for Donald is more than a vote in protest of the status quo. A vote for Donald is a vote for a vulgar fascist pig and whatever that might lead to. Which is something different. Suicide sooner rather than later? Maybe that's a bit much. Then again, what about this election season hasn't been?

For the purposes at hand, consider my deciding to immolate myself in the event that The Real Donald wins as a way of putting a finer point on the situation, lighting a fire under things ...

Oh, but my children, my wife, my family and friends, what will they think? Listen, there's enough life insurance money that they'll get over it. At least I hope. In any case it'll pay off the house. It'll pay better than any job I'm likely to get at my age, even if Donald brings back all those good jobs that left with free trade and tax breaks for the rich and famous, even if Donald builds the wall and gets rid of all the illegals who work too cheap and I can get a job at the back of a restaurant again. Or do a really slow job doing some rich person's drywall, which won't make him happy.

No, the way I look at it is: I'll be up in a puff of smoke and a big check will come, as in: money, with one less mouth to feed. It makes all kinds of sense if you don't reflect too much on a whole lot of other things. Kind of like, it isn't going to matter that much if we really shake up the status quo by electing a vulgar fascist pig, because, as many of his reluctant supporters predict, he will almost certainly have really smart establishment Republicans Right There, along with Ivanka, the smart one, to keep a sharp eye, and help out with the things he doesn't know anything about. And he'll listen, closely, because TheRealDonald is a great listener, a huge listener.

Women, really? I'm sorry, but you need to hear this: You are the majority of the country. This can't happen (Trump, my immolation afterwards) without your help. And while some of you may think I have it coming, that I deserve it, let's just for a moment, all bullshit aside—and there really is a lot of bullshit to put aside—think, how is it going to reflect on y'all, the American Sisterhood, when all is said and done and we discover that here in the United States we let a vulgar fascist pig win over the most qualified person to run for president in the last century, a person who might have otherwise been the first woman president, who, granted, dressed a little too much like grandma and had a voice, when she didn't keep it at a nice polite volume, that sounded a little like fingernails on the wall, and maybe she wasn't as charismatic as her husband, or as quick on the timing as Obama, or as lovably passionate as Joe Biden, or as entertaining in a barker at cock-fight sort of way as the guy who won, but still, she was the most qualified person ever to run for the office in the last century, and she was a woman, one of yours, and instead of her, the most powerful country in the world, the majority of its voting public women, picked the vulgar fascist pig to lead them.

Imagine what people will say.

You wouldn't see a guy dithering around, not quite sure what he was going to do in a situation like this one, not even the skinny Muslim from Kenya. Believe me, he'd know before he got to the end of the cigarette he was sneaking outside.

Because, for all our intractable problems as a gender, that wouldn't be a very hard decision for a man to make. If we were the majority of the population and there'd never been a man president, if we were able to vote for the last hundred years, and there were laws in place saying you couldn't hurt us anymore if we didn't do what you said, if you'd fucked us around repeatedly over the years/centuries/millenium and we'd bitched about it and done little things here and there to make your lives miserable in return but for whatever unbelievable reason had never, until now, had a man at the top of the ticket to vote for, a man who, let me say again, is more qualified in this example than any woman or man, any human being period, since the time we got the vote, we men, I'm telling you, would circle our wagons faster than you can say Go Broncos! and we'd band together good and tight despite our tendency to fight and/or kill each other when we're drunk or upset and We Would Definitely Vote For The Man. All but a very small number of us who would be too embarrassed to say anything would, no question, vote for the man, even if the man still wore clothes like grandpa, and wasn't a big fan of football, and didn't see the point in fishing, especially catch and release fishing ... we'd vote for him ... and we'd sure as fuck vote for him over a woman who, to further the example, by all indications in a supremely well-documented life thought the only good man was one who had his really hot well-oiled and shaved body sitting in a lifeguard chair where he belonged. While the women swam and cackled and drank wine and whistled at him. That he stayed where he belonged unless, of course, one of the ruling class in the pool, some drunk cackler in a bathing suit, needed saving, and maybe a good rub down afterwards, whatever the situation called for! At which point, one of the ruling class would only have to snap its fingers, put its lips together and blow, and Beef Cake would come running (Run, Beef Cake, run!!).

No. I don't fucking think so. We'd vote for the guy. Even if the guy was gay and had a grating voice like David Sedaris's. In fact, we'd vote for David Sedaris, knowing that David Sedaris, even though he's gay and lives in Europe now with his companion Hugh, still would get us, understand us guys who aren't gay or as caustically smart and funny as him, guys who are just schlubs and overweight and like football and steak and doing projects around the home, better than his opponent who just wanted us to stay in our lifeguard chairs and look as hot as we could with the many products and surgeons available to us—and keep our mouths shut, unless the folks who were swimming needed help. The fact that David Sedaris would probably do better than Hillary Clinton, or even Bernie Sanders, against Donald Trump, and that not a single woman, not even the really religious ones who imagine they don't go for smart-mouthed, shrill gay men making fun of them and their way of life, threatening their marriage, would vote against him, especially if he were up against Donald Trump, is another matter for another time, but for now ...

If this is an election about Bad Establishment versus Poor Shit-Upon Us, then ...

Make no mistake: TheRealDonald is more like them than he is us. He didn't get to where he is—a billionaire real-estate developer/reality show star—by being like us. He's a put-on populist. A phony man of the people. A narcissist who likes attention, however he can get it, who really doesn't want some shitty job like being president, who doesn't want to live in that shitty little white house, but just can't help himself, sadly ...

That's a different thing than being a reasonable alternative to the woman who might have quite a lot of experience but is nonetheless only going to keep the status quo that doesn't appear to be doing jack shit for us going.

If you don't like the music, you shouldn't imagine Donald Trump is going to change the record. What Donald will more likely do is turn up the volume really loud and call it change, and we'll discover that only he and his ilk—the winners, the powerful people, the famous people, the usual crowd—are wearing earplugs.

So, women, especially those of you who are young and aren't maybe cut out to be models or actresses or famous chefs, you might more strongly consider voting for the person who, reasonable doubts aside, is likely to understand you better than Donald Trump. Vote for her even if you'd rather someone like Jill Stein was the first woman president. Vote for her even if you kind of fancy yourself a Gary Johnson, What? Aleppo ... What? I'm sorry, I was stoned-type libertarian, who doesn't need a fucking thing from anybody but sure is glad Mom has Medicare and Social Security and her own place because she'd be living with you otherwise, and so would your brother, who's on disability on account of his mental condition. Vote for Hillary even if you're a Republican, especially if you're a Republican, because you'll have her to kick around then rather than having to explain to an increasing number of people why your party lost its head and nominated a vulgar fascist pig that, amazingly, ended up winning, and wreaking havoc!

Vote for Hillary because if she loses, Donald wins. Understand that There It Is. That is all there is. The only silver lining being that if we get the vulgar fascist pig over Hillary, and I immolate myself, that my family will see a life insurance payout, and my novel, perhaps both of them, the first as well as the second, still in-progress, would stand a much better chance in the lurid spectacle that followed, and possibly trended, of finding a publisher—becoming (forgive the expression) a hot item. Two hot items, potentially! Which would feather our nest—them minus me—even more!

Hmmm ...

If it worked for John Kennedy Toole, it can work for me, right? Well ... for them, my family.

There are times when honorable men, struggling authors, must sacrifice, speak out, go out in a blaze of glory for the sake of ...

Wait a minute. Is this a stunt to boost future sales, you ask? A marketing scheme?

Are we being played?

Or is he just crazy enough to do it?

What's Up, Doc?

Forgive my truancy, but I had to recover from my post-convention bounce. My oh my, how surprising this can all be! Donald Trump for the Republicans, Hillary Clinton for the Democrats, Hillary approaching a 10-point lead in most polls ...

It's poor form to say I told you so, so I won't. I just wish I was getting paid whatever Nate Silver is getting paid to tell you what should have been obvious to anyone not confused by the noise and wishful thinking for months now.

The presidential election, despite all the fretting by Hillary supporters, Democrats (whom I strongly encourage to keep fretting!!!  Wring those hands!! Worry!! Get out and vote to Shatter That Glass Ceiling!!!), is going to be a rout. Hillary isn't going to win so much as Donald Trump is going to get destroyed, hung out to dry, left to self-destruct, call it what you want—this assuming he doesn't lose interest beforehand and drop out. Which would be interesting. The dynamic Mike Pence left to finish out a disastrous season.

Look for Trump to appear on talk shows not long after the election (in less than a hundred days; it'll be over before we know it!), saying that he really never wanted or expected to win. That he's just that fucking amazing that he wins without even trying! Look for angry, harebrained conspiracy types to further the discussion that he was actually a plant for the Clinton campaign, that they hatched all this down at the wedding in Palm Beach ...

"Listen, you two, What can I do to help? Wait! You know what? I've got a great idea. What if I ran for president?"

"Well, you know, sure, Donald, go right ahead. I think ... we think you should! You'd be a lot more fun to watch than Jeb Bush."

"Or Lying Ted. Or Lightweight Marco."

"HA!"

"Not so loud. I love you, Hillary, but you're awfully loud."

"What if he called you Crooked Hillary, Hill?"

"Well, you know, Bill, I've been called worse—"

"You really think I should run? Because ... I think it would be great, actually. Very good for the Brand."

"A whole new platform for you, Donald. Call up ... oh, what's his name? The guy who wrote your book—"

"Tony? I made Tony rich you know. You watch, I get out campaigning and Tony will get out there and give interviews, say what a bastard I was, and Tony will get even richer, write another book! Money, money, money, and who you gonna give a big kiss afterwards? Who's it gonna be, Hillary?"

"Think of all the people coming down here to play that course of yours. By the way, is that a detention center I saw beside one of the fairways? Someone stuck his ass out the window at me while I was lining up my second shot this morning. Ended up in the sand. You should consider donating something ... some flat-screens to the place. Get those people away from the windows—"

"You didn't end up with this girl because you're a dummy, did you. Ha ha. Nudge nudge. What do you think they'd pay for the TVs?"

"Actually, I think you donate them. If they had that kind of money they'd buy the TVs themselves."

"What? But who's going to donate them to me?"

"No no, you buy, and then you give. Write a big figure on the slip. Give it to your tax person at the end of the year. Get them a cable package, too. Netflix is good. If you're going to be a politician you need to learn how. Get the inmates away from the windows so they don't scare the golfers. No one wants to see someone's ass in the window while he's lining up a shot."

"You really think I should run for president?"

"You know, Donald, the more I think of it—Yes."

Laugh. But you watch ...

Trump has at last finished out the arc that Ronald Reagan started: the era of conservative sunshine. Republicans, the happy party! Democrats, the downer party. America, the Shining City on the Hill!  America, Bummersville ...

From Smiling Ronnie to Barking Donald.

I'm not looking forward to the Democrats being the new Party of Jingo, but they're well on their way.

A-and I know a lot of people have spent eight years hating that skinny black Muslim from Kenya, but I'm going to miss him. It isn't often you get a cool smart dude as a president in this country—far too many things a cool smart dude has to do that don't sit well with a cool smart dude. All the killing, for instance. All the families of the killed that need comforting, even as the majority of the population the cool smart dude has to govern is telling him that he isn't killing nearly enough.

Obama purportedly told Charlie Rose, "You don't think of just how much killing is involved in being President of the United States."

Anyway, I'll miss him. The Bugs Bunny of American Presidents.

I was wrong about Tim Kaine, incidentally. He's going to be perfect for the new, sunny look. Next to Joe Biden, it's hard to imagine a more perfect vice-president. Unless, like some of my friends, you're more of an Old Man Potter fan. I can imagine there are more than a few Republicans this year wistful for the days of Dick Cheney. Back when the Republicans were contenders! When the Democrats expected to lose. When it was Democrats getting traded by the losers to the playoff hopefuls, not Republicans ...

Don't count on the rout extending down the ballot. American voters tend to like their politicians kept in check, their growing frustration with nothing getting done in Washington notwithstanding. Many, for instance, will vote for Hillary Clinton, and balance it with a vote against, say, Michael Bennett in the Senate. More than a few Republicans will do that this year. Vote against Trump, then be sure to vote for all the rest of their peeps.

Expect that to be the interesting thing that either happens or doesn't in November.

After which, either way, there will still be a lot of angry people out there.



 

Bernie and Ted's Big Adventure

It was Ted's finest hour. There in Cleveland, among the angry and insane, the roving packs of journalists covering it straight, others, like Stephen Colbert, dressed as the character Stanley Tucci played in The Hunger Games, carrying on at the podium in a manner not immediately distinguishable from the rest (who were apparently still sleeping at that hour, asleep or out supporting the Cleveland economy), until he was hauled off the stage ... there in Cleveland, the Republican who came in second place, the guy who doesn't play well with others, Ted Cruz, in his prime-time convention speech, when he was expected to get in line and support the winner, Donald J. Trump, who, when the game was still on, had suggested that he, Ted Cruz, much like the odious Barack Obama, wasn't in fact a proper citizen of this country (a Canadian to Obama's Kenyan), that his father, the Cuban, had somehow been involved with that bunch that had killed President John F. Kennedy in Dallas back in 1963, disaffected Cuban ex-CIA types that had eluded everyone from The Warren Commission to the New Orleans prosecutor Jim Garrison, the real planners, these fellows, for whom the disaffected former tourist to Soviet Russia, (not Bernie Sanders but) Lee Harvey Oswald, was merely a patsy, the guy, The Donald, who had further laid out pictures on Twitter of his wife and Ted's wife, saying, in effect, Which piece of ass would you rather have? His piece of ass? Or my piece of ass?

But this was politics, a bare-knuckle sport, as we are often reminded in this country by the many journalists/entertainers who cover it, a sport and a pastime that goes on endlessly, much like, increasingly, our wars. A distraction, a pageant, however, with a few key moments of punctuation, one of which is the Republican National Convention, held this year in Cleveland, an event that was to be "contested," we were told for many months by the serious journalists, suggesting that maybe, perhaps, given our country's enthusiasm for guns, that there might be some gunplay among the contesting factions on the convention floor, but, much to the surprise and disappointment of many, rather than a contested, hurly-burly convention, the viewing public was presented with a largely orderly presentation of hate and vitriol—less a showdown at the OK Corral than it was a staging of Meet the Trumps.

For which the second-place finisher was expected to do his part—to be one of the Uniters, to just "Say It!!"

But he didn't say it. Wouldn't say it. Vote for Donald Trump!

No ... Instead of encouraging the seething throngs to vote for a man who had insulted his father and his wife, who, worse than any of that, was a New York Values Democrat, Cruz exhorted the crowd to vote their conscience, for which he was booed, if reluctantly praised by many who had gotten used to hating his guts through the years.

My friend JB, for instance, a man formerly in politics, reeking of booze and cigarettes, tears welling in his eyes, leaned toward me (a bit too close, really, uncomfortably close, in fact) at the bar where we were watching all this on a giant screen, and said, "I never figured a miserable son of a bitch like him could ever do something so moving."

"You don't suppose he's just angling for the gold in 2020?" I said. "Now that Paul Ryan has pimped himself out to a huckster."

"2020?" JB laughed, pixelated eyes gleaming. "You just wait until next week."

After another glass of wine and three or four more cigarettes, JB told me that he had it on good authority—a redhead from Harlem, single, with cats, who had no reason to lie—that Bernie and Ted were preparing a run, this fall—

"Get the fuck outta here," I said, pushing the slouching JB up straight on his barstool. "Bernie's even more New York values than #The Real Donald Trump."

"That may be true," JB slurred, "but at least he isn't a Democrat."

"Well, you got me there," I admitted.

"He's a socialist," said JB. "And you know who else was a socialist? Jesus was a socialist. The meek shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers ... what kind of capitalist talks like that?"

I had to admit I didn't know any.

"Anyway, you don't hear too many folks talking about the Lord Jesus Christ more than Ted Cruz does."

Well, I thought, that was sure fucking true.

"If you cut the right wing and the left wing off the bird in the middle, what do you have?" JB then quizzed me.

I had to think a moment. "A bird falling from the sky in a pantsuit?"

"A Status Quo that can't fly," he said, knowingly.

"But you were Establishment, JB. You were the Status Quo."

"I'm just a man like you," JB insisted.

"But Bernie already said he'd support the ticket."

"He said he'd do everything he could to defeat Donald Trump. Not that a lot will have to be done, but that's not the same thing."

A socialist and a libertarian. I was having a hard time imagining it.

"They're both gold bugs," JB whispered, raising an eyebrow. "Neither can abide the Federal Reserve. They got to be friends on the Deep Web. Do you know what I'm talking about when I talk about the Deep Web?"

I wasn't so sure I did.

"Characters," JB said. "Aliases. Game Theory."

"Sort of like Pokemon Go?"

JB's eyes gleamed and glittered. "Do you play?"

"No," I said. "I'm a writer. I live a deprived adulthood."

"I've got um in my house," he confided.

"Ted and Bernie?"

"Squirtle," he said. "And Pikachu. And Charmander. They like to spin in the dryer. If I open the door real fast I can sometimes spot them in there flopping around with my socks."

I laughed. "This is getting a little silly."

"What's your point?" replied JB, who had watched the entire Republican National Convention and planned to watch the Democratic one, too, who had run for office, American-style, more times than I could count right offhand at the moment.

"So, a disaffected coalition comprised of those who resent Big Government AND Big Business."

"You can't say it isn't brilliant."

He slipped off his barstool now, stood up, nearly fell, then settled into a cheerleader's pose, like George W. Bush back in his days at Yale. "Pure Left! Pure Right! Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!!" he chanted.

As crazy as it sounded, it made more sense, if one hoped to win, than courting exclusively old, pissed off white people, men mostly.

"You just wait," JB assured me. "This week in Philadelphia, there's going to be a big surprise."

"Pokemon at the convention?" I wondered. "Pokemon instead of Colbert?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Pokemon don't care about politics. They like my dryer too much."

I glanced at the bartender, who shrugged and shook her head. I said to JB, "Sanders/Cruz: Both Wings without the Bird."

"Pure flight," he said, adding in the manner of someone who'd been tuned in, exposed, for too long, "You just wait. Bernie's no sellout, no pimp for the Establishment. They won't get Bernie to say it, either. Instead, Bernie will bring out Ted and the two will announce the purest party of disaffected purists ever. Bernie and Ted are going to surprise us, you just watch."

Bye Bye Britain

It was another one of those things that no one saw coming. Pollsters and bookmakers alike all said, Don't worry, this will be yet another one of those things that the media gets you all whipped up for only to give you an ending that makes you wonder why you bothered.

Not this time.

After watching the stock market soar all day Thursday, gold drop, if not precipitously, people out there trading "risk on" as they like to say, comfortable with the pollsters and the bookmakers predictions that, by night's end, sensible people would carry the day, sensible meaning the ones who listened to the urgings of Prime Minister David Cameron, the Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne, the Canadian Governor of the Bank of England Mark Carney, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the leader of the Labour Party, Jeremy Corbyn, a "Eurosceptic" going way back, whose leadership as a Remainer was desultory, not exactly passionate, but a Remainer he was said to be, we were told, the leader of the Liberal Democrats, the party that was supposed to do better in the last election and, had they, would have had the power, governing as a coalition with Cameron's Tories, to veto David Cameron's election promise to an increasingly loud and unruly faction of his party to hold a referendum, which would have gotten Mr. Cameron of the hook, except that Mr. Cameron did better than he figured he would and thus had to keep his promise and hold a referendum, on whether or not Great Britain would leave the European Union. Within hours of the tally being finalized, with Brexodus coming out on top, Mr. Cameron was standing in front of 10 Downing Street resigning his office, effective soon. According to the Onion, or perhaps it was the Financial Times, he and his wife are going to open a pie shop somewhere in the hinterland, far from the madding crowd.

The U.S.  President Barack Obama also thought Great Britain should remain in the European Union. As did Hillary Clinton and all the smart people advising her. As did the head of the International Monetary Fund, as well as many big hitting investors like George Soros, who, years ago, made a fortune betting against the pound, which, not surprisingly, dropped like a stone on Friday, along with stock markets around the globe, when all the people at The Club—smart, respectable folk, who know what's best—realized they were wrong.

I was at a bar Thursday night taking part in a quiz show when the tide began to turn. Gold went up $80 USD in the two hours I was there as a member of Team Alone and Drunk at the Bar (4th place; we needed my wife there to answer questions related to anything that happened after 1979; also, someone who can recognize Taylor Swift's voice). Earlier in the day my old friend and former guy at Morgan Stanley texted me and said they, the Brits, were going. So there was one. He was right. My gold guy also had a feeling things were going to go to the Brexodus Bunch. He admitted, being a gold guy, that it might be wishful thinking on his part, but it turned out he was right. Jim Rickards, who was educated at the same school as Tim Geithner and appears frequently on Bloomberg and CNBC, was also right. He has been saying for some time that gold will hit $10,000 USD before our current democratic nations of the world zero-interest-rate policy (ZIRP) slouching toward negative interest rate policy (NIRP) plays out to that full-stop one finds at the end of the sentence.

I guess we'll see.

Donald Trump, meantime, flew into the Scotland, which voted resoundingly, along with London and Northern Ireland, to remain in the European Union, to check on one of his properties. Perhaps not understanding that Scotland hadn't been in favor of the outcome, perhaps forgetting that Scotland had recently held its own referendum in 2014 to leave not the European Union, but the United Kingdom (it narrowly lost, and might not next time), Mr. Trump praised, in Scotland, Great Britain's brave decision to, as he put it, take back their country. Not surprisingly, not all cheered. An older woman, standing beside a shrugging police officer, held a sign proclaiming: "Trump's a Cunt!"

Alan Greenspan, the former Chairman of the Federal Reserve who was a rock star when stocks were going up and then became a cunt when they suddenly went down, says this, Brexit, is just the tip of the iceberg.

So, who are we to listen to? The kooks, the cranks, the goldbugs and cunts, or the people who tell us to stay the course, to not get sullen and ridiculous, that all will be fine, the cheerleaders who, six months ago, predicted the Fed would raise rates four times in 2016, this despite Europe's malaise, Japan's malaise, the opaque slowdown in China, despite wage-growth being at a 40-year standstill, credit expansion having reached its outer limits, a majority of Americans, marketed to death their entire lives, following the tune, most of them, with no savings at all outside of their still-mortgaged homes and home-related credit lines.

Where is the Back to Normal part of that picture? Being greedy little fucks, most of us, we'd get behind the smart people and imagine that we too might one day be Club Members if more of the spoils were trickling down our way, as it seemed they were for much of the nineties, when Greenspan was God and regular people without a lot of money started to turn into greedy little fucks talking about taking a cash advance on their Visa Card to buy Tyco, or Enron, or WorldCom, or Global Crossing, or any number of soon to be smashed dot.com stocks. Instead of all of us getting laid at the end of Caddyshack, as Rodney Dangerfield had proclaimed, we would all get rich! Instead, it's been more like getting invited to come play poker with the guys who have been playing together for years. Once in a while you get the cards and you win; but for the most part, your money added to the pot just means that the regulars are going to walk with more at the end of the night.

Sooner or later, however painful it is, enough of those who got fleeced wake up to the fact.

And the pitchforks are starting to come out. Not just on the right, but on the left as well. We here in North America are not as imperiled, yet, as our friends in Europe—as we like to say in Colorado: one doesn't have to outrun the bear, just the rest of the people running—and the Brexit vote is not a harbinger of a coming surprise vote for Trump in November. He'll be lucky to get 30%.

But his thirty and Bernie's better than thirty add up to something that isn't likely to bode well for the folks all confident and pleased with themselves at The Club.

And don't count Hillary and the Democrats out when it comes to taking their, The Club's, warm, seemingly sensible advice—the kind that will tell her to pick some middle-of-the-roader like Tim Kaine to be her vice-president, rather than someone like Elizabeth Warren or ... Bernie himself (why not?), the guy out on the left, the Scandinavian-style socialist who no one expected to give her much of a run, who—surprise!—nearly beat her, and has the hearts of more folks than Trump. It's going to be a tough decision for her and her people to decide whether to invite those folks in and risk upsetting Club Members, notably her Goldman peeps, but also, possibly, national security stalwarts, now in, or nearly in, support of her candidacy, guys formerly Republican like Brent Scowcroft—how is Trump going to call her a Loser when she has Brent Scowcroft, one of old man Bush's boys, who flew over to China after the Tiananmen Square slaughter in 1989 to calm things down, assure China, get things back on track for global trade, in her camp?—or go to the comfortable center and assume all those folks who went for Bernie will accept the advice of the smart people and vote Hillary, so they don't get that cunt Donald.

Thursday's Brexit vote might be telling us that what we think, based on what the smart people think, may not be so. And if it is for the moment, it might not be for much longer.

Religious Radicals with Guns

They tell me it's Father's Day, and to drive home the point I've already had a Bloody Caesar and a ... well, coffee, cards, and new cologne from my wife and children. I've walked the dog and watched the sprinklers do their thing at dawn. And now I've got a little time before the Waterloo opens and serves me a second (in this case, the American, Texa-fied version) Bloody Mary and a big, hearty brunch, and so you don't think Daddy and the Rattle & Hum office is slumming entirely just on account of it's Father's Day ...

On these jihadist-like gun slaughters, Bill Maher and the Republicans and a few others say we should call it what it is: Islamic Extremism. I say we take it a step further and roll in the nuts who happen to be Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, what have you, who also kill, light themselves on fire, blow up abortion clinics, federal buildings, believe Noah's Ark is still hidden under the sea somewhere, think Evolution is just God pulling our legs with a fossil record, who think they have it and the rest of us don't, and along the way manage to talk themselves into believing nonsense a reasonably judicious 10-year-old would think is silly based on the evidence, that we bring the whole bunch into the same corral and call them Religious Radicals. Cover all the bases and not be exclusive and mean-spirited by choosing to single out any particular set of nuts.

Also, lest you think I'm one of these gun pussies. I'm not. I've shot about every kind of gun you can imagine: handguns, rifles, high-powered rifles, shotguns, assault rifles. That said, as Kurt Vonnegut once said: "I wouldn't have one of those motherfuckers in my house for anything." THAT said, I have a lot of swords, and a cane I would pick over everything else in the very unlikely event that things got dicey and I needed to kill someone to protect my family. I also think that, in the age of drones and Blackhawk helicoptors and the like, to think you can protect yourself from a government run amok without owning a SAM (surface-to-air-missile) launcher is just really delusional. Anyway, I don't own guns because I think the odds of me blowing my brains out with one of them is much higher than my using it to protect my home and family. I also think I could easily not get to the gun safe in time and forget the combination at my age if things got really stressful with someone attacking our home, which, again, is unlikely, but, on the other hand, I have my down days, and you might say those sharp swords maybe aren't the smartest thing to have around either, and I'd have a hard time arguing with you.

All that said on this, my Father's Day Sunday, when you could hardly blame me for doing fuck all rather than carry on for free ... I support the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. I don't want the First Amendment to go away and therefore accept that the Second Amendment is the law of the land as well. It reads, "A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State [sic], the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

Which is to say, the first part contradicts the latter, but—BUT—they didn't have as many MFA programs back then to workshop the sense, the semantics, and so a little latitude needs to be allowed for a judge to interpret, or else what is a Constitutional Judge to do? End up like a novelist? Largely irrelevant to the culture? I wouldn't wish that on them. Anyway, if you read a lot of the other amendments, they, like Revelations, The Dead Sea Scrolls, Salman Rushdie, don't exactly track as clearly as some who think they know and others don't would like us to think.

Also, to be fair to the people who know a thing or two about guns: the assault rifle you can buy at the store is not an automatic weapon. You have to pull the trigger each time you want it to shoot a bullet; they don't just spray out if you hold the trigger down, like in the Rambo movies. Having a magazine that holds lots of ammunition is the bigger issue, and to that more relevant point you might ask, regardless of your politics or fidelity to the Second Amendment: Will that high-capacity magazine help you more than a cane or a shotgun might when some asshole breaks into your home to steal your TV? Perhaps. Or it might kill the family next door. Then again, if the intruder brings his entire extended family or small town with him, that clip might come in handy. But, and perhaps more importantly, will it help destroy that drone sent by the government that is about to blow you to smithereens from way up in the sky, like a top-notch laser-guided SAM launcher might, which, for whatever crazy reason a citizen isn't allowed to purchase legally?

Probably not.

As the Australian comedian Jim Jeffries has said (in a YouTube'd performance you can Google): the best argument beyond a certain debatable reading of the Second Amendment we here in the States have for owning and keeping as many guns as we want is: "Fuck off, we like our guns."

There it is.

In other news: gold is going up, the yield on the 10-Treasury is going down, close to 1.50% in depreciating dollars that you'll get now for lending your government money. I should add, this is much better than the negative rate you would receive for lending the Germans or the Japanese governments money. Expect this counter-intuitive state of affairs to increasingly matter as time goes on. How? Your guess is as good as mine. In fact, explain it as best you can to a ten-year-old, and ask her what she thinks it ought to lead to, and then watch it not lead there right away, but eventually lead there. When? Your guess is as good as mine.

Oh, and before I go, there will be no successful "organic" movement to bounce Trump from the top of the ticket in July. Dream on, Republicans! Join the Berners! They continue to dream as well, though their dream will come closer to passing in time. When? Not this November.

But here it is almost 11:00 AM. Time for Daddy's Bloody Mary and brunch!

Daddy abides.

Orlando Tragic

I woke up today thinking I would go downstairs and make coffee and watch "This Week" and "Meet the Press" and while the kids were still asleep maybe type out a quick blog suggesting that Hillary could do worse than select Elizabeth Warren as her vice-presidential running mate. Quiet the lingering, edging toward pitiful Berners out there, who, like Japanese soldiers holed up in a cave on an isolated island years after the war is over, keep the fight coming.

For the sake of their mental health, I thought, and so I don't have to look at their ongoing delusions on Facebook (I love you, too, Dave!), why not come out with a ringing endorsement of the estimable firebrand that the Berners wanted before they wanted Bernie—Elizabeth Warren—as our country's next vice-president?

After all, it only makes sense for the centrist and politically less talented Hillary to pick the person who would have been the first choice of that faction of the Democratic Party who can't stand her.

I know. Who's delusional now? But seriously, why not throw it out there? She's going to win anyway. Why not try and make everyone happy?

Who's your Mamma? Well, now you got two ...

America's Got Two Mommies!

Why not? It's had two Daddies going back to George Washington. I'm not suggesting the mommies would do any better, just that they likely wouldn't do any worse, and it might in some small way break the tedium of the next four or five months. Anyway, I think it would be a nice touch, a brilliant touch, a cool, if not radical touch, since the country's mostly women anyway, but still—

Clinton/Warren, the Motherload, here to straighten all your man shit out. Oh, what fun!

I also think Donald Trump should pick Megyn Kelly for his Veep, and not necessarily because she knows the issues better than him, which I'm sure she does ... I just think picking Megyn Kelly would, in its own way, be as brilliant and beguiling of a choice as Hillary Clinton picking Elizabeth Warren. Of course, Trump would still lose, and Hillary would still win, but at least we'd have something more than a fait accompli to look forward to over the next four to five months—which is to say, almost a half a year still.

Anyway, that's what was going through my head. And I thought I'd try to whip it all into some kind of coherent shape in a single sitting like I sometimes do on a Sunday, when I turned on the television and saw, instead, another Special Report about another shooting. 20 people killed, at a gay nightclub ... until they discovered the number was more like 50, with 53 more injured. That would be 103 casualties if this were a war.

And maybe it is.

At the very least it's a new record for firearm slaughter in this country. At least since the Civil War.

A guy who was born in New York, who in one older picture is wearing an NYPD T-shirt, who moved to Florida, beat his ex-wife, saw two guys kissing in Miami and apparently that was all it took for him to say Enough! and go to one of any of a number of places where a citizen, a security guard, no less, can get an AR-15-style assault rifle legally in this country, load up on some ammo and magazines and drive two hours to Orlando, to a place where lots of homosexuals were drinking and dancing and otherwise not bothering anyone, and shoot the place up!

Oh, and before he did, he apparently called 911 and declared his allegiance to IS Radicals. Which is just great. "Yes. Hello? 911? I have a prepared statement. Do you have a moment? I know I shouldn't be doing this while I'm driving and trying to load my brand new assault rifle, but ..."

Being the appreciative, one good turn deserves another sorts that they are, ISIS, through their own media outlet, made the former wife-beating security guard with a gun permit and everything an Honorary Jihadist! Of course by then he was shot dead, as often happens, by the police. No big-breasted bombshells waiting to motorboat him in Heaven. A sad end, you might think, and yet, until next time, he'll be the latest martyr in the cause of Bigotry and Intolerance and Other Not Very Nice Things God Tells Me ideology pulled from the Interwebs.

Forgive my sarcasm, but I can already imagine the feckless political debate that will follow and it already tires me.

Two men kissing. Fifty years ago it might have been a white woman holding a black man's hand.

It Takes a Shrink

So I've been missing in action since Mother's Day. Sorry. Feel terrible about it.

So let's get caught up:

Trump is going to get crowned the Republican nominee in Cleveland this summer, and Hillary, after she squeaks out a win in California on Tuesday, will be crowned the Democratic nominee. In November, she will become the first woman president of the United States. Given that the majority of voters in this country are women who have had the vote for nearly a century now, one wonders why such a first has taken so long to happen, given that not all the men of the last century have been stellar.

All to say, nothing has much changed since I last wrote, and that the narrative for this year's presidential election is not going to wrap with a headline such as this one: NATION ELECTS FIRST REAL ESTATE DEVELOPER/REALITY SHOW HOST PRESIDENT OF THE FREE WORLD!!!! [subheading] —A FUCKING FREAK, GRANTED, BUT AT LEAST HE ISN'T A WOMAN WHO SHOUTS AND DOESN'T ENTERTAIN US AS WELL AS SAM KINISON USED TO WHEN HE SHOUTED, BUT OF COURSE SAM KINISON WASN'T A WOMAN—

A pretty long, improbable headline for any number of reasons, but you get the idea.

Also unlikely is the likelihood of news coming out of Philadelphia this summer that the Democratic crown will, after much hand-wringing and deliberation and a final burst of triumphant ecstasy, be handed to the soon-to-be-crowned woman's most excellent sparring partner, the old Jewish Socialist from Brooklyn with the steady left jab, who, unlike the woman, would scold the banks and the military industrial complex into playing ball like it is imagined they do in Denmark, and we'd all get Medicare and free college and everyone who was making shitloads of bank on the old way we did things back before Bernie got tough would just say, Fuck! Why didn't someone ask me sooner? Happy to do my part! Would it help if I sent you some of the money I got stashed in the Caymans??

The future of the Democratic Party will look more like Bernie's world than Hillary's world, just not yet. Hillary is going to get her shot. And she is going to bitch slap Trump in a way no one has in his entire silly fucking life.

After which we can all hope that after a quarter century on the main stage of politics, during which she endured no end of attacks and accusations, some justified, most not, after sticking tough in a marriage to a man more popular and likeable and politically talented than her, who, to complicate matters, had a very public thing for chasing skirt, she isn't going to be overly quick—quicker than her predecessor, who has been criticized for not leading, for not being as quick to lead as, say, his more headlong predecessor—to lead us into another grinding and fruitless shedding of blood in faraway lands for the ostensible sake of those who by and large hate us and who otherwise aren't much interested in sharing the profits that can flow, good and hard in some cases, to the nimble and ambitious and well-capitalized during times of protracted chaos. Folks who, until recently, had generally, though not always, voted Republican, but now, as with the banking class, given the Republicans' hard turn toward nativism and its cowardly if crestfallen embrace by the likes of the Speaker of the House, perhaps we will witness a sea change in voting alliances of the sort that civil rights brought to Democratic fortunes in the South.

Arching over the top of that worrisome storyline is the story of the economy, which continues to be the most hale and robust of all the late-arc shufflers in the nursing home.

And now, to see if you're still with me ...

A big reason that I've been AWOL from my post these last few weeks is that we've listed our house here in Louisville, Colorado, and plan to move back to Halifax, Nova Scotia, by the end of summer.

I hired one of those big Dumpsters and spent the better part of two weeks filling it with all kinds of stuff that, shall we say, accrued over the years. It occurs to me that this is a good metaphor for the state of the western economies. A lot accrues over the years and there comes a point when it has to go. Depending on one's politics, what is seen as needing to go differs, but, in short, it is easier to buy shit than it is to get rid of shit. Occasionally this process gets helped along by a flood or a fire—the equivalent of war or plague in this metaphor—but more likely in these our less dramatic times (despite what the media tells us), it is a more banal occurrence: divorce, job loss, job gain, having more kids (which is how we got in this big house in the first place), or simply deciding that, for a variety of reasons, not least of which my wife misses her home, and we miss the ocean ... it is time perhaps to refresh the system. Get rid of shit. Live smaller. Spend less, drive less, get out more, haul less freight. That sort of thing.

Easier said than done. Especially for a country.

But we're not a country. We're a family. And it's time. Tearfully so, but time.

Happy Mother's Day!

Take the day to be kind to the person who brought you into this world, the person who raised you, who helped raise you, who was there for you when a lot of others had other things going on, who loved you even though you were someone who for a moment, a day, a month, a year, most all of your life, only a mother could love. Be kind to your mother, to her memory, even if she wasn't perfect and johnny-on-the-spot like all the mothers on television in the 60s and 70s that you later read had drug and alcohol problems that may well have been brought on by playing characters that don't exist in real life. Be kind even if you are too young still, or still too stupid, to realize that you are far from perfectly easy on the nerves yourself. Understand that as lame as it may sound, she, Mom, probably did the best she could given who she was, the forces animating her, and what she'd lived through, what she was sorting out at the time, the things going on inside her while you at the same time had things going on inside you that blinded you to the things that were going on inside her, and so you can be certain that for much of that time you were driving her nuts with things that you now understand, or will soon, or may one day, we all hope, were thoughtless and inconsiderate and at the very least no less maddening for being understandable, because you were young, you didn't know any better, you were doing the best you could, which is how you, we, all of us, cut ourselves slack for all the heartbreak and crazy and totally unnecessary we visited on our mothers' nerves and so today and every day forward we do the same for them, as best we can and are able, given everything that is going on, inside and out, given imperfections, character-flaws, a disturbing number of which are probably genetic, but still, be kind, show compassion, show the love.

Happy Mother's Day! 

A Lament for Ted

I'm beginning to feel sorry for Ted Cruz. At least I feel like I should be. After all, I felt sorry for Jeb Bush almost immediately, seconds into the first time I saw him speaking on television, back when a lot of smart people still thought he was going to be the GOP nominee and all I could think was, No he's not! Look at the poor guy—

I feel sorry for Hillary now and then. Being married to Bill and putting up with all his indiscretions and then having him be the one everyone likes and you being the brittle, shouting, disciplined, ambitious bitch who is only going to win because the Republicans are going to nominate a real estate developer most of the party can't stand (though they like him better than Ted), as if this were a city council race. Anyway, everyone loves Bernie, no one loves Hillary, which is sad, except that compared to Ted, she's lovable, which is really sad, for Ted, and you'd think no one could be that unlovable, and that there'd be pathos there, but I'm dead inside for Ted, this while fully aware—and you might find this surprising—that I felt sorry for Richard Nixon after Pat died. Seeing him break down like he did at the funeral, sprawled over her casket crying like a baby. It wasn't the kind of thing you saw too often anymore, a former president, someone other than John Boehner, crying his eyes out. Never mind Vietnam, Cambodia, Kent State, Watergate, the Checkers Speech, I felt the pathos of that moment.

No pathos, yet, with Ted. And it's weird. Because you hear kind things said about all kinds of people who are generally considered horrible. Hitler, for instance. You hear it said that Hitler was kind to his dog, that his dog in all likelihood would have had a very high opinion of him had he been allowed to express it. Had Hitler and his dog been together a half century later, you can easily imagine some enterprising ghost writer penning a memoir from the dog's point of view, and you can bet the dog would have had more than a few nice things to say about the Fuhrer.

Stalin, for example. Franklin Roosevelt, of all people—not a Russian, granted, a goddamned commie-friendly liberal from New York, but still—purportedly said after Yalta, "I kind of like Old Joe."

There were people who probably thought Pol Pot was great.

On the other hand, you don't hear anyone, not a soul, coming out and saying, Oh now, I've known Ted Cruz for years, and he may get a little carried away from time to time with that Libertarian nonsense of his, all that Lord Jesus Christ stuff coming out his mouth every third sentence, even us Christians get tired of hearing a fellow go on like that, but really, you shouldn't take all that stuff his old college roommate at Princeton says too seriously, or John Boehner, calling him the most miserable son of a bitch he's ever worked with—what the hell does John Boehner, a government insider who smokes and cries over the goddamnest bullshit, know about anything?

Not one kind word, by anyone. Maybe his wife, if she wasn't so busy at Goldman Sachs. Which by itself is suspect. Don't get me started. I wonder if she's so inside she got to hear Hillary's speech? I wonder if she even told Ted about it. If she had, wouldn't he be talking about it? Or did she start to tell him and he just went La la la la la!!

Maybe his kids want to say nice things but aren't allowed. Maybe he's being kind, taking a tip from Obama, the cool guy all the comics like, the Kennedy to his Nixon, he imagines, though he's not even as likable as Nixon. Nixon's daughters liked him, loved their dad. Anyway, I'm pretty sure they did, that I heard or read it somewhere. And there was his buddy Bebe Rebozo. The staffers on that day he resigned, the speech he gave—a pretty decent speech, really, considering the day he was having—the tears welling in many of their eyes before he did that windshield wiper like wave to all of them and got in the helicopter and flew off to San Clemente or wherever it was they took him.

Maybe Ted needs to be president first. Which, someone please tell him, isn't going to happen. Even though he picked a running mate this week. A failed CEO who understands government, he says—rather bizarre for someone who this morning, on "This Week," said that the problem with Trump and Clinton and Obama is that they believe in government. Which is a little like saying the problem with the current Chief of Surgery and the two candidates with the best chance of becoming the next chief is that they believe in surgery. Which would be a ridiculous thing to say even if you weren't hoping to become the next Chief of Surgery yourself. If you didn't believe in surgery, why spend two years of your life campaigning to become lead surgeon? You'd have to be a self-aggrandizing prick who just liked the idea of being in charge no matter what you thought of the enterprise, which, possibly, answers a lot of questions, and wouldn't make him all that unlike a lot of other politicians, and yet it still is unseemly.

What Trump understands and Ted possibly—tragically, if anyone gave a shit or had a kind thought about him—doesn't understand: the base doesn't really much give a shit anymore about conservative government and/or principles.

They're just really upset.

A lot of people are really upset, and don't believe so much anymore, rightly or wrongly, that the answer to all their problems is less government, that government is the problem, that it is bad, that it needs to be done away with, that the beast must be starved, after which a golden age will begin and we'll all be happy again like the kids in Lord of the Flies.

Ted, who wants to be the head of a government he doesn't believe in, says that a majority of Republicans don't want Donald Trump to be the Republican nominee for president. What the brilliant debater from Princeton, the US Senator from Texas, doesn't seem to get, or want to admit, is that even fewer—a lot fewer—want Ted Cruz to be the Republican nominee for president.

The GOP, the ones who courted these angry disenfranchised people but aren't that angry or disenfranchised themselves, can't believe they're caught in such a pickle. It's goddamned unbelievable. Still, given a big boss man who's kind of funny, and a miserable son of a bitch who isn't, they're going with the first guy, count on it. Better that Trump hang out to dry in November as have to kiss that miserable son of a bitch Ted Cruz's ass for one second.

April in Halifax, or I'll Remember April

What? Where ... is that? And why are you there? What, exactly, will you remember?

Oh, but I didn't say I was here, or there. Or that I liked or did not like Green Eggs and Poutine. I'm not sure where I am. And it's only a title. As well one as another, as Molly Bloom hinted; as well that title as the more loquacious Senator Cruz or Lying Ted? Which One Is It? And Wby Not Just Call Him One of The Greatest Assholes of All-Time, Bigger Even than I Am, Though Not as Funny, Not as Entertaining, Not as Rich, So What's the Point?

Or the slightly tidier, Prince: How to Become and Remain a Great Artist Rather than a Stinking Celebrity

Or, going the other way, the more fulsome, TLC: Trump Loses to Clinton. Better to Realize It Now and Not Waste the Next Six Months As You Might Have Most of the Last Year 

If you enjoy the machinations of politics and its sensationally dramatic packaging by much of the media, if you are thankful, moreover, that it isn't all whipped up and finished within 45-60 days like it is in so many other countries—Canada, for instance—and are further thankful that there is plenty of private fortune to fund the extended-play, director's cut version, thereby keeping the better-looking, more telegenic and predictable journalists busy, economies in places like my home state of Iowa, and also New Hampshire, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, more flush than they otherwise would be, then by all means play on—

But if, like many, you find yourself saying, My God, I am so done with this, just tell me what I need to know to stay informed, so I can get back to working more, training more, reading Proust, monographs, motions, corporate reports, entertaining Craig, cooking wonderful meals for him, making sure he has coffee in the morning with a glass of water when he wakes up, rum or port to sip with his cigar, a television to watch sports on when he's done with his reading, his writing, his running around, well then by all means read the following, and be 100% guaranteed—assured—that come Wednesday of the first full week of November of this year, you'll look back and say, Wow, if only I'd bet my uncle Cecil $100 on each of these points (below), I'd be in so much better shape going into the all-important holiday season ...

Point #1: Trump is going to be the Republican nominee for president. Don't be surprised if he gets over the delegate hump with his win in California in June. Don't be surprised if the July convention ends up confirming the disaster, even if it ends up less exciting than many television series' finales. Don't blame Trump, blame the rest of them, and the wheat the GOP has sewed for a generation. Jeb was a schlub, Rubio a twerp, Carson better suited to inspiring sales for natural laxatives, Kasich won Ohio but remains alone, and kind of a bobblehead, and Rand Paul must have known that thriftiness across the board has never been popular with voters, half of whom at a minimum need to believe they're getting something for their contribution.

Point #2: Hillary is going to be the Democrat(ic) nominee for president. Sorry, all you impassioned Bernie supporters. You're going to have to take consolation in knowing that your guy was the greatest thing that could have ever happened to her rather than imagine what would have happened if the first Jewish Socialist from Brooklyn would have busted up the banks and made Manhattan affordable again. Maybe Hillary will pick Elizabeth Warren to be her running mate. Or maybe she'll pick her husband, and they'll be like Claire and Frank in "House of Cards," which everyone knows is about them anyway.

Point #3: Hillary Clinton isn't going to be brought down by the FBI or anyone else, not for her emails, not for Vincent Foster's death, not for the scandal the special prosecutor looked into and found nothing except that her husband had gotten a blowjob in the White House, not the cattle thing, not Iraq, or Libya, or screwing up the health care thing over twenty years ago now, none of it. She's going to win. But not until the 2016 General Election becomes more fun than "Celebrity Apprentice" on lots of Colorado dope. Needless to say, afterwards something like 40% of the country are going to be mad as hatters, which is understandable after eight years of the Muslim guy from Kenya whose name rhymes with The Terrorist Formerly Known as Osama.

Come November, you're going to say, Not bad for a guy who thought the Cubs were headed to the World Series back in 1969. Who figured the jury would convict OJ regardless of the glove. Who figured they'd find at least one or two weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Who thought AC/DC sucked back when he was a kid and still thinks they suck ...

And then there was Prince.

Cream shaboogie bop ...

Another deal entirely.

RIP

Peeing There

I was up early, around 5:00 AM, watching it snow and working on my novel and wondering who I would REALLY NOT WANT IN THE SAME ROOM WITH ME WHILE I'M PEEING ...

I counted the same number of people who, in my opinion, threaten my marriage with their questionable activities and life-style choices.

Still, I decided, after weighing out the pros and cons, the privacy issues, that if Caitlin (formerly Bruce, the two-time Olympic Decathlon Gold Medalist) Jenner wanted to pee in the urinal next to me even if she was in heels and a dress and I could glance over and sneak a look at her cleavage—which I wouldn't do, by the way, anymore than I would look down to check out her retained from former days "cash and prizes," as someone close to me once said—it would be okay. I'd be fine if Caitlin wanted to hold on and have an old school comfort pee beside me like she might have back when she was Bruce.

I would also be fine if Caitlin wanted to have a seat in a stall next to where my wife was peeing, if she was peeing, in a public facility where this is done, even if she, Caitlin, still had her original equipment, her cash and prizes, as it were, it would be okay—

All I'd want to ask Caitlin if she were peeing beside me was if, now that she had breasts, all she did was play with them all day. Did she? Because that's what most of us guys who haven't made that life-style choice imagine we'd do if we actually had our own tits to play with: that we'd do nothing but play with our tits all day.

I'm sorry, I know that's coarse, but that's what we call them when women aren't around to hear us. Imagine making a life-style choice where you go one day from being someone who says tits to someone who says boobs, from being disgusting and coarse and kind of okay with it to being, well—

Which is why I'd probably say boobs or breasts to Caitlin if I was peeing next to her and asking her that question, because my guess is, having made that life-style choice, she would probably prefer boobs and breasts to tits. It's only polite, her deciding to have a pee in the men's room, where all us coarse and disgusting fuckers gather, notwithstanding. Who knows, maybe she decided to come in and pee in the men's room because she didn't feel all that comfortable in the women's room. At least not yet. Frankly, it's not a stretch to imagine she'd be a little uncomfortable in both. Which makes you wonder why she made that life-style choice. Why after winning two gold medals and marrying the Kardashian girl with the ... well, that he had to go and complicate things.

People sure are funny ...

But honestly, my wife and I, we don't care. We don't care either way. We don't care who we relieve ourselves next to or who does the same next to us. Maybe because we're weird and aren't adequately fearful of the threat to our privacy, though it seems to us that maybe those of us who haven't made that life-style choice are a bigger threat to the privacy of those who have made that life-style choice. Which I know sounds crazy, and you're thinking, That can't be! It has to be the other way around!

But we figured if we ever pee'd in the same room with Caitlin, we'd probably—shit, who are we kidding, we'd absolutely—be talking about it with everyone we knew for days, maybe even weeks. And everyone else who pee'd in the same room as her that day and every day to come—I mean for a long time, at least until people quit thinking it was such a big deal—would be telling everyone, too!

It wouldn't be that different than not so long ago being that gay couple dancing at a wedding and having everyone at the wedding that hadn't ever seen anything like that before telling everyone they saw for weeks to come that they saw two queers dancing at a wedding ...

Earl, get out your IPhone, I just saw a tranny go into the toilet to pee ...

I know, things like that don't happen anymore. Hardly ever. And they'd happen even less if certain people didn't just decide to throw their life away and be weird in their life-style choices, and make it uncomfortable for those of us (not me, of course, or my wife, or my children) who are already pretty comfortable, but is it too much to ask to be more comfortable still?

For instance, what possessed Paul Ryan to grow that beard when he was hunting deer last year and then decide to be weird and make people uncomfortable by not shaving it off when he got back to Washington and being a respectable Speaker of the House? Who did he think he was, Abraham Lincoln? What kind of asshole does shit like that?

And Hillary. What are we supposed to call her husband once she becomes president? Did she think about this when she decided to, I don't know, become the first woman president? What if he decides, now that he's vegan, that for the sake of propriety and tradition, he's going to make another big life-style choice? Who's going to stop him? His Secret Service detail? Who is going to stop him if he decides he wants to be a full-on FLOTUS?

Named Billie.

"What's Billie the FLOTUS doing, Mrs. President?"

"He's playing with his tits. Which, just let it go, is better than a lot of other things he could be doing."

There are still three months until the middle of July, and the GOP Convention that's supposed to be such fun. Paul Ryan has categorically said that he doesn't want, and won't accept, the nomination, since (give him credit) he didn't run for the job. Privately, my sources tell me that if they push him he's going to grow a hipster beard and put his hair up in a man-bun. Which would show them.

So, we have that to look forward to.

One way or another it'll be a nightmare for about 40% of the land.

See you next Sunday!

Pissed Off Nation

I got a note from an old friend this morning wondering how I could resist opining on this year's General Election. Especially, he said, after all the smart and funny and highly entertaining stuff I wrote back in 2012. And 2008, for that matter.

It's a mystery. But, here are a couple of possibilities:

1) No one is paying me. Of course, no one was paying me back then, either. Perhaps the idea of not getting paid just irritates me more now that I'm older and haven't made as much money in the stock market as I'd hoped back when I sold my shares of Cisco for $77 back in early 2000. Also, I still haven't found anyone to buy my first novel, which is to say I haven't gotten paid to write that either, or the one I'm writing now, and by now you're probably thinking, well, he's probably just bitter and angry and depressed about all that, like a lot of us are bitter and angry and depressed about our own shit, and that could be.

2) I already know who is going to win. Hillary is going to win. I know, I know, at this point you're either saying A) thank you! Of course she is! or B) Fuck you! Fuck YOU!!! If she ends up being the next president I'm fucking moving ... I have friends in both categories. In fact, on a visceral level, I pretty much feel the same way about Donald Trump and (especially) Ted Cruz. But they aren't going to win. Hillary is going to win. And here is more or less how that is going to play out: She is going to win New York on the 19th, as she sure as fuck should, given that she was a senator for the state, during which time she cast a Yes vote, along with John Kerry and that weasel no one hears about anymore, John Edwards, along with virtually every Republican you can think of who was in office back then, to go to war in Iraq back in 2003—arguably the biggest foreign policy disaster in the history of our nation—but, you know, the people who don't flat out hate her for that and other reasons, many (though not all) irrational, would argue that she did her penance for that rather egregious sin back in 2008, which is why Barack Obama is president and she's still waiting. Anyway, Bernie Sanders, as James Carville, then the mastermind of Bill Clinton's campaign, said of the late Paul Tsongas back in 1992, after his victory in New Hampshire, [he] isn't going to win shit. That said, he's put the screws to Hillary in a way no one thought anyone would during this our extraordinarily long economic stimulus package we call our primary season. In effect, he's been a first-rate sparing partner for her—and she needed one, since she might be smart and more qualified on a positions held basis than anyone who's ever run for the office, but unfortunately she's not a very good politician. It doesn't come naturally to her like it does, say, her husband, or Barack Obama, or, if you prefer, Ronald Reagan. Fortunately for her, however, she is going to be running against one of the following: Donald Trump, Ted Cruz, or Paul Ryan. This after the Republicans proceed deeper into their already relentlessly dissected (if poorly medicated) nervous breakdown, after their quite possibly "contested" convention in July (no party in modern times has ever emerged well, or won a General Election, after going through a sideshow-style convention, not in 1976, not in 1968, not in 1924), out of which nothing good, only further clarified disaster in November, is going to come. This despite their running against a Democratic candidate with "high negatives," who (finally) could barely get past a Democratic Socialist Independent Senator from Vermont, who, by the way, would also win against any of the three possible Republican candidates, Trump still being the most likely, though he isn't a Republican anymore than Sanders is a Democrat, which would make for an interesting set-up going into the fall, but, regardless, not going to happen, and Hillary is going to win. And to my mind, when something is so obviously a foregone conclusion, it's hardly worth writing about for free. So there's that.

Still, assuming I haven't alienated you completely already, I'm a writer with an out-sized ego or why the hell would I persist in something so obviously quixotic and (economically, at least) disastrous? And to have one of my oldest friends, a very smart friend, petition me to write my thoughts out here on my blog, well, it's hard for someone who craves approval as much as I do to say no ...

However, the glow of seeming approval was dimished when I went back to look at some of my admittedly smart and funny posts from back then (you should check them out, too, cuz I mean, Wow), I saw on many of them ZERO comments. Which isn't to say that nobody read them, or nobody found them interesting, only that it seemed to me that nobody was either reading them or found them as interesting as, say, "The Walking Dead" that night. And you might say, well, I was reading them, I just didn't want my name associated with your foul language and outlandish sentiments, or, if I did, I didn't want anyone to know I agreed with you, or I was too squeamish to tell you to go fuck yourself, or, frankly, I don't want my name out there for Google and Facebook and the Chinese to exploit, better that you do that on your own, Craig, Mr. Rattle & Hum Guy, on your own, and for free, you fucking dumb ass.

It's a lot to sort out, as you can imagine.

Anyway, given the season (and to see that you all read this far), I'm going to conduct a little poll and then take it under advisement, as the lawyers say ...

To the question, Should Rattle & Hum and its author consider a return to form, if no more than once a week, now that the General Election may as well be upon us, even though the author already knows who is going to win?

Please select one of the following:

I. Sure. What the fuck else is he going to do? Write another novel? Give me a fucking break!

II. Fuck that, and fuck him! If he thinks Hillary is going to be the next POTUS he must be insane, and belongs getting a job like a normal person, and then maybe he wouldn't have such fucked up ideas.

III. It doesn't matter, I'm supporting Bernie Sanders.

Post answers either as a comment here, or on FB, or on Twitter,  as a secret handshake, telling nod, when you see me, I really don't care where or how so long as you all tell me what you think I should do.

And don't worry, I promise not to share your address with anyone trying to get at your money.

Don't wait, do it now ...

Best—R&H