So Twitter banned Trump from its platform.
Do we all feel safer that out of millions of repugnant, ignorantly defiant, intellectually un-curious, twitter twits, there is now one less among them? That the account of a man with less followers than Justin Bieber is no more?
Do we all feel better that after more than 56,000 ego bloated, demon spawned tweets since 2009, that Jack Dorsey — (Jack Dorsey!?) — made the call to mask the COVID denier in chief? …
On the day he took office four long years ago, he said, “This American Carnage stops right here and stops right now.”
Instead, it started right there, and right then. And it culminated, right where it began, in an American Carnage perpetrated today in our Nation’s Capital.
As the day began, I was shocked, but gladdened, by the Senate results in Georgia. But I also knew that it would add to the fire that was just beginning to burn in our Nation’s Capital.
And burn it did.
And for this, I am enraged.
I am filled with blood stained hate…
(They’re Not Who You Think They Are)
As I listened to right wing media breathlessly conjure a secret cabal of Left-Wing Illuminatis that conspired to steal the election from the president, I was reminded of Occam’s Razor, the principle that the simplest explanation for an occurrence is usually correct. There was, in fact, a conspiracy behind Biden’s election. But in this case, the secret order was not a small, coordinated, elite underground determined to elect their Manchurian candidate. …
If you’re a Democrat, have you convinced yourself that if Biden is elected the country will return to some semblance of normalcy — like if a resolution that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west came to the floor, it could survive a senate filibuster?
Is it even remotely farfetched that the evangelical right, unable to continue molding the entire judiciary in their own image, would suggest that it is unsettled science?
[If you lean Republican, hang in there; only a few more lines before I get to the left].
Or that Mitch McConnell would summon…
My Face Off With OCD
In the fall of 1996, Dexter Braff confessed to the killing of Oscar Claude Devereaux. However Deveraux was subsequently found to be very much alive. The following are excerpts from interviews conducted by the lead investigator assigned to the case to determine what actually happened.
“My name is Oliver Claude Deveraux.
And I live to torture people.
You may know me by my initials — OCD — which was boorishly changed to stand for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. As if turning my name into a clinical word jumble would somehow make me less real. …
It is with profound sadness that I write this letter today.
For these past three plus years, I’ve simmered in silence while you defended the President.
I’ve listened to countless iterations of “what about Obama?” in response to every criticism leveled at your standard bearer.
Confronted with an unending and unrepentant parade of lies, I’ve sat back while you deflected it saying that’s just Trump being Trump, as if that somehow makes the lies inconsequential.
I’ve listened patiently to your rationalizations that while you don’t care for the President’s behavior, he’s been good for the economy. As if fawning over…
It was not only the last big outdoor track meet of the season, it was the last race of the day, and the last race of my high school running career.
For me, the entire day was cloaked in finality.
While I was a better than decent runner — top three finishes in most dual meets; top 20 in the big cross-country races — I lacked both the talent, and desire, to pursue a collegiate career. So, I knew it was unlikely that I’d find myself on a track again anytime soon.
The sun was starting its lazy…
The Starting Line
It began on May 18, 1986.
The second running of the Pittsburgh Marathon.
I had recently moved from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh and thought I’d run in my new hometown’s marathon.
It wasn’t my first. I was actually pretty experienced, having posted a time of 2:38:51 in the Philadelphia Marathon several years prior.
In fact, it was to be my 13th marathon.
Perhaps that was a sign.
You see, this marathon was special.
But not in a good way.
The calendar, local civic politics, and a dash of race directing inexperience converged to produce a late May date…
September 6th, 1974.
It was a day like any other (if you call a day that began waking up in your neighbor’s house knowing your mother has six months to live like any other).
I was a week shy of my 17th birthday.
Mom had been in the hospital for several weeks now with what started out as a simple touch of this, which advanced to a stubborn case of that, and turned into an incurable form of the other thing with an unforgiving timeline.
I would say that I was in shock. But that would have taken far more…