Dear Diary

It's been a while. I started a "journal" in 1973 when I was airborne on Icelandic Airlines en route to my third Great European Backpacking Adventure. I promised myself I would daily chronicle the journey so that later in life I could reflect back on how I was sure to be shaped by such a transcendent experience.  But that was before I visited the duty-free shop at the Reijkevik airport, purchased a pint of Jim Beam, and got good and drunk before touching down in Luxembourg.

Let's just say I've been a bit sidetracked, more or less, since then. So, Diary, sorry it's been so long, but no time like the present, eh?  Thought I would bring you up to speed on the latest.

First, let me tell you about yesterday. Three cronies and I went out to Sundance Golf Course, overlooking beautiful Torch Lake, for our regular Tuesday outing. I was looking forward to it. To further tantalize, here is a description of the 17th Hole on the Sundance website:

 "A magnificent setting with an eighty-foot drop to the green. A breathtaking view is yours from a tee complex that overlooks the shimmering Caribbean blue waters of Torch Lake and the pristine beauty of the forested horizon surrounding it. Below you, surrounded by deep bunkers and aggressive heather, the green awaits as a rose among thorns."

There was nothing magnificent about Torch yesterday, or should I say nothing visible, blinded as we were by driving drizzle in low-slung cloud cover. We slogged around the front nine with our golf balls splatting down on saturated fairways and squirting chaotically on super fast greens. I wore light gray Docker trousers that wound up heavy and dark gray from the knee down as water continually seeped up and through. Even so, I hit the long ball fairly well, but my short game lacked any common decency. After I four-putted the sixth hole, a depression emptied me, fathoms below the plunging barometric pressure. The strain, for me at least, is always compounded by the competitive spirit of the group, as gambling for precious quarters torques the pressure. I was losing and I was wet and I was pissed.

There's nothing new, dear Diary, about my moping around the links as though I just lost a wallet full of cash. The relevant thing is what happened on the 11th green. I snaked in a long and (heretofore) impossible par putt that not only won the skin, but bested my opponents by several strokes and put me squarely in the driver's seat to win, win, win! When my ball found gold at the bottom of the jar, it was as though the finest strain of Prozac found traction in my brain. Despite the added weight of my soaked shoes and socks, I found a sudden lightness in my step, a grin emerged from the abyss, and I even found love for my freshly flattened friends. And in this fresh momentum of joy, I did go on to win the match, collected a few dollars, and on the drive home, felt a refreshed hope against the wicked ways of the world.

Today Diary, as I retrace those soggy steps, I marvel at the sheer shallowness and smallness of it all. To be plunged headlong into frequent despair, and then by a blind squirrel putt to become at once resurrected by victory, I admit to feeling ashamed that I am thus afflicted. Those down and up feelings weren't guided by beliefs or values, but, let's be honest, by the knee-jerkiness of a needy ego.

How do I let go of ego on a golf course, Diary? How can I meditate when so much personal worth is at stake? But never mind. I have another six days before I battle the inner golf demons again.

Instead, let me tell you about a second happenstance. My infant adoption work has dwindled over time.  Yes, there have been ebbs and flows, feasts and famines, and flurries of activity here and there. But over time, the number of mothers who choose to place their newborns from families in our adoption pool is diminishing. Maybe that's a good thing. But it's a relatively new and different thing.

So, lately as I sat there twiddling my thumbs, I pondered our recent annual picnic where adoptive families and birth families from recent years come together to eat, drink (lemonade), and be merry. There was joy and a belonging there among the picnic tables. I wondered how to keep the connections going beyond that once-a-year congregating. How to expand the network? How to keep our program alive and in the air?

Well, duh… get thee to Facebook, go!

Therefore, I created a page for all those interested in us, either near or on the fringe. Picnic pictures have been posted, others have posted, and a few days ago, I posted this:

CHS Open Adoption

Hey there, friends! Our FB launch has gotten off to an amazing start! It's great to see so many "liking" and sharing as our page already has reached hundreds!

Here's an item from our program's Statement of Beliefs: "We believe that dynamic adoptive practice engenders a spirit of community. We strive to promote adoption fellowships where experiences and common values are shared."

That's what we're talkin' bout! The more we all participate here, the more dynamic (and fun!) it becomes.

Please share your stories, pictures, thoughts, concerns, feelings, questions… anything at all that contributes to the great collage of our community.

I hope I've created a friendly thing, vibrant and free-wheeling. And I sure hope it finds its legs, like a newborn foal props itself on wobbly knees before kicking up dust. Or, like a golf green awaits as a rose among thorns. 

Diary, here's the the final news for today: I've joined a writer's group. Last summer I got wind of it, made application, and the members, all women then, seemed very generous and let me in. However, I later learned that I was the only male applicant who didn't write obsessively about his fantasies during non-stop masturbation sessions. I think the ladies were so relieved to see that my prose lacked (so far, at least) the jerk-off angle, that all at once I became a unanimous shoe-in. 

Every few weeks we sit at a round table in a lovely library that has power window blinds. There's fresh coffee and a spotless bathroom upstairs. The other five are fine writers, and are working on projects to hatch later on. They bring in for review their newest drafts so that the piece will bolster their literary concoctions. Their patience and endurance are remarkable.

I, on the other hand, offer nothing but a mish or a mash. While the others timely slave away, I delay  writing until the day before our meeting and usually have had no idea what I'll write about. Yes, these words right here shall serve as my excuse and fodder for my next presentation. I hope you don't mind, Diary. But my offerings are impulsively generated, like expulsions from a boiling cesspool. There's really no rhyme or reason or common thread to them, other than my claim to amass random renderings into something called a "blog". And how, you might ask, are my creative spewings received by my fellows?

Imagine you are seated on a stiff pew during a quiet church service on a typical Sunday. The sermon has been low key and uninspiring, a few of the older heads have begun to nod, and some of the God-fearing have begun to look at their watches. Then suddenly and without warning, a wild and unattractive man, completely naked, explodes from the side of the alter, and howling like a madman races at top speed down the aisle and out the front door. The skirmish lasts only ten seconds. Behold now the faces of your Protestant brethren. See how they are bewildered and stunned. Those, dear Diary, are the same faces I encounter after I've read aloud my mishmash. Those are the faces I will encounter after I have read this.

As I said, they are a generous lot. They are compassionate and helpful, but bless them, I always leave them at a loss for words. But in their and the world's defense, what possibly is there to say?

That's all for today, Diary. I'm sure I'll come back to you again and again as my ideas run dry. 

Donald Trump Press Conference

92nd Street YMCA, New York City, August 20, 2015


Before I begin, let me give you a moment to adjust to my new appearance.  You weren't expecting this and it may come as a shock.  Yes, I am, in fact, bald.  Please let this sink in, if you can, before we continue.

(Pause)

My Fellow Americans. The world's most spectacular combover is gone. This is fitting as it represents what brings me here tonight.  The masquerade is over. I stand before you now as my authentic self, without pretense and without malice, and with only good cause. I stand before you as both a bald and honest man.

My fellow Americans, the last thing in the world I want, or ever wanted, is to be is President of the United States. Well, I guess that's not completely true. When I was in fifth grade, my classmates and I had to give an oral report on what we wanted to become when we grew up.  My first sentence was, "I want to be President of the United States." It was not meant as a joke, but there was such an immediate eruption of hysteria that I couldn't continue.  Even my teacher, Mr. Shonkweiler, was dabbing his eyes with Kleenex. The humiliation was intense and I vowed over the next months, as the recess bullying continued, to exact revenge on all who doubted me. That I went on to ruthlessly amass a filthy fortune in real estate is traceable, one hundred percent traceable, to that anguish born in fifth grade.

But I was not a man without conscience. As the millions rolled in, I became aware of a sick self, the glamorous persona of Trump, who became an expert at playing the game.  More and more, I despised that self, but also felt entrapped in that robotic, ego-driven drive for business success. I mowed down competitors, obsessed about my net worth, but felt like hell.  I rode in limousines and a private jet, starred in my own TV show, but still felt like hell. I was so angry, and deep-down, I guess I was afraid, afraid that my driving fear would show.

The final straw happened last year on the 18th hole at Trump National.  Fifty thousand dollars was riding on a four-foot putt that I made a thousand times before with my eyes closed. I had my opponent by the throat. But when my putt lipped out, I convulsed like an epileptic and hurled my putter twenty yards up in the air before it nearly landed on a Mexican maintenance worker standing nearby. He sheepishly brought me the club which I snapped in two over my knee and threw both pieces into the greenside pond.

Then the worker, "Ezekiel" according to his unform, started to laugh. I turned on him glaring, and even though he tried to stifle, Ezekiel collapsed right there on the green and doubled up with great bellows of laughter. "You're fired!" I screamed, but he could not contain himself. On and on he howled. I kicked him in the gut where he lay, but still he laughed.  "You're fired!" I screamed again. Ezekiel finally whimpered to silence and brought himself to his feet, clutching his stomach.

"Don't you know who I am!" I demanded.

Ezekiel looked down at my feet and said in a soft voice, "Oh yes, sir. You are a crazy, crazy man. Would it help, sir, if you would kill me?" And he turned and headed slowly to the maintenance barn, and I could hear him laughing to himself as he walked away with a limp.

I felt defeated to the core, like I was in fifth grade again, but this time I had no taste for revenge, only a need for salvation. I had been brutalizing Ezekiel and countless others one way or another for years. Millions despised me, perhaps thousands admired me, but all that mattered was that everyone bow down to me.  Was I the embodiment of American success?  Was mine an American persona to be worshipped?  I was ashamed that my false self not only bought into the madness but that I had let it get this far.

Now at the turning point, I asked myself how I could best serve my country by righting these wrongs? How could I best use my experience and expertise? Then it dawned on me: for the good of the nation, I would trumpet my Trump megalomania to expose the whacked values that drive too many relationships and too many leaders. Greed at the expense of justice. Egomania at the expense of peace. Privilege at the expense of equality.

There was no better arena to get this done than performing in the Republican presidential campaign.  A million free sound bytes and wall-to-wall news coverage with all the bright lights of planet Earth bearing down. It was perfect. And so I unleashed a non-stop torrent of low-minded absurdity, racism, and bloated ego. My growing celebrity was assured as long as I held to this one common theme: "Just look at who I am!"

My friends, I spoke not a word about policy, but spewed endless insults and posed like Mussolini on a Roman balcony. You heard me. You saw me. I tried with all my might to be my former imbecile. I proposed to build a Great Wall of the Rio Grande to thwart a horde of Mexican rapists. And then I went down to the Mexican border wearing my golf shoes, for crying out loud. Could it have been more obvious? I tried to arouse such massive outrage at my ignorance and whacked values that a coming together would happen. Right wing and left wing. Rich and poor. White and non-white. I hoped a popular sentiment would proclaim, "We refuse to listen to Trump and all that he stands for! We're damn mad and we're not going to take it anymore!"

But in spite of it all, support for The Donald only grew. At this, my fellow Americans, I am utterly astounded. I expected so much more, but got far, far less. My God, what would it have taken to get you to turn against me? A demonstrated compassion for others?

This is why I appear before you tonight. The gig is up. The charade is over. The emperor wears no clothes or a hairpiece. I come to you now as I truly am: bald and honest.

I was a bullied boy, but today I am no longer that boy. I became a career bully, but that career is over. Please, please, please, my fellow Americans, I implore you: reject those that beat their chests. Fall in line behind true peacemakers.

I would take your questions, but I have an overdue appointment to keep with Ezekiel and his family.

Thank you and God bless you.