Trump's Head is a Skin Tag

While all the world is pondering Donald J. Trump, I ponder the skin tag. Unlike Mr. Trump, skin tags are benign. Like Mr. Trump, they're fascinating. Skin tags can be slightly wrinkled and irregular, flesh-colored or light brown, and hang from the skin by a small stalk. Some may be as large as a big grape. In very rare cases, they can take on a strange orange hue and protrude upward from the necks of bankrupt casino moguls. As such, they resemble grotesque jack-o-lanterns. Removal of typical skin tags usually involves freezing or scissors. Removal of the very rare kind requires a guillotine.

My skin tag pondering is no accident. Some years ago two of them emerged in my left armpit and have been passengers in semi-hibernation ever since. They are meek and unassuming like never-used spices at the back of a kitchen cabinet. There they sit, but really, who cares. They are like fraternal twins, dangling from threads like punching bags, just hanging out without any agenda.

I often spy my boys when showering or changing my shirt. It had been a tender moment when my wife first happened upon them. Her discovery was, shall we say, a real mood changer. "Oh, my God!" she gasped. "What are those! You have leprosy!"

Note all the ridicule Trump has endured over the massive noodle nest on top of his head.  The guy looks like a greaser from Grease but without the grease. No matter, The Donald stands his ground and refuses to hack away at that horrendous hedge. In the same vein, you would think that that repulsive and intimate unveiling of my hideous growths might cause me to scramble for the scissors.

But my little guys have grown on me. Ashamed to admit it, but I named them: Pierre and Fatso. The littler one, the tubular dude with a crimson glow, the one with that certain "je ne sais qua"? That's Pierre. The sack-like and yellow fellow who looks like a cross between a whoopee cushion and the oozing thing in the horror film, The Blob? That's Fatso.

You don't just anesthetize your little buddies and then snip them away like so many toenails. Besides, my wife has evolved from revulsion to acceptance to downright hospitality. She might say, "C'mon, honey, give me a peak of Pierre and Fatso."

At my father's memorial service, the first line in my eulogy was, "I am told I have nice hair." I went on to talk about Dad's qualities (including his nice hair) that I inherited or have at least tried to emulate. In his last years, as weakness and dementia took over, he lived with us and I was his caregiver. I fed him, clothed him, and every few days, gave him a shower. He would step shivering and naked into the stall, and holding onto a handicap bar for support, the expanse of his back faced me dead on.

And what a spectacular sight that was. A hundred skin tags, moles, blemishes, pimples, warts, and other mysterious spots freckled his skin from neck to waist. It was like gazing up at the starry skies on a cloudless and moonless night. My sister, when first beholding Dad's back, said she was tempted to draw lines between the spots to create a map of well-known constellations. Thus far I haven't broken out in full blown skin anomalies, but I could have as easily begun my eulogy with, "I have skin tags, just like my dad."

Feel free to destroy or co-habitate with your own skin growths as you see fit. But let me be very clear: I do not, as yet, condone the use of a guillotine to eliminate Donald Trump's orange protrusion. I leave that to the left-leaning mob and the United States Senate. A massive American minority sees this bizarre growth as something regal and benign, like a fat French king living in Versailles. Time will tell if his name should be Pierre or something horribly misdiagnosed in need of a scalpel.

Dear Diary: Feeling Trumped

Dear Diary,

It's been awhile. It's not that I don't think about you. But I've been immersed in American politics like a mosquito encased in amber. You probably haven't heard about the election. But why would you? There you are in your eternal and digital universe, waiting like a date for me to tap on your front door. Thank you for being there, even though I show up as often as a Perseid meteor shower.

Anyway, the election. If you're interested in what happened, just get on the Internet, and google... Oh wait, that's right, you don't know the Internet. Diary, I'm not sure how to break this to you, but, well, I am not God. Your universe is more than me. The Internet is God, well, your god anyway. It's how you came to be. It's how you sustain existence. You can't see it, you can't feel it, and you can't smell it. You are part of it and it is all of you. Everything that is known, except for the human soul, is right there. You should see a "Search" button nearby. Go ahead and click it. If you want to know everything about mosquitos, for example, click on "Search", and type in the word. Welcome to your new and true universe.

But Diary, this entry is about me, not you. (And even though I am not your God, I'm still a nice guy, a tremendous guy, a big league guy. Trust me.)  I won't bother telling you all about the election because you can find out for yourself. The easiest way, and please forgive the language, is to google: "OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!"

I'll give you a few seconds for instantaneous digital digestion...

See what's happened? It's all there. Yes, Donald J. Trump, the bankrupt casino mogul with zero experience is the next President of the United States. He is beloved by racists. The Ku Klux Klan is holding a parade. He hasn't read a book in forty years. He admires dictators. He brags about his sexual assaults on women. See that loud bully on the playground humiliating that boy in a wheelchair? That's him.

Like I said, I have been encased in an amber tomb. But yesterday when I saw a political cartoon, I began my escape. It showed Trump taking the oath of office, but instead of raising his right hand, he takes the oath with his left hand in the Bible and with the great swath of his yellow hair rising erect and hand-like on the right side of his skull.

I clicked off MSNBC and slammed my laptop shut. I decided then and there to confide in you. Oh, Diary, it is impossible to reconcile that impending hairy oath with the solemnity of all that's at stake. This is why thousands now crowd the streets in protest.

A friendly neighbor of mine, desperate and hopeless, called and said, "I am so upset. What can we do about this?" I was very ready with a response: "Scream! Scream to amplify the deafening volume of your pain! Unleash this first surge of disbelief and anger in all its lawful forms! And when this wave of chaos fades, create pathways with a clearer mind and a healing heart. And we will rally in millions strong when the inevitable impeachment comes."

She paused, but said the reason she called was to ask that I keep my dog out of her yard. There were piles of his dog shit everywhere.

Life goes on, I suppose, dog shit and all. One notable politician commented that his favorite day in American history was not the inauguration of George Washington, or the surrenders of Germany or Japan, or the day Martin Luther King gave his famous speech on the Washington Mall. He said his favorite was the morning after Abraham Lincoln died. You see, the sun rose again.

But Lincoln was killed after the Civil War ended. These days the sun rises but feels muted. It feels like America has quaked and split into a divide the depth and width of the Grand Canyon. My own street feels like enemy territory, where Trump yard signs trumpet almost audible and vile messages into the air. These are my neighbors! I shall let my dog roam free.

When I was a young boy in the late 1950s, my family lived in Jim Crow Atlanta. One day when my friend, Phillip, and I were meandering through our neighborhood, we spotted a young black man walking down a sidewalk. We scampered to a position on top of a rise a safe distance away. And on the count of three, we yelled at the top of our lungs, "HEY NIGGER!" The man froze for a moment, saw us crouched on the hill, shook his head, and continued on his way.

My dear Diary, I am ashamed of what I did and the poison that propelled my seven year-old self to act that way. My parents never taught me to hate, but my Southern culture sure did. I'll never forget it. But I wonder whether the man forgot or as the years passed if he ever thought about that ugly moment. Probably not. I would guess it was but one of thousands of racist lashes that tore apart his life.

In that world, Phillip and I felt we had "permission" to behave as we did. That permission over the decades went semi-underground, it became politically incorrect, but the poison simmered and still struck victims. And now? Now Mr. Trump has granted renewed permission slips, so to speak, and we are seeing sanctioned insults in renewed force across the land. Bigotry is finding a new momentum.

I know, Diary. Who am I to care? I mean, just look at me on a Sunday as I lounge on my Lazy Boy, cracking open pistachios, watching the Lions game with a laptop on my lap, perusing my Facebook friends, and checking my investments during commercials.

I am not a minority, not disabled, not poor, not female, not a refugee, not gay, and not Muslim. These targeted people, the majority of people in the country, have every reason to be afraid. But why am I, privileged and white, also afraid?

The shame I feel now for that ugly incident in 1958 shows me. Poison spilled out and I violated him. And against a sacred trust, I also violated myself. I violated the community, and I violated all of humanity. Yes, I was only seven years-old in a Jim Crow world, but children today are treated to the same poisoned candy by our new Role Model In Chief.

This, dear Diary, is why I grieve. It's this rupture of poison. You will come to know the Internet, your new-found God, but be careful to separate fact from fiction. There's much poison there, too. In my universe, there's something present, eternally present within our being. I can't see it and I can't smell it. I am part of it, and it is all of me. But now, suddenly, I can hear it and I can feel it.