PANDEMIC DIARY

WHAT DO WE TALK ABOUT?
November 14, 2020

"What do we talk about?”

“What do you mean”

“I mean, ‘what do we talk about’ when our President elect becomes President. Today, I am meeting with Marla and tomorrow I see Edna, Val and Cheryl. I’ve pretty much gotten over the fact that we will have a transition, and that the next 60 days will be disruptive, hopefully in some less than disastrous way,
and that there will be work to do and other causes to advocate for, but the fear and anticipation, the loathing and acrimony is already fading in noticeable ways - my shoulders are not up by my ears; my heart rate seems to have slowed; and, I see you, my husband, not as some onstage prop where the star actor is always center stage and screaming at the top of his lungs. No, the “Star” is gruffly walking offstage never to return, leaving me to realize who the male lead was all along. My hero. For the first time in four years, I wondered what my girlfriends and I will talk about now that the Orange Bogeyman is almost done with.”

“What did you talk about before the scoundrel took office.”

“That’s what I was attempting to recall. Maybe nothing much at all. Maybe it didn’t matter. We love being together, feeling that connection, laughing at the silliest of remarks, sympathizing about a loss, lauding an accomplishment, cheering each on through one of life’s many obstructions and challenges.”

“Well, you can still contribute all those aspects of yourself.”

“Yes, I know. But it still feels as if some air has been let out. Like a late night television host who has lost the object of his or her ire, lost the set up, lost the punchline and is left having to make jokes about Harry and Meghan. What will ‘HO-HUM’ feel like?

“By ‘HO-HUM’, I’m guessing you mean NORMAL?” And, normal is EASE. And EASE…is, well…normal.” Or should be.”

“I think I can accept that. But, in time. I would like to see normal return, but only after retribution. I want to be witness to a reckoning, an elongated, financially bankrupting, ego-costly, humiliating bloodletting, a family breakdown, incarceration, a popular rejection, a comeuppance, a public pummeling…ending…in…an ‘altering’..available on CNN.”

“How lady-like of you.”

“And, we need to remember that normal cannot mean indifferent or disinterested or apathetic. Ease is the culmination of hard work, the ability to let go following purposeful intention. We can no longer be complacent.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

(she becomes pensive) “You know, you were right.

“Oh, Yeah?”

“Yes. Now I am at ease. And, all feels normal. Thank you. I didn’t know what to think about this situation. You were a big help.”

“But, I…I didn’t say…”

(she kisses me) “You’re a dear.” (she leaves and on the way out)

“But, I, didn’t…”

{DISCLAIMER: The scene is wholly fiction; the characters made up. This was not an actual conversation)

PANDEMIC DIARY

WHAT, ME WORRY???

AUGUST 7, 2020

As a young man growing up in the Bronx, New York, my formative years were spent in the fifties and sixties. It was a period of economic prosperity combined with a greater and growing awareness of the importance and value of public engagement as related to individual civic duty. There were eight daily newspapers and two daily late editions.

• New York Daily News

• New York Mirror

• New York Post

• NY Times

• The Herald Tribune

• The World Telegram and Sun

• New York Journal American

• Newsday

• There were Chinese, Korean, Philippine, Muslim (yes, Muslim), Spanish and Jewish dailies.

• There was a weekly newspaper for every borough of New York.

However, easily the most anticipated event for me was the monthly arrival of MAD MAGAZINE. I was six years old when first published in 1952; Mad Magazine became an instant hit with the public. It was irreverent, slightly anarchistic adolescent silliness along with political and popular cultural satire. There was not a person, whether movie/television star, politician or religious leader, MAD did not buffoon. No subject was too sacred. And, the vehicle for all this madness was Alfred E. Neuman, a kind of proletariat Everyman whose face was often superimposed on those prominent public figures they chose to satirize. Their ‘modus operandi’ was in no way subtle, and it was highly effective. MAD was unforgiving, audacious, and scathing in its humor and commentary otherwise when it was not being totally absurd, goofy and camp “off the wall”.

The ‘one and only’, the Surgeon of Satire, the smartest ‘dumb-ass’ in the bunch. The inimitable
Alfred E. Neuman.

The iconic face, like no other, impossible to forget.

There is a social phenomenon occurring. Of course, this is just anecdotal, however it has shown up in casual conversations on several occasions. Women who hate Donald Trump, and there are scores of them, hate him with a vitriol, malevolence, and virulence the likes of which I have never seen or experienced. It started with simple wishes for him to die. Discussions of whether you could kill anybody ensued. Disputations on whether there is such a thing as justifiable murder ensued. Until all seemed set to save the world of this horror without loss of dreams or a night’s sleep. Was a tenuous morality revealed? Was it latent hostility fancifully spoken?

A 2020 version of the near seven decades old MAD Magazine.

To the more specific, the question arose, “Given the perfect opportunity and set of circumstances, could you will yourself to murder Trump? Very quickly, and without forethought, morality and ethics flew out the window like the ascension of a falcon in pursuit of its prey. “Yes!” They answered in a single, unfettered voice. It then became a contest as to what anyone would be willing to do to participate in his death. Would you shoot him, stab him,poison him, or run him over. As the stakes became higher the contempt grew and the anger and disdain drooled like vile liquid from their mouths. These women were so ready to do away with this excuse for a human. Well, let’s up the anti. The question then introduced was (and this was somewhat of a departure because you might get away with murder, but can you run away fro memory?), “Would you sleep with Trump as a plot to bring about his death. There was less of a chorus of agreement on this earlier in his administration. But, as time passed and he revealed himself an irredeemable, vengeful, fascist savant, women’s minds began to change. Adele, arose one day and declared, “In order to rid the world of this bastard, I would sleep with him and deal with the emotional consequences later.” By this time , Adele and her friends were pretty much a universal chorale of agreement. A harem of murderers singing belligerent hymns to survival.

Still, this did not suffice. Death was too quick. So here we are, pre-election, in a new phase. Women salivating for Trump’s suffering. It is not enough that he merely dies. He must suffer. He must witness the loss of all he values. He must lose face to the world. He must watch his empire fall. He must sadly sit on the sidelines as his children get picked apart. He must sit behind the defense table for the rest of his life hearing arguments, by-standing as reams of case law rip apart each and every venture. He must ensconce himself as his asceticism is fully uncovered, laid in front of the world, until he humiliates himself by failed attempts of hare-kari Trump-style, by eating himself to death consuming Super-size Big Macs.

Is this the face of helplessness and loss of empowerment? Or the opposite? Would women claim this power, even if imagined, in past generations? Are they rcountering Trumps misogynistic actions and words? Or, are they protecting our future and that of our children by a noble act of sacrifice? I don’t know the answer. Please tell us if you have had these thoughts.