But what I am most grateful for is the ability to be grateful.  That sounds funny I know, but to me it means that at least thus far I have been able to see past certain inequities and real or perceived slights and put them in perspective.  It doesn’t mean that I won’t at times allow myself to feel rage, but generally speaking it’s a quick visit and doesn’t progress to seething animosity and hostility.  In fact, what’s so weird is that I will find myself about to blow over the silliest of things, like not getting corners to line up when folding a towel or trying to navigate the user option menu of my latest device.  As soon as I recognise that I am disproportionately angry about a trivial thing, I start laughing at myself and that has a strange cathartic effect that I am (you guessed it) grateful for.

There are many evil men and women in the world doing evil things that I simply cannot process as a human being, and sometimes I want so badly to see them punished and purged from society.  It is so easy to allow hate and rage and suspicion to color my various interactions with the world and the people in it.  But I think that precisely because it’s easy is why it is so unsatisfying in the (not so) long run. 

Ultimately, I think a better writer summed it up for me when he wrote that he was struck by a conversation two Jewish men were having while imprisoned in a concentration camp.  (Forgive me not remembering who wrote this and also that I am likely butchering the dialogue) One man saw the other on his knees and asked him what he was doing. The other man replied, “I was thanking God”  The first man asked him how he could do such a thing when clearly he had abandoned them there with such cruel and sadistic guards  who starved them and beat them without mercy.  The other mans’ reply was “I was thanking him for not making me like them.”  

That’s perspective if you ask me.

I’m a planner.  I get kidded about it, and that’s okay.  I used to kid people who washed their hands incessantly…I can imagine them picturing me in their minds and screaming “HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?”  So, yeah, I plan.  I’ve long subscribed to the idea that, like a sudden oxygen related emergency on an aircraft, it’s important for you to put your mask on first, so that you may tend to others.   (Speaking of aircraft, if I’m ever in the seat that has to operate the emergency door, we ain’t taking off until I have the damn blueprints to it)

This terrible event in our lives was not unforeseen.  Smart people all over the world have been sounding the alarm that we are not, globally speaking, prepared to deal with this kind of epidemic.  Maybe this episode will teach us that God, in her infinite wisdom, placed people here with certain skills or abilities and maybe, just maybe, we should listen to them.  We’re kinda funny that way.  We tend to elevate those that can sing or dance, or tell a good story.  Rightly so.  Ditto those who can run like the wind, or pull a tractor across a field with their testicles.  (Pretty sure the finals for that are held in Oklahoma or Arkansas) If we are injured or sick, our doctors are quickly elevated to near deity status, but, once we return to health, they go back to being over-billing hacks.  We trust chemists and scientists when they make vaccines or build bridges, but not when they tell us that Joe Robbie stadium (I refuse to call it the Hard Rock stadium) will probably be underwater in a relatively short period of time.

We don’t know what’s next.  Not in our immediate area, not nationally, not globally.  For a planner, this is problematic.  I do not envy those tasked with making decisions that could affect millions of people.

So all we can do is adjust whatever plan we had, and react to new information as it comes out.  Meanwhile, maybe let’s all cut each other a little slack?  Tempers will flare, people will say/do stupid things.  Look for ways to stay upbeat and help others do the same.

More tomorrow.

To my big blue group of competing coalitions known as the Democratic Party…whew!  Barring some seismic last minute shift, our nominee will be Joe Biden.  As I’ve said in the past, not my first choice, but a fine choice.  I voted for Warren for a number of reasons I won’t go into right now, but I got no problem with the older white guy who stood behind our first black President and never flinched.  He was the old workhorse to the thoroughbred Obama.  This is why he has so much street cred with black voters, a huge part of our Party. It was a remarkable thing for us older voters to see.  He’s shown a willingness to grow, and change, and he can withstand a vigorous vetting process.  He has for over 40 years.  Bland, sure.  But safe as rain.  One last thing…there are people who don’t know this incredibly rich piece of Joe Biden’s history.  In 1972, his wife and daughter were killed when their car was struck by a tractor-trailer.  His sons were badly injured.  Biden took the Amway train 90 minutes home every night to help nurse them back to health, all the while working in the Senate.  A single dad, he left standing orders with his aides that he be summoned at any time if one of his sons called.  Then, he lost his son Beau to brain cancer in 2015. Still Joe Biden seems to smile and be positive.

That’s a good man.

I guess I have to address why I ain’t feelin the Bern.  To me, at least, he is an un-vetted interloper.  True, he represented all 12 people who live in the State of Vermont for over 40 years…as an Independent.  You can do that in Vermont.  I found it more than a little irritating that he expected to use our Party’s infrastructure (that took decades to build) and then spit on what he called the Party Establishment.  Got news for ya.  I am the Democratic Establishment.  I am a former activist.  I have worked or volunteered for many different candidates, most of whom lost.   I donate.  But most importantly, I vote. Voters are the Establishment.

I’m pretty sure the hashtag “OK, Boomer” was aimed directly at me.  So, let me yell at the clouds here a little, hoping against hope that some younger voters will read this far down.  Kids, we been at this awhile.  Do you know what happened to at least three of our Democratic heroes?  Shot.  Dead.  Jack, Bobby, Martin.  We didn’t give up on the process.  We continued to fight, and it’s important to know what this looks like.

First, you have to know what the Democratic Party is and isn’t.  What it ain’t:  A bunch of old white men sitting in a room making decisions for the rest of us.  Oh, it used to be that way.  Especially in Chicago, or Boston.

What it is now:  It’s black, it’s gay, it’s unionized and non-unionized.  It’s old, it’s young, it’s entrepreneurial and it’s paid by the hour.  It’s hippies and hillbillies.  It’s business people and environmentally concerned people.   It is secular and devoutly religious.  It is comfortably ensconced in academia and it turns wrenches for a living.  It’s Toni Morrison and Rupi Kaur.  It’s Oprah and Ellen, it’s Karen and Jim.

More succinctly:  It is a group of competing interests all inhabiting the same tent.  It’s a big-ass tent.  The divisions are often easily exploitable, and our most craven and opportunistic opponents try and do just that. So, in the game of democratic politics, you form coalitions to gain power.  Takes years to even be heard sometimes.  Ask some older black voters, or any gay service-member.  Ask any woman who wants enough agency to make decisions about her own body.  Ask a Dreamer, for cryin out loud.

All the internecine battles that take place help us shape our platform.  Sometimes, we have just enough agreement to get something important passed.  But if we intend to make sweeping changes…these are the magic numbers:  218/60/1/5.  218 House seats, 60 Senate seats, 1 President, and 5 Supreme Court Justices.

It’s great to be inspired.  I am so happy that some of you are so passionate about our messy political process.  Just please understand that it is indeed messy and complicated. At the top of this post I said I would say what I will not do.  I won’t share, or allow anyone else to share unsupported attacks or vicious propaganda on my wall.  Against anyone, even Trump.  If it’s funny and harmless, sure,  go ahead.  I won’t unfriend you, but I’ll damn sure un-follow.  I can find that button on the book of faces.

What I will do is continue to fight for a government that looks after as many people as possible.  Note that I didn’t say just Americans.  We aren’t alone on the planet, and what we do affects others around the world, many of whom need our cooperation or support.  We are an incredibly rich country, we can afford it.  I will help this Party find ways to make basic healthcare available to everybody, regardless of the ability to pay.  I’ll help look for ways to subsidize pharmaceuticals so people don’t have to choose between paying for insulin or paying their rent.  I’ll fight for our Dreamers so that they can stop living in fear of being sent away to another country with which they have no connection.  In short, I’ll be a Democrat.

So, hey youngsters, welcome aboard!  We got bumper stickers and yard signs for ya!  LOL.  Maybe help us out with some fancy electric intertube stuff?  KTHXBAI

I’m not going to bore my readers (both of them!) with all of the gory details, but good gravy the treatment is a real bitch.  They basically microwave you for 35 days and pump Agent Orange into your bloodstream once a week for six weeks.  It’s rough.  It’s terrifying.  I know there are many people going through this, some of whom do not have the wonderful people I had around me.  The Primary Wife is a rock.  She knows a thing or two about this process and my doctors learned to shut up and do what she says.  She had my back…always does.  My daughter Cricket spent a ton of time with me through this whole ordeal, I will be forever grateful for the love and care she provided while I was down.  She put her plans on hold after college to help me and her mother get through this uncertain time.  Noah was and is away at college but he checked in and helped keep my spirits up.  I also had many friends not only check in, but actually visit and help.

I’m a very lucky man.

Some things they don’t tell you:  There is a mental aspect to this that you are not at all prepared for, and for me at least, this was as hard if not harder to deal with than the physical toll it extracts.  At first, it was rage, but not in the “why me?” sort.  I had 62 years of pretty good health, even though I taxed my body at every opportunity.  No, the rage was a reaction to feeling vulnerable.  I was just not equipped to deal with the feeling that if something required me to be present, strong and confident I would not have been up to it.  I was not accustomed to being dependent on others.  As I got stronger, this mostly passed.  Now, the mental challenge is dealing with the guilt.  I was around some very sick people on a daily basis while undergoing treatment.  Some of them are no longer around.  Others had next to nothing by way of a support system, and I can’t imagine I would have survived had that been my plight.  I had pretty decent insurance.  I received a level of care that others did not.  Yes, we took a big financial hit but thankfully our coverage has limits as to personal liability.  Knowing that other people went through this without similar coverage really bothered me.  Still does.

So, while the worst appears to be in my rear-view mirror, I am mindful that the road ahead is still a bit uncertain.  I feel grateful that I am not alone.

More later.

I’m a private person.  I wasn’t always this way, in fact I was in my youth, a sharer.  Possibly an over-sharer, despite not having the Book of Faces to assist.  In those days, long conversations

was in person or via the analog telephone, at first moored to a table, later, with 1000 ft cords that after the first use would coil up like starving python, and if you weren’t of firm grip, could rip the phone from your hand.  These days, it seems like any information can be easily weaponized and I for one cannot understand how we got to this place as a species.  Anyway…I haz cancer.

So last Spring I was shaving and noticed a lump on my neck, in my lymph node area.  I immediately sprung into action and began a vigorous “ignore it and it will go away” campaign.  I mean, I felt fine, great even, strong, sleek, wrapped in skin that belied my years…a mini God.  This, despite having a forty year addiction to alcohol and cigarettes.  (there is some irony here I’ll explain later)  The lump did not hurt, nor did it seem inclined to go away like any good guest knows to do.  I finally decided to wander into our local clinic, a drab, dreary and humorless place but they take our co-pay and I can walk there.  They prescribed a round of antibiotics.  Not wild about antibiotics,  after all, they are not to be taken with alcohol (I audibly gasped when I learned this) and they have a tendency to turn your colon into a thousand foot phone cord only filled with cement.  But I was relieved to hear this would fix it.  I dutifully took them while avoiding all   most  some alcohol.  The lump laughed this off and actually began mocking me while I shaved, at first by growing larger, later, when it thought it needed more of my attention, it would ripple gently and turn various pastel shades.  Back to the clinic and another co-pay.  The doctor, serious and stoic, consulted his book of medicine, conferenced with a pricey specialist and came up with a pretty ballsy plan:  ANOTHER round of antibiotics, this time turned to 11.  I didn’t poop for ten days.  Kinda liberating, actually, but I got behind (get it?) a little on my reading.  By this time, my lump became self aware and had a Twitter account.  The second round did nothing at all.  The clinic doctor took my face in his cold yet weirdly soft, attractive hands, looked me in the eye and said ‘I don’t like this, I’m sending you to a ENT. I said ok, and before I left I paid for services rendered and then asked the cashier what an ENT was.  Turns out there is this whole subset of doctors who could only afford to go to the part of medical school that covers the ears, nose and throat.  I mean yes that’s like a third of the body, but still.  So off to Springfield and another copay.

I could write like eleven paragraphs about the process there, but I’ll sum it up by saying that they really like to administer cat scans.  Sometimes they just strap you in and go for it, other times they inject wheel mixed acrylic paint into your bloodstream.  They really like their machines, and at 55,000 dollars a pop, who wouldn’t?  Eventually, a highly trained dedicated scientist made the diagnosis… “Mr. Casares, I’m afraid you have a lump.”

I’m as serious as, well, cancer.

Next on the menu was a biopsy.  Another IV catheter, some sweet drugs to relax me, and I swear to god some Jimmy Buffet music, and then they show you the piece de resistance.  It’s a needle, roughly the size of a school bus.  The radiologist hits the resin bag, grabs it with both hands, dons a pair of welders goggles and plunges it into my neck like he’s killing a White Walker.  When they finished, they thanked me for stopping my screaming and informed me they would notify me of the results in about a week.  A week???!!!  I was unable to grasp the notion that there would be a team of lump specialists in the next room, armed with potions and flasks and microscopes that would know the result before they stopped the bleeding from my neck.   That, it turns out, is not how modern hospitals work.  They actually farm this process out to the lowest bidder.  So, somewhere in West Texas, Armando the tech is processing my beloved lump tissue while playing Fortnight on his desktop.  (His tablet lacks the processing speed)

Then you get the call.

The doctor on the phone explained that I had HPV related cancer.  By now I was getting tired of using the Google or asking cashiers what the hell stuff means, so I pressed him for a better explanation.  It called Human Papillomavirus.  Now, that, for most people would be difficult to pronounce, but since I used to work at a french restaurant called Pamplemousse I immediately knew  I had grapefruit cancer.  So, I promised a a little irony, and here it is…As I admitted to upthread, I have had a long, passionate affair with both alcohol and cigarettes for over forty years.  I’d start my day with a Marlboro and and a cup of Maxwell house coffee.  I mean, Folgers is good and everything, but it costs more and well it’s hot, it’s brown, and deeply satisfying, much like myself.  Anyway, I’ve never been a day drinker, but come five o’clock I’m clutching a martini and cooking enough food for my screaming brats to keep the child services people from showing up.  Pretty much every day.  In my past, I owned a successful bar/restaurant/venue and I believe I drank a bit there.  Now, in my defense, I’ll say that I am a hard worker and I’m in bed by dark:45.  I’m old enough to know that the only people who stay up after midnight are serial killers, vampires and juggalos. (There is a surprising  amount of overlap among those demographics) I also exercise and I play a sport regularly.  I am routinely told I do not look my age.  So, I actually had to stifle a laugh when the doctor told me this particular cancer has nothing to do with my habits, good or bad.

Bottom line?  Death in six months unless I permit them to nuke me for six weeks, as well as inject Agent Orange into my bloodstream on a weekly basis.  It took me a minute to decide. Today I’m about 1/3 of the way through the treatment.  One note, with  little more delicious irony:  I’m in the demographic least likely to get this disease….Hispanics.  Anyway, I will say this, roughly 80 percent of the adult population has been exposed.  A tiny fraction of people will have the virus mutate, and an even smaller amount will have it manifest to cancer.  I KNEW I should have listened to more mariachi music!

More tomorrow.  Or the next day.

I was a victim of Madison Ave’s influence, early on I thought the acquisition of things was a worthy pursuit during my time here on this rock.  I did not think what I was chasing was unreasonable, I wanted the nice house, the sexy car, maybe a nice suit to wear to work.  It took decades for me to understand that, globally speaking, those were extravagant goals.  I’m not prone to feelings of guilt, at least not to the extent that I will let past personal failures define who I am.  That said, it is difficult sometimes to allow myself to enjoy the finer (material) things in life, especially knowing that roughly twenty percent of the people on the planet lack clean drinking water.  I suppose that makes me a bleeding heart Librul.

Alternatively, perhaps, I am someone who really wants our system to work, both to protect what I have managed to accumulate and to make sure others have the opportunity to do the same.  The American dream is still in it’s infancy, historically speaking, but my fear is that for too many of us, it is the ultimate empty promise, something we chase because we are supposed to, but one that leaves us unsure if we’ve actually achieved it.

It may well be that the post WWII era set the standard too high from the jump.  There was a big push toward infrastructure.  and we got world class dams and highways.  We wanted to provide opportunity to our returning Veterans, so the emphasis was affordable housing and the G.I. Bill.  We were still an industrial economy, and job stability was a given, as was a pension plan that would reward a lifetime of work with some measure of security.  With the exception of the G.I. Bill (which is not the same as it was but still exists) those things are gone.  Let that sink in.  They are gone.  No one is building affordable housing.  Before some of you point out that “affordable” is a relative term….I think we can safely assume that new construction in our little boom town consists primarily of luxury condos and custom homes.  Most working people will not be buying either of them.  Pension plans are few and far between, replaced by a system so corrupt, so rigged, that few Americans will ever be able to count on their participation in one to provide a secure and dignified retirement.  Ask the people who worked at  Enron how stock options worked out for them.  Even Social Security is beginning to look like yet another empty promise, which brings me back to this…..

We’ve been had.  All of us.  To some degree, we have all bought in to some form of tribalism or another.  We are being encouraged to do so by those who want to loot our treasury while we clobber each other for any number of ginned up differences, racial, gender, economic class, the list is way too exhaustive to try and list.  When a large enough group finds some collective mindset and decides to reshape or improve our system of government or the economy, it becomes a target for those with a stake in maintaining the status quo, and they are ruthless about it.

We used to value the journalists among us who’s job it was to shine a light on corruption or ask the questions that needed to be asked for all of us.  What we have now is largely a media consisting of one dimensional shills for one group or another.  Others within it are too worried about protecting their gig to truly report what is being done to us by the rich and powerful.  Sure, there are exceptions, I really admire the people at Vice news for at least taking a stab at reporting real issues and legitimately compelling stories.   There are still old school editors and free-lance journalists among us who look for the truth and report it, sometimes at great personal risk.

Today, I don’t have answers for these problems.  Even if legit answers are offered by people smarter than me, they will likely be drowned out in this sea of noise we’ve paddle around in every day.  All I know is, I do not want to be part of the problem.  I do not want to buy into this tribalism, it is the thing that is being foisted upon us much like leisure suits were in the 70’s.  Yes, I have real trouble with those on the Far Right, but no more than I do with the Purity Posse of the left.  So, I don’t plan to deal with extremists of any kind.  Rather, I intend to engage with anyone who seeks to find common ground with me, as I believe our failure to do that will bring about the end of our once great Nation.  We can hammer out the details after I’ve learned you’re not a Nazi in disguise, and you have learned that I am not a baby killer.  Let’s start there

*And, my beard has indeed grown longer overnight. Bonus points if anyone can tell me where I am in the pic.

I’m trying very hard to keep from posting photos of dead children.  One reason is that seems emotionally manipulative, and the other more obvious reason is that they are just so hard to look upon.  I may not be able to refrain much longer.  If it takes photos of Syrian children gasping their final breath to jar people, well so be it.  We need to decide who we are as a country…

It’s nearly impossible to put the politics of the region aside.  This war (like all wars) is about resources and who controls them.  The British, France, Germany and America were stoking the fires of radical Islam way back in the 19th century as a way to justify occupation.  It still goes on today.

At this point, I just want to see Bashar al-Assad removed from power and jailed.

I am currently reading Neale Donald Walschs’ “Conversation With Humanity” which helped put the last piece in place, and prompted me to begin.

More later.

Tonight I’ll be heading to Vanderbilt to watch my daughter participate in a debate with the college Republicans (both of them?) on the issues of immigration and foreign policies.  I never encouraged her to join the college Dems but it seems clear she wants to engage, and that makes me proud.

My legion group platoon duo of readers probably want to be brought up to speed on happenings here at Coyote Creek, so, here goes:  The family is happy and healthy, we lost Rocky, MeHa, and Chipper, but gained a Cookie and a Georgia. The horses and goats are fat.  One child is at Vandy, the other is about to be in his last year in high school hell.  Neither of them are fat. Your handsome host finally escaped from a cult that required a daily sacrifice of self-respect and punished any sign of innovation or human-ness.  I am back to wandering in the woods with my arsenal of discs and actually enjoying life as an old person.

Caught up?  Good.  Appreciate ya stopping by.  Do it again.