Sunday
I awakened here in Rancho Mirage,
looked out the window of my bedroom and could not believe what I
saw. There was my pool, with its light blue tiles and light blue
water, and a few palm trees, and then the golf course, and then
some other houses, and then the mountains and then the sky. It is
amazingly beautiful. Blue skies, occasional jet contrails. Great
stuff. Better go back to sleep.
I did that for a while, then swam for a long time. I watched the
contrails and thanked God for my wife, my son, daughter-in-law,
granddaughter, my Julie Goodgirl, the light of my life. I thanked
God for every soldier, Marine, sailor, Merchant Marine, Air Force
warrior, and every cop, every firefighter, every teacher.
I thanked God for my parents, their parents, my sister, and all
the Denman ancestors (those are my in-laws), pals like Wlady and
Bob and Phil and the girls and women who illuminated my days and
nights. As I swam, I tried to imagine what life was like for my
ancestors in the tenth century. It must have been horrifyingly
bleak and frightening.
They probably lived in some hellhole in Eastern Europe where
they starved, were cold and dirty, and beaten and killed by
Cossacks whenever the Cossacks felt bored. I wonder if they could
have even conceived of the way their descendant lives. When I was a
child, I could not have even dared think of living the way I live.
At most I thought I might have a little ranch house or '50s modern
the way my parents did, in Silver Spring. How did I get this life?
A gift from God, every single bit of it.
By the way, I won’t have it much longer. It is just too tiring
to maintain as many homes as we have. I can’t afford all of the
time and effort required to manage this many houses. Plus, I am
tired of all the travel. I really enjoy business travel more than
“vacation” travel. I like meeting people. That’s what I like to do.
I am a small town politician at heart. My ideal job would be just
to mosey around town asking people how they’re doing.
Anyway, I made my spectacular brunch — scrambled egg, sausage,
orange juice, English muffins, ate it, got dressed, and raced off
for my 12-step meeting.
The weather was perfect. 70 degrees, zero humidity, light
breeze. Perfect.
There was only a small crowd at the meeting and I was asked to
“lead.” That means I get to talk about myself, my favorite subject.
I mostly talked about what a bad, bad, boy I have been in the past,
in my substance-abusing days. I cannot believe the terrible things
I did. Just awful, involving drinking and driving. It is a miracle
that I am alive.
It is all a gift from God. I wonder what my ancestors thought
about God as they lived in some horrible hovel with chickens
nearby. They probably prayed constantly. If anyone has any idea of
how Jews lived in Eastern Europe in the tenth century, please let
me know. (On the other hand, there were all of those super good
looking Russian and Ukrainian girls floating around, I imagine.
Wow, they are really a marvel.)
At the meeting, we loitered for a time talking about tax
problems. We have them in a big way. It looks as if even once
income taxes go up to Clinton levels, still that won’t be enough.
We have to be realists: supply-side got us into a deep hole. Now,
we have to pay the piper to get out of it. We owe that piper a lot
of money and our good times, tax-wise, are over forever. Sad, but
that’s what happens when we make mistakes. We have to pay for them.
Please don’t bother writing me telling me what a horrible person I
am for not recognizing that low taxes pay for themselves by
generating economic growth. That’s just a fairy tale, for one
thing, and the longer we believe it, the deeper in the hole we
go.
Yes, I know this contradicts Friedman, but I also know Friedman
was occasionally wrong. He thought, for example, that the post
office was a real threat to freedom. He was a thorough genius and a
great man, but even great men are often wrong. Thomas Jefferson had
his slaves whipped when they didn’t work hard enough. He encouraged
them to produce children so he could sell them. He wasn’t a saint,
and yet he was Thomas Jefferson.
(I read about this in an article in Smithsonian
Magazine, a truly great journal.)
One of my vows for this year is to not think of men and women as
Republicans or Democrats but just as people and not to judge them
until I hear what they have to say. In fact, why judge them at all?
Why not just go to the Westfield Mall in Palm Desert, buy note
cards with little kitties on them for my wife, then come home and
sleep with my wifey and my dog next to me and the fire in the
fireplace?
Meanwhile, B languishes in prison. I got a letter from him
saying they were in lockdown and a number of the prisoners were
screaming obscenities all night long. It sounds dreadful. Plus my
pal A is going into what might be called a “fugue” state and my pal
M is broke and wants to borrow money from me.
Even my wife was crabby last night because she was so tired. We
had been to see Skyfall for the seventh time and I think
she was a bit angry at me for forcing her to see it so many times.
I can’t help it. I would see it every day, if I could.
It is the best story I have ever seen about sibling rivalry for
a mother’s love, and about how cruel mothers can be. The “villain,”
played PERFECTLY by Javier Bardem, truly was justified in wanting
immense revenge. I have never seen a villain who was so thoroughly
wronged and who simply could not be faulted for doing the harsh
things he did. The director, Sam Mendes, should get best director
for this. The performance he got out of Bardem was unique.
But to get back to the point, I did not pick up my wife’s
gambit. I just said that I knew she was tired and hungry and we
would get her some food and put her to sleep. Even saints can get
crabby when they’re hungry and tired. So, I fed her roasted
chicken, cornbread stuffing, cranberry sauce, peas, and gravy, and
she went to bed, and was happy.
For my part, I swam and watched the stars. They are the exact
same stars my ancestors watched in Samarkand or Kiev or Bilsk or
somewhere else. But how great to see them from a heated pool. No
one deserves to live like this. NO ONE. Thank you, God.
I do have a few little questions, though.
Mr. Obama has a cousin or an aunt or something on food stamps
and welfare. Why doesn’t he help her? He has a half brother who
lives in total poverty in Kenya in a tin hut a few feet wide with
no heat or cooling or plumbing. Why doesn’t Mr. Obama help him? It
has been reported that he helps neither, and yet he is a
multi-millionaire. What does that tell us about him? Nothing nice.
Can you even think if that were Bush 43? The media would crucify
him. And why don’t we blame Mr. Obama for his spectacularly
wasteful spending and his addicting millions of Americans to
welfare? He gets a pass from the MSM while Bush 43 gets strangled.
I miss Bush 43. He had charisma. I saw him on TV two nights ago
talking about how immigrants not only helped our economy but also
enriched our national soul. Inspiring.
Speaking of crucifixion… how long will we old people tolerate
Ben Bernanke crucifying us on the cross of zero interest rates? He
is essentially sucking our blood to give free money to his pals on
Wall Street. He is robbing us of the chance to earn a sane return
on our money supposedly to stabilize the economy. But we all know
that the banks are not lending except to the government even with
the ZIRP. The policy doesn’t accomplish anything for the ordinary
citizen and impoverishes us old people. The banks were not worried
about interest rates. They were scared of a worldwide insolvency.
They still are. So let’s allow interest rates to rise, and maybe
some old people will be able to live off their savings. It amazes
me that there has not been a major revolution about this attack on
the elderly.
Well, never mind. Time to get out of the pool, watch the
Military Channel, and then sleep. Sometimes sleep is the only
answer.
