Blessedly ‘Movember’ has nearly run its course

I am happy the ‘Movember’ thing is nearly over. Not that I, as a male, don’t support the prostate cancer cause, it’s just that I don’t ‘do; mustaches.

And the truth is, most men do not look well with upper lip hirsuteness.And men who should have more sense than to grow one, do indeed grow them for the sake of that aforementioned cause. Thank God it’s only for a month.

Mustaches are like bowties (another of those cyclical fashion things) that should only bedeck the necks of certain males. Winston Churchill and Groucho Marx come to mind, along with Dagwood Bumstead. If Dagwood had worn a long tie it would have covered up that curiously huge single button in the middle of his shirt.

But, back to ‘stashes. They simply do not work for most. They can give an evil and sinister look to some men (it may be worthy of note that no US president since Teddy Roosevelt ever was elected if he happened to be mustache adorned. Thomas E. Dewey came closest and it was actually believed that the mustache sapped his credibility in Middle America.

I grew one once and even have some old photos somewhere showing me with sort of a blondish mess beneath my nose. It looked horrible and did not last long. I later opted for a full beard, which looked better – but not much.

But, for some, the mustache is an almost essential accoutrement. It ‘works’. It works to the degree that the normal mustache wearer looks naked and ineffectual without it.

Who are the great mustache-wearers of our culture?

Clark Gable: In his early films, like It Happened One Night, he was clean-shaven. Thus, he was an able enough actor, but not necessarily thrilling. But then the mustache came in the late 1930s, and nobody could conceive of Rhett Butler having the panty-wetting dash he did were he devoid of the mustache.

Tom Selleck: The poor-man’s Gable in many respects would never have been Magnum if he had been cleanly shorn. If seen him in the odd vehicle without one and it just doesn’t work.

Sam Elliott: Generally given to playing grizzled cowboys these days, the dude (pictured above) defines what a wonderful retro full mustache should be. How could you not trust a man who looked like that? Again, clean-shaven he is pretty much nothing, but in full bloom, it all works.

Groucho Marx: Good old Groucho, he gets to be mentioned twice in this blog, and he deserves to. In his early stage and film work he was minus mustache, but the image of having one worked so well for him that he painted it on. Later, in You Bet Your Life days, the mustache was for real. The Groucho leer would have never worked without it.

George Clooney: Sometimes he’s had one, sometimes he hasn’t. The bastard would look good in anything, alas. I hate males that even other males can recognize as being too good looking for his own good.

Burt Reynolds: In the days when he still had some credibility – and prior to some atrocious cosmetic surgery – Burt had a certain amount of dashing impact. Again he has been clean-shaven and mustached. Mustached always worked better.

Grandpa Walton: Of course. All good grandpas have trustworthy looking mustaches. Mine did.

By the way, I am not planning to grow one. It would still look dorky on me.

Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt

An old friend met with me for lunch one day. It was a nice encounter since, even though I have known him for over two decades, we rarely cross paths, since he lives in Ontario, and I am in British Columbia. However, he was out visiting his elderly mother, and thought he would give me a call.

I didn’t realize when he contacted me that he had a motive other than just a long-duration friendship. He wanted to share some thoughts with me. This became apparent part way into our lunch, after we had exchanged all the usual pleasantries.

I had been sober for a number of years then, and during my sobriety I also gained credentials as a certified addictions counsellor. So, my friend wanted to tap into my embracing of sobriety after many years of alcohol abuse, and he also wanted to tap into my counselling skills.

I knew that Rob (not his real name) was a bit of a pot smoker. It was a substance that was never my drug of choice, although I tried it a number of times during my drinking days. Quite frankly it did little for me. But, a mind-altering substance is a mind-altering substance, and having worked for some time in a drug and alcohol rehab I was highly familiar with all intoxicants and how they worked.

I should add that about a year prior to our meeting, Rob had undergone a personal tragedy in the death from cancer of his beloved wife. She was only about fifty at the time of her death and Rob (about the same age) was still reeling from that and having a difficult time getting centred. In that, he was also smoking a lot of cannabis.

To look at him, you would never suspect it. He is a very successful man, high up in the Canadian bureaucracy, and the farthest thing imaginable from the stereotyped image of the sluggish, slacker pothead.

He told me that he appreciated how I had managed to kick booze (I was about eight years sober at the time), and he felt he would like to do the same with marijuana and wondered how difficult it would be for him. I asked him how much he smoked. He told me that his consumption was at least six high-test joints per day. By any standard, that’s a lot, especially considering the THC levels of contemporary pot. But, I made no judgment, and I let him continue with his story.

“It came to me after Allison (not her real name) died that never, in all the years we’d been together had we ever made love when I hadn’t been using,” he said. “We never once were intimate when I was completely straight. I’ve been smoking for so many years that I would have no idea what that feels like.”

It was a sad statement, but it was one with which I could empathize. In my brief duration and highly tempestuous second marriage I don’t believe I even once bedded my wife when I was fully sober. In fact, she was rarely sober, either, since we both abused alcohol. Needless to say, the drinking was a huge factor in the demise of the marriage because, with a colossal booze intake on both our parts, if we weren’t making love, we were making war. Many things about that failed marriage fill me with regrets, but alcohol-fueled intimacy is one of the greatest regrets of all. As an aside, I might add that in my current, very happy marriage, I have always been sober, and my wife and I have never been in an ‘altered’ state during our ‘close’ moments. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And that was essentially what I told Rob, when I conveyed my story. I said that it was too late for him to do something about it now but, should a future relationship come about – and I would have little doubt that such a thing would happen; he’s a good looking, highly intelligent and charming man with a vibrant career – then perhaps he should look into getting away from that particular intoxicant. I added that maybe he should also ponder the fact that substance abuse had perhaps not let him go as far in his career as he might have hoped for.

We finished our lunch that spring day, and he told me he had to return to Ontario the next day, but that he would be back out later in the spring, and we would get together again for further conversation.

That never happened, and it has now been many years. I tried e-mailing him but was informed that his e-mail address was no longer operative. He, of course, has never e-mailed me again. Perhaps I was too truthful. Perhaps I told him something he wasn’t prepared to hear. Whatever is the case, I hope he has found the strength to address his ‘problem’ much as I was allowed to address my own.

.

Oh demon alcohol, sad memories I can’t recall, or part 2,743 of a world progressively going mad

When was it that alcohol stopped being the drug that costs more lives than all others combined?

Never, from what I understand.

When did booze cease being implicated in domestic violence, forced sexual encounters (ie rape), brawling, and murder? Again, never.

Now, I write this as a recovered alcoholic, nigh on 20 years sober since I made the best decision I have ever made. I put the plug in the jug and never looked back. Booze and my abuse thereof virtually cost me a lot of years of my life and I had no one to blame but myself.

Now, if you think this is an anti-alcohol tirade, you would be wrong. Handled well and sensibly (and I did that a few times) there is nothing more pleasing than a fine wine, a good single-malt, or an icy brew on a hot day. The trouble is, some of us were unable to stop, so some of us have kissed it good-bye and suffer no further delusions about the piss.

And this is why I find myself aghast at what is happening in this province with flagrant disregard of the dangers of unfettered access to booze. We used to be ridiculously uptight about access and the good stuff was stored in those vile old ‘likker stores’ with blanked out windows so the tiny tots could not see what evils were on the shelves therein. That model was insulting and demoralizing. I still remember those odd shaky Sundays in which I’d drive well out of town to find a local store that had been granted a liquor licence and which could sell on the sabbath. The official ones could not and that made for a lot of thirsty drunks.

Now it has gone the other way and I am left wondering WTF are they thinking of? Booze is to be, if the plans go through, available virtually everywhere. If you want to get a snootful at the barber shop or movie house, you will be able to. That’s right. Businesses that have no connection with the purveying trade will, if they choose, make the ‘good stuff’ available. Now in grocery stores, that’s one thing. But if your lady is getting a bikini wax does she need a good belt to help the process go unstubbly?

I think not. I find it ludicrous. Drunk drivers kill people galore every year. “Hon’ I’m going for a haircut and I may end up getting shitfaced.” My question is, who the hell asked for this? Did anybody ever say, what this salon needs is a good bar? I somehow don’t thinks so. Or if they did, it may be an admission they have a problem.

In these Trumpian times the world has gone a bit mad, I think.

I’m far from being the best I can be, but as the Beatles sang: ‘I’m getting better all the time’

I etched this out a few years ago. Time to check in and see how I am doing.

Rules o’ life to be aspired to

 

1. A tendency to think and act spontaneously rather than on fears of past experiences. Ha. Not very successful in that regard. Not crippling but irritating. Spontaneity, how is that defined?
2. An unmistakable ability to enjoy each moment. This is an aspect of me that has vexed all my life. I have had wonderful adventures through everything from travel to sex and a whole lot in between. Yet, I often feel I am not right in the moment. I can look at photos of say the Cook Islands, Hawaii or London and think that I was there and it was lovely, but did I get the full impact at the time. I can think of women I have ‘been with’ (a polite way of suggesting torrid intimacy) and the memories can be delicious, but did I fully appreciate the moment or moments? God. I hope so. Otherwise, what a waste
   
3. An unmistakable ability to enjoy each moment. Ties in with the preceding item. But the point being, it is an ‘ability’. Have I learned to do so. I hope so – sorta, kinda. It’s a learning curve thing. It’s all about being ‘present in your life.

4. A loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others. They gonna do what they gonna do regardless of what you want so let it go. This one is tougher than it seems.

5. A loss of the ability to worry. Worry is an ‘ability? Who knew?

6. Frequent, overwhelming episodes of appreciation. We get into depressive episodes of dwelling on the negatives. I know I sure as hell do. Take the recent and hideous American election. Nothing I can do about Trump being the leading fuckpig of the known universe, so I extend my appreciation to the Obamas and their inspiration and that leaves me with hope for the world that there are others of their ilk.

7. Contented feelings of connectedness with others and nature. I love a walk in the woods with my wife and dog. I adore my friends; some of them perhaps more than they know or more than I have told them.

8. Frequent episodes of smiling. I smile a fair amount Smiling and laughter I do believe are good for the soul and mental health.

9. Letting things happen instead of forcing things to happen. I have gotten better at this, I do believe.

10. A willingness to be vulnerable and show emotions. I have always been vulnerable and emotional and I accept that. Latterly I have noticed that the cries of babies make me misty. I like that.

11. A giving and receiving of love without strings attached. As the great Hank Williams said: “Unchain my heart and set me free”. And that’s what it’s all about – freedom.

Tricky-Dick was as dishonest as the day is long, but he was saintly compared with Trump

I once thought that Richard M. Nixon was the vilest person to hold the office of US president.

That was then. This is now. In comparison to the Trump-dump, old Tricky Dicky, he of the perpetual five-o’clock shadow, was a pussycat, a mensch. So I was wrong. I thought then that the US could not stoop lower. But now they have gone and stooped as low as is possible. If they can stoop lower then stop the world, I want to get off.

At one time ‘Tricky Dick’ declared “I am not a crook.” Pretty darn debatable. We all knew that. Even arch-rightist Barrie Goldwater ultimately concluded the bozo was indeed a crook. And as the story played out he was eventually turfed from the presidency.

I write these words out of bias. I detest Donald Trump. I revile everything about him. Nothing new in that. I have despised him for years. And no, I am not anti-capitalist. But I am also pro-honesty. He is a profoundly dishonest man. You know how you can just get an instant hate for certain people? Trump is one of those. I hate his bullying tones; I hate the way he looks; I hate his abusiveness. I never watched his disgusting TV shows in which some people – I guess – were entertained by his abuse of those he deemed inferior. The sad aspect of such a narcissist is that he didn’t recognize that in the eyes of decent folk he was inferior to the welfare ‘bum’ who panhandled on street corners.

There have been a number of US presidents during my time on the planet. Some IS liked. Some I disliked. I wasn’t hugely keen on the Bush clan (pere et fils) but they were saints compared with Trump. Surprisingly (perhaps) I thought JFK was overrated whereas LBJ was unfairly granted short-shrift. And Jimmy Carter was just too damn nice for a horrible job. A good man, but a kind of poor president. I am, however, a huge Obama supporter and have been from Day 1)

We carry on, I guess, with an elected swine who is as dishonest as the day is long and hope to survive. I send a message of love to my dear American friends.

If we’re going to show dirty stuff then let’s get dirty is all I’m saying

Photo on a Facebook entry shows a woman seemingly in the throes of amour atop her male partner and, as somebody aptly pointed out, she is wearing a bra. Who does that at such an intimate moment? Nobody I have ever encountered.

Yet such modesty is still rampant in TV-land. This is akin to the regular depiction of the woman parting the bed after coupling and heading off to the loo, during which process she either wraps the sheet around herself or is inexplicably wearing panties. How did consummation take place, one would be well to ask.

While the cinematic world has become more honest and graphic in its depictions of what a lot of otherwise respectable people refer to as ‘fucking’, TV seems to have a long way to go in terms of getting real. And in that I don’t mean just real in terms of the wanton behaviours of rampant horndogs but also in terms of the behaviors of good God-fearing Baptist sorts who also doff all their duds when they are fulfilling their nuptial duties. Some of them may “ utter the odd dirty word when it gets good, as long as they are not blasphemous words. I don’t know if “Oh God!” at a high point qualifies as blasphemy.

No, much of television, in lieu of being honest about sexuality, has lapsed instead into nudge-nudge innuendo, or rampant vulgarity. I hate vulgarity because it is suggesting that broadcasters and the people who make this stuff still think human sexuality is a kind of icky thing and must be regarded with an excess of juvenile humor. Juvenile humor is a misstatement because it is rarely humorous, just juvenile.

By television here I am referring to regular network stuff, by the way. I know that HBO and other ‘pay per view” options are more frank and candid as pertains to full frontal nudity (complete with naughty bits) and graphic sexuality. All of which means it’ll cost you money to see the spicy stuff, and therefore you just may as well porn-surf.

I also notice that UK productions aren’t quite so nicey-nicey, and that can be rather satisfying since British production values and writing are usually superlative.

This left us in North America a couple of years ago with the sluttly pseudo-sexuality of a Miley Cyrus – who is a smart little minx since she knew her fakery would get all the neo-puritans cranked up and maybe secretly turn them on. It seems to be either Miley or coupling with vampires.

In conclusion I can only say the inclusion of undies in scenes of sexual behavior only indicate to me that a lot of people are not comfortable with their sexuality.

What a pity. It’s really rather fun.

Did you ever really, really, really, really dislike somebody?

First let me set the record straight regarding my philosophy of getting along in life: I believe with all my heart in the power of forgiveness.

There have been people in my life who have done things to me I deem unconscionable. But, to balance that, I have done things to others that might be regarded in the same way. And you know, it’s probably good, for a time, to have a profound mad-on for an individual who has shoveled dirt on you. And in the case of some situations, I find myself still picking out bits of grit. But, you know, that’s the way life goes.

But forgiveness is powerful in the sense that it liberates the psyche and it stops a former enemy from having control over your conscious and unconscious thought processes. Wanna be free of impediments, then forgive-forgive-forgive.

Added to which, hatred is deemed to be a sin, and for good reason. Hatred, if unchecked, can lead to: wars, homicide, suicide, drug abuse, depression, and so on. It’s a negative emotion and not one to be trifled with. Hatred is hatred. It’s nothing to do with not liking somebody. No sin in that. Some people just irk a body, even piss a fellow or girl off, but hatred is different, and it’s relentless if left unchecked.

I have forgiven virtually everybody who has hurt me in my life. If the person is dead I have written a posthumous letter stating my case and offering my amends. Likewise I have done it in person to some, and the results have been marvellous. The air was cleared and a new freedom dawned.

Of course, such an act of contrition doesn’t always mean you come together with the other person. Sometimes it’s still better to move on, but there is no impediment to your personal freedom, and that’s what it’s all about – just like the hokey-pokey.

That being said, however, I know I shall never be a candidate for sainthood. And that is because there is one guy I will not forgive. I have no such plans. In fact I take pleasure in hating him. He’s not my nemesis for he has no power over me, but my utter contempt for this person keeps me honest in myself and I happily wish him nothing but ill, even though I know my cursing of him will never give him a crisis of conscience because he has none.

What he did was some terribly dishonest things to me and ‘used me’ relentlessly and spent the whole time sporting a double-visage Janus mask. He invented duplicity.

And in saying the above I don’t wish him dead. It’s good for my soul to have him around. I was once having coffee with a friend and during our conversation I outlined my antipathy for this guy in no uncertain terms. I then looked around the joint and realized the guy was sitting not too far away and was definitely within earshot. I then turned to my coffee companion and said:

“God, I hope he overheard me.”

And that, friends, is what a truly gratifying hatred is all about.

If it’s ever coming it’s taking a helluva long time

Since I wrote this a few years ago the E&N continues to live in an alternative universe and despite assurances to the contrary, it remain moribund, Is there hope for it? I remain hopeful, but I was also hopeful that Hillary would win the US election, and look how that turned out.

Before you proceed with this it’s important, though not vital, that you understand a little bit about the Esquimalt and Nanaimo Railroad. I have included this for a smattering of background and also because I like history.

Esquimalt and Nanaimo are two towns on Vancouver Island, off the west coast of British Columbia, which is on the west coast of Canada. I am being geographically precise just in case you, the reader, know little about the area. If you don’t gain this basic understanding of the place then the stories you are about to read won’t lose any of their charm whatsoever, but you’ll, at the same time, feel better situated.

First, understand that Vancouver Island is not islet sized. It’s the largest island on the west coast of North America, being four-hundred-and-sixty kilometres long and around one hundred kilometres wide at its most girthful point. The kilometers reference is used, by the way, since that’s the way they measure things on Vancouver Island. So, anyway, it’s a big place, relatively, and compares in size with the Netherlands and Taiwan. Well, the Netherlands isn’t actually an island, but you get the drift.

The E&N these days is part of a national passenger entity known as Via Rail. Via Rail is something like Amtrak, only even less efficient or caring. Via does not like the E&N and there will be more snide and bitchy editorial comment about that later.

The E&N, appropriately enough, is named for the Island communities of Esquimalt and Nanaimo. Esquimalt was created in the mid nineteenth century as a Royal Navy base, and it continues with its military function to this day. Virtually a suburb of self-impressed Victoria, the provincial capital, Esquimalt was chosen as a natural starting point for the railroad in 1883 by coal baron Robert Dunsmuir due to the naval base and in recognition that naval vessels needed coal for fuel. Dunsmuir’s main coalmines were to be found around the mid-island community of Nanaimo, so it was obvious that the terminus should be in that fledgling town.

Ideally the E&N was designed to complete the agreement with Ottawa that brought British Columbia into the Canadian Confederation and it was deemed a part of the Trans Canada Rail System. Needless to say, and in terms of that agreement, the rail line was short-funded and cheated from the get go and Ottawa’s agreement was not honored by, of course, Ottawa.

In 1905 the E&N became an aspect of the Canadian Pacific Railroad and it was extended at the south end into Victoria proper. A reality that Victoria, for some bizarre reason, has been fighting against ever since and continues to do so. As an example, the new and largely unneeded Johnson Street Bridge in that city makes no provision for rail trackage. That notwithstanding, northerly it was extended to the west coast deep sea port of Alberni and eventually, by nineteen fourteen, to its current northernmost terminal, Courtenay. Just in time for the First World War. And Courtenay has remained to this day as the northern terminus, despite the fact the line was surveyed through to Campbell River some forty-five kilometers further north.

In its heyday the line was well-utilized hauling freight and supplies to and from the communities served by the grand total of fifty-three stations en route. Until a highway link was established connecting those communities, the E&N was essentially the only way to travel. But, rubber killed the railroad, as it did in so many other parts of North America and rail use continued to decline throughout the years of the twentieth century.

Any rail service is, of course, a carrier of goods and it’s in that freight haulage where the money is made. But, there is also the passenger service, and that’s where railroad romance is realized and perpetuated and that’s the area in which this much-beleaguered line is connected to the tales that follow here.

It’s not the Orient Express, the Royal Scot, or the hugely long coast-to-coast rail lines in Canada and the US. It’s a clunky, bumpy, swaying two hundred and forty kilometre ride, twice a day, up and down the Island. It’s much spat-upon by the funding-purveyors and generally disregarded by politicians at all levels and has stopped and started more times that most would care to remember. The ancient Budd cars are victims of their age and if one is familiar with the sleek railcars to be found in places like Switzerland and France, one can only weep a little bit and think we should be so ashamed.

But, despite the adversity, it is Vancouver Island’s much-loved and far too little used own Toonerville Trolley, and there is romance and adventure to be found therein, despite the fact it’s not a trolley, and assuredly with all due respect to the creator of those earlier animated tales, Fontaine Fox.

I get by with a little help from logic and maybe even God

I have opinions. Of course I do. Opinions that I hope are moderately well-considered and founded on as many facts of the situation that I’ve been able to discern.

I even have politically-motivated opinions. Not necessarily mainstream politically-motivated (I am suspicious of party politics since most of the views held by parties are more about the parties than they are about the well-being of society).

And generally I keep my opinions to myself while admittedly sometimes being susceptible to a knee-jerk response. In that I am human and in that I often find out I’ve been wrongheaded when more information comes my way.

What this ramble is all about is the fact that I, of late, have been hit on Facebook and in emails by no small number of petitions in which those that send them want me to back their drive for whatever.

All I can say is, good luck with that. Especially as it applies to my involvement. I generally don’t rally to ‘causes’, even well-principled ones because, mainly, they are causes and there are some who subscribe to certain views with whom I do not share philosophical principles. So, I don’t want my name to be included with theirs in some sort of a general mix.

I make my own decisions. Well, sometimes my wife helps, but you know what I mean.

Part of this philosophy – if it is indeed a philosophy – is based on the fact that I’m a longtime journalist so in order to maintain credibility I like to play my cards close to the chest so that nobody will question my objectivity.

My friends run the spectrum of politics and God love them for it. We live in a democratic society and they are entitled and if such individuals have political views I don’t share, but they are otherwise human beings I value, then I don’t give a rat’s-ass how they vote or what causes they rally to.

It reminds me of the time when I had an ongoing newspaper column and was stopped on the street by a reader who, while gratifyingly a fan of my column, wondered why I never declared myself politically.

“Why should I lose half my readership?” I asked him. “Those that don’t like my politics will simply stop reading me and I will forever be seen as biased.”

Now, on FB, for example, I will share items with which I agree, or I will ‘like’ certain postings by others, but my likings are based on general ethical principles and philosophies rather than partisanship.

Otherwise, what I believe really shouldn’t matter a fig to anybody in terms of whatever respect they might have or might not have for me as a person. I may fully agree with a stance taken by a friend whom I respect, but I won’t necessarily rally to a cause.

Maybe I’m a coward. Maybe I should be prepared to be more ‘out there’. I possibly don’t want to commit because somebody might offer a counter-argument that is closer to my actual belief system.

In saying all of this stuff, I do have a belief system. I think it’s largely situational in the sense that one-size fits all arguments make me wary. You know, it’s a bit like believing or not believing in God. I admire those people who can come right out and say they are atheists. Gee, I’m not sure I want to do that. What if I’m wrong and there is a God and He gets me for that? Then I’d be damned to perdition for a bit of sophistry.

So, maybe there is a God and He understands that I evoke His name when I need a little help and my friends or loved ones just aren’t cutting it in my foxhole.

Same with politics. I think most human generated philosophies reek, but I tend to believe in democracy and agree with Churchill (as if he needed my agreement) that democracy is the best of all bad systems.

Case closed.

My final word on a ghastly election

I won’t be so vulgar as to say I soiled myself yesterday morning when the final Trumpian tally was in, but suffice it to say I was happy I had visited the loo before switching on the TV.

Of course the proverbial writing was on the wall before I went to bed the night before as poor old Hillary was desperately trying to make gains in Florida and North Carolina. It didn’t look good and I thought by the time I turned in: “The cocksucker is going to make it. I know it.”

Without reservations I wanted Hillary to win. And some felt she deserved to. Guess I did, considering the hideous (boorish, crass, vulgar, bullying) alternative. But I didn’t think she necessarily deserved to. First, I never really liked the woman especially. She just didn’t resonate. I saw her as fiercely ambitious and self-motivated. Some of this goes back to her forgiveness of Bill when he stuck his wayward dick where it shouldn’t have been. She should have dumped him then, and it was obvious she thought the optics might hurt her. The ambition was there and it was a ruthless ambition. So, she chose to stay the course, hoping to capitalize on it when the day came.

Now don’t take it that I am disparaging her skill set. She is a brilliant person and probably far more talented than her one-time wayward spouse. But at so many levels she blew the opportunity, and it was nothing to do with her sex. She played it wrong. She seemed to have little idea of whom she should be wooing. She held rallies that trotted out musical and Hollywood names. Why would an unschooled and/or unemployed Rustbelt denizen give a shit what George Clooney thinks? Michael Moore called that one right when he opined Trump was appealing to the unwashed, and likely unschooled, at a visceral level. The PhDs may have loved her, but the rube from a Kentucky hill shack would have seen little to embrace. But, hit him with a dude who thinks with his pecker and isn’t afraid to go out and hang with the unscholarly and you have Trump ‘trumping’ with the right cards.

Trump always reminded me of an 8^th grade loutish bully. A Ted Nugent of politics. Well, shee-it, that is the kind of pol our Kentucky friend (or West Virginia, or Michigan) friend is going to relate to. A guy who calls it like it is, Hillary can’t call it like it is because she likely doesn’t know where it ‘is’ and she showed it in her campaign. She was bound to be uneasy with the ‘dirthead’ ilk.

Now Trump may be richer than Midas but, oddly, he has a common touch. Jimmy Carter had that too, and Hillary should have taken a page from his book. Likewise Bernie Sanders (the scuttling of whom might have been the dumbest Democratic move). But ultimately it was all for Hillary.

And ultimately the price was paid. And the country was left with a kind of despicable individual in the Oval Office. If weeping would do any good I would gladly weep at the dumbness of it all. .