Love of One’s Country

I’m probably more naïve about my own nation and its political meanderings than I ought to be, but it’s been a long time since I felt a rush of pride or emotion about my country. I still display the American flag on special days and am still moved enough to stand when I hear The Star Spangled Banner, but that old patriotic zeal, the kind that can bring tears, has been absent from me for a while.

There are two Americas again, not so very unlike the two from 1861 (yes, even before my birth), immersed again in a wave of rancor that continues to divide us more and more over our differences in politics, religion, race, language, education, and money. It seems at times that many folks now expect America to be a homogenized vanilla ice cream sundae, no chocolate, other flavors or colors allowed. A terrifying nostalgia for earlier times (especially the post-war 1950’s) has consumed at least half the nation with a paranoia that has transformed ignorance and fear into things controlled by puppeteers in Washington but apparently providing too an adrenalin rush from politically self-righteous zeal of unimaginable power that brings to mind George Orwell’s 1984, which he published in 1949.

Accusation, blame, misleading rhetoric in short, easy-to-digest sentences with a fifth grade vocabulary, vile language, unwarranted accusations (from both sides) have created a nation at war with itself, a nation I can hardly recognize, one that makes the America from 1973 under President Nixon look like an episode of Sesame Street.

The twisted language of silly slogans and name-calling have replaced balance, restraint, and even truth. It’s almost like a middle school playground, where whoever can come up with the meanest and most memorable insult wins. The laugh-track is broken with what too many Americans seem to see as heroic figures totally on their side, figures, however, that turn out to be remakes of Don Rickles and Archie Bunker whose verbal harpoons were amusingly revealing of the underbelly of America but which didn’t take the place of civil discourse and intelligent, constructive debate. The laugh-track has become the voice of half the nation, while the rest of the world sits back, wringing its hands as it watches us implode.

I long to feel again the shared love of my country, not as though on a team from some gameshow, where winning is the only concern, but with a love that we used to feel even when we disagreed. I long for intelligent debate, based upon facts and some degree of civility, not the resentment and enmity that are almost becoming accepted hallmarks of discussion in and out of politics. I don’t know if it’s too late yet to go back to when winning wasn’t the only thing that mattered in the wider picture, where reason created some sense of balance instead of giving the constant expectation of what is snide and fragmented.

I still love my country but feel strongly that something is at stake. We’re all at a crossroad, even as I write this, where we must, together, decide how to rediscover or reinvent “the land of the free.”   JB

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Divided We Fall

Sometimes I believe we, as a nation, haven’t been as socially, politically, racially, and culturally this divided since 1865. Democrats and Republicans have become two separate countries that have begun to place party loyalty above even what is right in terms of our supposedly shared rhetoric about equality, among other things.

The almost constant rancor from both sides came to a head this week once again with the President’s snide comments about four women who dared to be almost as vocal as he usually is. The ladies aired their justified political grievances in far milder ways than the President does, but as always, the comments made by the women were met with defensive harpoons of insult, since everything is always about the President, or at least he thinks it is.

His diatribe was sexist, political, and racist all at once (a new low, even for him), showing once again his paranoia regarding any comment he deems capable of cracking what he sees as his sparkling, perfect veneer. His gutter mentality and street fighter demeanor seem to be especially vulnerable to strong, intelligent women. Add color to the mix, and Mr. President’s vitriol   ignites like a stick of TNT, bringing out his most vociferous fantasies. “There isn’t a racist bone in my body.” Please, it’s the only bone he has.

The most painful part of this over the past couple of years is the willingness on the part of his political base to excuse his gangster behavior with equivocations they would never even dream of extending to any other president in history. Had Barak Obama said anything even half as ignorantly mean-spirited to anyone in or out of government, he would have been even more politically lynched by Republicans than he was already.

The double standard and spineless reluctance of so many Republicans in the Senate to stand up to the President as the selfish, egomaniacal fake he really is seems appalling to the rest of us, who are weary of waiting for someone to change the soiled political diapers of this man child and dictator, who is more and more making our country the pariah and laughing stock on the world stage. My greatest fear is that we’re almost becoming numb to his behavior, like parents of a recalcitrant and potentially dangerous child who defies every precept of civilized behavior with screaming tantrums and throwing blunt objects, when he doesn’t get his way.   JB

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A Tale (Trail) of Cocktail Mishaps

As I age, it becomes more terrifying every year to look back at parties and wedding receptions, where I have indulged too freely in partaking of “spirits” at those events, and having let go of any real sense of decorum that otherwise tempers my behavior.

The worst experience of which, to my knowledge, there is no photograph or film footage (I hope), involved a few friends from our college dorm and me attending an off-campus party, where alcoholic beverages were being served in abundance. It was 1965, when I was nineteen, so I can at least claim some degree of innocence in my blundering behavior that night in imbibing too much. Cocktails that evening flowed like tsunamis, but I had heard many times, even from my father, that “Never mix; never worry” was good advice, so that evening I stuck to what had rather a lethal sounding name but what tasted innocent enough for  Mr. Rogers to serve in his neighborhood: Harvey Wallbangers.

The upshot of this incident is that I woke up the next morning wearing my pajamas, slippers, and Stewart plaid bathrobe. I was reclined on the wooden porch swing of a house I didn’t recognize, an elderly man with his wife, holding the folded Sunday newspaper and tapping their feet as they scowled down at me in the morning light.

“Young man, what are you doing on our porch?” It seemed a perfectly valid question under the circumstances. I groped for an answer, my head splitting with pain. The only response that came to me in that moment was something like, “I think I may have a brain tumor,” followed by, “Where am I?” The couple looked at one another, half-smiling, knowing the story without my having to say anything further. At any rate, they let me use their phone to call my roommate, Denny, at our dorm, who picked me up after I had been given two cups of black coffee by the stunned couple. Their house turned out to be on the other side of town from the campus, and I had no plausible explanation for Denny, who hadn’t been at the dorm when the other guys took me there the night before to get my nightclothes in order to complete the caper they had designed to embarrass the wits out of me. The whole thing provided a lesson I never forgot.

Subsequent such events over the years pale by comparison but usually involved wedding receptions, where after a couple of martinis, Old Fashions, or gin and tonics, I would end up in a group doing the Chicken Dance, the Hokey Pokey, Macarena, or the Hora, minus my necktie and jacket, my sleeves rolled up. It haunts me even now that across the nation there is plenty of home movie footage, along with plenty of photographs of me doing unintentional impersonations of Crazy Guggenheim at those receptions, putting my school teacher image in possible and irrevocable peril. Please insert smile face here.  JB

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Party Politics in America

The Democratic and Republican political parties in America have, over the past few years, become caricatures in their almost comic and sometimes even grotesque posturing, one against the other. The two labels have taken on associations and stereotypes that border on the heart of comedy itself. Either word can now evoke gut reactions instantly of rage, revulsion, or a festival of other emotional upheavals.

The word Democrat and the word Republican have become receptacles of assumption and automatic insult, generally exaggerated and very often unmerited by the opposition.

In terms of politics, the HBO saga, Game of Thrones has nothing on us politically in The United States. Calling someone a Democrat or Republican can now be the most extreme affront one can summon, and there continue to be ridiculous and oversimplified associations that gradually lose their significance, rendering everything either black or white, with no middle ground left. What does it mean to “drive like a Republican” or “sneeze like a Democrat?”

We’re becoming essentially two separate countries, each looking down its nose at the other. No foreign and enemy power could so successfully have divided us in a conflict that has perhaps been bubbling since the end of the American Civil War in 1865. The once vibrant red, white and blue I remember from my childhood (1950’s, NOT the 1860’s, thank you very much), seem now to be fading to a dull, lifeless gray, where there is no more contrast or compromise. Our game has lost its once shared purpose or what’s best for the nation as a whole in favor of something like a sports event played for points and “winning” but from which no one really gets a trophy or honor for patriotism in favor of the country itself.  JB

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Confessions of a Somewhat Devoted Skeptic

I attend services every Sunday morning at a liberal protestant church in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, the word “Christian” aligning me in one way or another with Jesus Christ and his teachings. In considering all the detail and significance of that association, I wish to be more honest than orthodox in explaining, as best I can, what it means to me, personally, to continue my lifetime devotion in going regularly to church.

The bottom line for me in any social or religious discussion must be about how we human beings treat each other, not just on Sundays, but every day of the year. Our compassion for and care of those in and out of earthly peril is central to my being drawn to any discussions of who we are and why we are here on earth. At times I find myself, during sermons and church ritual, trimming away mentally the details with which I may take issue, leaving behind only fundamental thoughts regarding hope and compassion for my fellow-beings. It is possible or even probable that some worshipers around me would be horrified, or at least a bit unsettled to know that I find the more “magical” parts of religion simply too much for me to swallow without a big jug of olive oil or other lubricant. The resurrection of Christ, salvation, heaven, and even any kind of afterlife are simply too remote, though lovely, for me to grasp enough for me to buy the whole package and remain true to myself.

It is quite enough for me to be present in the now of things without having to imagine and accept mystical and invisible pie-in-the-sky musings, however gloriously warm and fuzzy they may be. Even the eternal reunion with relatives and other loved ones puts me off a bit. Stephen Fry expressed it best when he imagined being regrouped with dreadful cousins and intimidating aunts and uncles forever in paradise. What could be more dreadful than Christmas afternoon for eternity?  No, the here and now are enough for me. I can’t imagine or require a heaven, though hell is a bit easier for me to conjure (algebra class, 1961). None of this is important to me. I love the music, the fellowship, and sharing with other congregants some hope for a better world, but the wizardry or enchantment of pie in the sky simply escapes me, which is why, though I attend church weekly, I will never be an actual “member,” as I was while growing up, despite my church’s very liberal views. There is still the oral statement of belief in Jesus Christ as the son of God…all way out of my league if I am completely honest, as I am a mere earthbound seeker, not so much of the heavenly or supernatural as of the rational and practical side of compassion and making the world better NOW.

The sermons are always reasonable, inspiring, and never accusatory. The music is glorious (wonderful organist and choir). Dare I ask for or expect more? In previous centuries, I would have been branded a heretic and probably burned at the stake had I been open about my innermost thoughts regarding faith. Now I’m satisfied to be labelled eccentric or unorthodox. I believe in science more than I do in mysticism, which unfortunately is rather a large part of what most religion entails. This doesn’t mean that I can’t be irrational. I mean, I have actually watched Fox News (my favorite oxymoron) from time to time, and believe in things I can’t really see. I know there’s a Uganda, though I’ve never been there. The very weirdest views and behaviors of religion can only begin to compete with those of current politics in The United States, so I don’t really feel a great deal of guilt at being a benevolent, if half-baked skeptic. If there is a rational God scratching his head at my blithering attempts to make sense of this world and of religion, I can only remind myself that I and all other people were supposedly made in God’s own image.  JB

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Why I Go To Church

No one has ever asked me why I go to church, though I suspect some people have wondered why. It may have something to do with people not wanting to be rude by posing such a loaded question, but I suspect the real reason may be sheer terror of a response that might be the length of a sermonette, interrupted only by a quick escape excuse of having cookies, or kids in the oven at home.

I suppose that there are parts of religion that are childlike in the best sense of the willing suspension of disbelief, discussed by writers like Edgar Allan Poe.  Despite my having to use a cane to walk confidently, however, if a stranger at Publix were to ask me in the canned goods aisle if I were “saved,” I could probably manage the hundred-yard dash faster than Roadrunner. Meep meep!

What is there about openly expressed religious devotion that can embarrass folks in venues other than a chapel or sanctuary? Large gatherings of people praying in public after a fire or other disaster don’t seem to agitate passers-by, but someone in the Walgreens parking lot proselytizing with pamphlet handouts makes us uncomfortable, perhaps because we can feel inadequate to deal with something that for many or most of us is excruciatingly personal, requiring a venue, where we know our feelings or convictions are shared.

There is no such anxiety, however, when on Sunday morning (or any other time), I enter church. As soon as I pass through the doors into the narthex, I am offered a bulletin and welcomed into a place where kindness, acceptance, and fellowship are offered unequivocally, always with a message of love, hope, and healing for all who enter. All of this is shared without the requirement of a ticket, my SAT scores, proof of my worthiness, academic knowledge of scripture, or a spotless record of my past behavior. Who among us could enter otherwise? It is a place of healing that begins within ourselves as we are reminded that there is what may be called the eternal within every visitor, something wondrous that connects us all to what is inestimably beautiful and unimpaired by the world outside, where there are still greed, envy, and cruelty that can at times blind us to an inner light that is always ours for the asking, a light that is shared sympathetically for all of us who are at times world-weary.

My answer to that question of why I go to church can never be answered too easily or accepted by all who hear it, but if I distill the response to its bare essentials, it is that the hope and strength I find there give me (messages through sermons and music) something I can take home with me, like a lit candle, and share through my behavior and outlook all the remaining days of the week, even when darkness comes, until the candle is relit the next Sunday.  JB

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The Cost of Social and Political Division


What is there about that adrenalin rush that comes for some from the self-satisfied, arrogant, and self-righteous emotion that is looking down one’s nose at people who are “different” from us? Perhaps in an increasingly diverse society and wider melting pot, arrogance grows faster and more easily when we think that there is some level of encroachment on our personal or ethnic turf. It’s not necessarily even to know the names and diverse stories of those whom we revile. Skin color, language background seem to be enough to validate the narrow and insensitive judgments about what we believe belongs only to us.

Never mind that less than half of us are third-generation or older, or that American Indians are the only true natives. It’s so much more convenient and efficient to clump together and cast aspersions upon groups of people whom we don’t know and call them invading foreigners not eligible to work for or participate in the American Dream. Stereotypes are so much easier to deal with than personal stories of struggle and hope. It’s simpler too to ignore the tremendous incentives those folks can have to work hard and earn for their families that sense of safety and belonging that can come for citizens in a land of opportunity for all.



The fear that exists now for too many Americans is fanned by those who want and need political points for their own power and leverage, whose voters continue to shun the words of Emma Lazarus, words printed at the base of The Statue of Liberty:

“Give me your, tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.

I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”


The terror that exists now for too many Americans is fanned by those who want and need political points from their voters, who are too often stirred to action by words invoking fear and division. The result is that we are at war with ourselves and as divided as we were during the American Civil War more than a hundred and fifty years ago. That combination of greed, ignorance, and fear could be our undoing if we can’t widen our collective view of humanity.

I read an editorial this morning in the Sun Sentinel (Florida) suggesting that any long-term solution “will have to be comprehensive, including pathways to citizenship for the undocumented workers who are critical to the economy, more judges to consider asylum and other appeals, more agents to police the border and a properly managed guest worker program.”

If many readers see me as a bleeding heart liberal who believes in pie in the sky, then I admit to having lost touch with the America in which I thought I grew up, the line, “with liberty and justice for all” now ringing a bit hollow for me and so many others, especially those struggling for their very lives in a world gone mad in its quest to maintain a false sense of safety on a foundation of division and hypocrisy.   JB

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Songs about Being Dumped

I love music and listen to many genres, jazz and classical being my favorites. The jumble of styles and selections that Alexa has stored and sorted from my CDs also includes country, along with Blue Grass. Among the vocals in the former category is a surprising number of vocals about being jilted. Lady Antebellum sings one called, “It Ain’t Pretty,” and Pistol Annies do “Hell on Wheels.” Waylon Jennings, Marty Robbins, and others wail about being cheated on by their girlfriends, but the quintessential song, to me anyway, about an unfair transfer of affection is Dolly Parton’s pleading song, Jolene.

I do like Dolly Parton for her being one of the most talented, creative, energetic and generous folks in the entire entertainment industry. However, the lyric for the song, Jolene, seems to demean the narrator as being very insecure, lowering herself to begging for the continued affection of a man who probably doesn’t deserve her in the first place. I mean, how unsure can this simpering woman be to solicit mercy in order to keep the very doubtful affection of a guy who doesn’t sound even close to meriting hers? Wake up, lady! If your man can be whisked away by Jolene, there may be yet another woman, who in a few more months (weeks, days, hours, or minutes?) will steal him from Jolene too. In fact, you should probably send Jolene flowers to thank her for revealing what a weak-willed bastard your man really is. You would otherwise (assuming Jolene is actually willing to give him up) be on edge every time the guy left the house to buy cigarettes or go to work.

No, just do yourself a favor, and let Jolene have his sorry ass, so SHE can worry about his lack of faithfulness every time he leaves the house for a gallon of milk. The problem, honey, isn’t Jolene. It’s the jerk you trusted would be faithful. Subscribe to HBO or the movie channel, buy a bottle of wine, and forget Jolene and Mr. Wanderlust.  JB

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A New Line Drawn in the Sand

Yet another disturbing sign of our increasingly polarized culture in America is the recent schism in the Methodist Church over same sex marriage and acceptance of the LGBT community.

I generally accept and even applaud people who stand up for what they believe. My acceptance and respect falter, though, if they believe (however passionately) that the moon is made of cream cheese, that there is no such thing as global warming, that people should be stoned to death for working on the Sabbath, or that eating shellfish is an abomination (see Leviticus in the Old Testament). Those folks love the Bible most when they can use it as a weapon to interpret their own fears and prejudices, seeing in it what they want or need to see. Think also of the Pharisees in the New Testament and how they twisted the message of Jesus to suit their own selfish purposes.

For centuries, people who called themselves Christians have cherry-picked their ways through the Bible to assuage their personal “feelings” (aka “convictions” for many). Too often, however, “faith” becomes a kind of cover for views that all but erase compassion and even common sense. Walls and other barriers seem now to be quite in fashion for those who feel that their power and control are somehow being shared a bit too generously with “others,” (those nameless but vast hordes of invaders).

No one has been able to provide a rational explanation as to why sharing the rite of marriage with the LGBT community alters in any way the sacred quality of that tradition. Why is its expansion so terrifying? I suppose anything that appears radically new (Love is not new, folks.) can seem strange and threatening. During the previous century, there were many in fundamentalist churches, who believed pianos, organs, radio, and finally television were sinful and ought to be banned. But those fears didn’t bar human beings from loving whom they wished. That terror came later when love between gays (which had always existed, mostly in secret) approached the idea of legitimizing it through marriage. That is when tradition in all its smug, self-righteous, and pontificating power reared its ugly head. It had, perhaps, always existed among worshippers in the Methodist and other churches, but battle lines have now been drawn. Accommodating change (even through compassion) is simply not possible for those who cling to a past that is just too cozy and safe to relinquish.

Exclusion of loving, honest, devoted Christians because of sexual orientation is the last thing I would have expected in the 21st Century, even though Methodism’s roots certainly go back to the early 18th Century with John Wesley. The appalling truth is that many think the world is already changing too fast, and that they have a sacred duty to boycott and eliminate the possibility of having to share God with those who are different, not in terms of evil but in terms of whom they love.

It seems to be almost a replay of the nonsense from past centuries regarding Blacks, excluding and belittling them, even with church doctrine, as though straight people were being forced to wed gay and lesbian folks, which would, of course, be untenable. Hypocrisy is still hypocrisy, no matter how one tries to gild it. Equivocation can be the ugliest form of evil. Eventually, people will look back in horror and disgust at the unnecessary snubbing and abominable treatment of the LGBT community across the nation, treatment now being condoned by some religious leaders and congregations. It’s almost unfathomable.

I do understand the unsettling and ridiculous stereotypes that come from some trucker dykes, and men dressed in ballet tutus on glittering parade floats down avenues and other thoroughfares of cities across the nation. They make sensational news stories that rivet readers’ attention in cheap tabloid, Jerry Springer ways that make exclusion and persecution seem so much easier and deserved by the public at large. Gay doctors, teachers, humanitarians make such judgments and bad treatment so much uglier and more unmerited, even though the extreme folks on those floats make more interesting copy and foster more effective targets for exclusion and with much greater ease.

Future generations will, I believe, look back at our current prejudices and cruelty about religion’s rejection of gay marriage the way we now look back at the inhuman and savage treatment of so many innocent, civilized and productive lives of past centuries. It’s almost as though a big time machine has sent us back to a comfortable (for some) ignorance that was for so long accepted as correct and justified. For some people, social change has come too swiftly for them to accept it or keep up. This terrifies them. That leap of imagination required to see and understand that love between a man and a woman in marriage is still sacred and cannot be relinquished or altered by the addition of gay marriage, is still beyond many, because they remain in a terrible quagmire of fear, ignorance and hatred of what they cannot or refuse to understand.

The world is indeed changing too fast for them, but this should not mean that so many need be deprived of having the sacredness of their own marriage commitments eschewed by reactionaries whose compassionless stands will be viewed in the future the way most of us now look back upon human beings sold as property or people being burned at the stake, because they believed in the “wrong” God. We now have such a grand opportunity to get it right and to bring people together as a human family, instead of further fragmenting them. Understanding requires work and knowledge, which are at hand, if we wish to put forth the effort to bring about change in uniting instead of separating our brothers and sisters, all of the same species.  JB

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The Poison of Current Politics

I’ve never been particularly political, though in high school I did campaign for Louise Bryk with posters that beamed, “Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise… for president of the senior class.” She lost the election.

I have found people to be generally more emotional than rational regarding sports and politics. There is something purely tribal about exclusive devotion to one team for baseball, basketball, football, soccer, or ice hockey or to someone as a candidate for President of the United States. I have friends whose loyalty to a particular team is so rabid that it becomes almost comic, at least to me, who doesn’t know one player from another as they compete for points in activities that are so remote and impersonal that it is like watching predatory behavior in some documentary about life at the bottom of the sea. I realize too that this makes me very abnormal, but I don’t know any of their names, and they don’t know or care about mine either. The phenomenon remains a mystery to me, but as I am entering the 73rd year of my life, it seems highly unlikely that any revelation is imminent.

I do experience increased levels of adrenalin from time to time over politics, mainly because there seems to be almost nothing rational about the political arena these days. Personal attacks and skewed information exchanged between candidates and political parties often have nothing to do with social issues that govern my own life. Listening to insults about a hairstyle or who stayed in the restroom too long serve only to distance me still further from the backbiting tactics of those vying for public office. I’ve discovered that as someone born and perpetually residing in the middle of our nation’s social fabric and despite my having voted in national and municipal elections since 1968, my individual life has not been much changed by any election in memory.

It has been said that it is our civic duty as citizens to vote in order to maintain a satisfactory status quo or to modify it. If an idiot is elected (and I can think of several state governors in this category), he or she will be ousted when a conscientious public bands together with enough common sense and outrage. Otherwise (and I know this is a jaded question), how much difference does it make nowadays who is elected to any office? The answer is that the more we become collectively complacent, the more ground will be gained, inch by inch, by the already enormously wealthy puppeteers, who pull many strings in government and in society at large and for whom greed for its own sake seems to be a sport in itself. Bernie Sanders, a man for whom issues are paramount, has helped me to realize this truth, despite the fact that I consider Sanders a bit too extreme to merit my vote even sometimes against the wrangling by other candidates who have turned politics into a puerile shooting range of insults unworthy even of seventh graders. Those insults and personal attacks are meant to distract voters with the absurd, partly subliminal machismo with which Americans have been enamored in both sports and politics for generations.

We need to think carefully about the differences (if any) between our favorite teams winning football games and our political favorites winning  elections. Neither win is really personal for me, but the latter may have consequences well beyond a scoreboard, trophies on someone else’s mantel, or the rhetoric and other verbal shenanigans that are such annoying adjuncts of elections, especially on the national level.

Many voters have become enraged by the duplicity and sloth of Congress to the extent that those voters want nothing more than to distance themselves from anything even suggesting traditional politics and are more in favor of apolitical figures, who gain notice and popularity by thumbing their noses at the Washington establishment and anything related to our all too familiar political landscape of the past fifty years. My concern on that subject is that whoever becomes our next president will need to have a strong grasp of national politics and government with all the complexities of the Washington scene, for better or worse. That grasp can be accomplished mostly by experience and razor-sharp intelligence, but the logic of electing someone who eschews political experience and knows little or nothing about the extremely complex machinations of government is flawed at best. The same “logic” might suggest that someone who has had a bad experience with a plumber, electrician, or carpenter should hire someone disconnected from such backgrounds and skills. Frankly, if my kitchen sink is leaking into the basement, I want someone who has specific experience to make repairs. In Washington I want a President who knows the ins and outs, along with the trickery and lies of politics in all its subtle chicanery, to lead my country, someone who will bring together a country that has fragmented into too many personal agendas.

Several kinds of specific expertise and experience are necessary for this most difficult and thankless job on the planet. Avoiding those attributes in favor of a sentimental but honest greenhorn is the same level of thinking that would vote in someone who simply has an honest face and isn’t cagey enough to pull anything over on the nation. In that case why not elect Homer Simpson as President of the United States? His being a cartoon doesn’t seem to make him less qualified or more unreal than several of the current candidates.

I don’t want a puppet. I want a president. There must be a middle ground, where we find some level of cold, hard sanity instead of the flood of political snippets, half-information, innuendos, and ridiculous posturing that have become the shaky bulwark of this carnival of a presidential campaign. I suspect that my Republican and Democrat friends would all interpret in their favor what I’ve written here. That’s fine, as long as each follows his or her conscience and bases votes upon truth, not innuendo, tunnel vision, and playground insults.     JB

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