What would my parents think?

I’ve been thinking about my parents a lot, which isn’t unusual. I’m often triggered by memories, lovely happy ones. This is a different kind of thinking about them though. I wonder what they’d make of the times we’re living in and how they’d cope.

My dad passed away first, many years ago, in 1987 so I think the adjustment to this world would be more shocking for him. My mom is just gone 14 years and although the last five or six years have seen massive change, she’d be less surprised than my dad.

What happened to “brotherhood,” “mercy” and “nobleness?”

Beautiful lyrics to be sure. But they’re being drowned out by the sound of innocent children crying. Something to think about this upcoming July 4th … 

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but …

… there’s a part of me that feels sorry for Donald Trump. Wait … wait … hear me out before you have me committed or banish me.

First and foremost, I am NOT a fan of his, never was, never will be — and the sooner he’s out of the White House, the better — for his own good, the good of his country and the entire world. But …

Donald Trump is sick. Really and truly, seriously and dangerously mentally ill; and, I believe, he is also a desperately unhappy man. I’m no psychiatrist, but I don’t think you just suddenly wake up one day this crazy. I’ll bet he showed signs as a child and, for whatever reason, he
never got the professional help he so sorely needs.

He is so hideous, in every way, that it’s very easy to be

A classic tale of good versus evil …

Are you familiar with the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?  It was written by Robert Louis Stephenson in 1886.  Essentially it’s about the two personalities that live within Dr. Jekyll — one being good, the other evil.

Could have been written about Donald Trump.

I met him once, you know.  It was a very long time ago.  Not long after he married his first wife, Ivanna.  She was a model, one of Montreal’s most sought after. I was working in the fashion industry at the time, for the designer, Leo Chevalier.  She was one of our favourites and we booked her constantly.

What I remember vividly is how, after she got married and moved to New York, she never abandoned all the models she’d

To the powers that be at CNN …

Shut the f*ck up already.  Really.  Your incessant repetition of nothing is so getting on my nerves.  The endless speculation that goes nowhere.  The constant questions.  The meaningless questions.  The ever-growing stream of ‘experts’ who have no answers because there are no answers.  Your relentless prying and probing and the never-ending exploitation of people’s sadness and grief.  Please.  Stop.

Enough already.  Give it a rest.

It’s bad enough when there’s a snowstorm and your poor, unfortunate, frost-bitten reporters are sent hither, thither and yon to freeze their asses off, so you can keep tabs on how high the snow drifts are.  Or when a plane goes down.

You just can’t get enough of the gory details.  Over and over and over and over again you ask what it must have been like to be a passenger on that plane as it spun out of control and it became

Hanging on for dear life …

Me. The poster child for looking on the bright side. Positive thinking. Seeing the glass half full. A true believer in everything working out in the end. Me. That one. That girl. That woman.

Not so much at the moment, though. I’ve got to admit I’m struggling. So much bad news. Everywhere you turn. It’s absolutely unavoidable. We are just in one helluva mess. The whole world. All of us.

So much hatred. So much prejudice. So much anger. So much violence. So much bloodshed. So much death. So much destruction. So much rubble. So much despair. So much unrest. So much imbalance. So much poverty. So much hunger. So much misery. So much suffering. So much fear. So much grief. So many tears. So many scars. So much injustice.

So little hope.

So little respect. For each other. For life. For human rights. For freedom. Maybe even for ourselves.

Such a crisis.

There has to be something we can do. Why aren’t we?

Why aren’t we marching on our Nations’ capitals? Why aren’t we more selective about who we elect? Why don’t we demand more from them? Why don’t we hold

Day 181. Extraordinary Reunion

In 1965 a white, Jewish, twenty-one year old living in Toronto was sitting, in his family home, watching the news on television.  What he saw so moved him, so disgusted him, he was compelled to go to Greenwood, Mississippi.  To help.  To do something.  To get involved.  To join the fight for equal rights. To be part of the Civil Rights Movement.

To help black residents register to vote.

The twenty-one year old Canadian was Paul Saltzman; and, while on his way into a Greenwood courthouse, he was stopped, and chased, by three white youths.  Even though he ran for his life, they caught up with him.  One slugged him, knocking him to the ground.  In hindsight he was very lucky.  They might just as easily have shot