Golden Globes as presidential auditions?

All due respect to Oprah, but haven’t we learned a little bit about the fitness of media personalities for high(est) office?

Assuming the underneath of your rock receives decent broadcast signals, you probably know that Oprah Winfrey accepted the Cecil B. DeMille lifetime achievement award during the Sunday, January 7th Golden Globe awards. Her acceptance speech was met with paroxysms of coastal joy, leading to swift and sure talk of presidential aspirations. Oprah says she’s interested. #Oprah2020 is trending. An early coronation like this can be enough to shut down the party primary process altogether.

Don’t get me wrong. Oprah Winfrey is intelligent and capable, and at the tops of her industry for good and plentiful reasons. For our first woman president, we could do far worse. For our second TV star turned president, well, we have done far worse. So no, I don’t think Oprah would be anything like a trainwreck.

But what she wouldn’t be is as well versed in policy, law, foreign relations, military matters, and the thousand other minutiae that our next president needs to be steeped in from day one.

We cannot afford another president with a learning curve.

Unfortunately what we seem to be seeing here is the moneyed elite of the American left—possibly with nothing but the best intentions—falling into another self-inflicted, election-losing trap. They’re cheer-leading themselves, and each other, and assuming that the rest of the country is inclined to join their pep rally. Most damning, they’re committing the cardinal electoral sin of not being serious.

Times have never been more serious. The interim between now and November 2020 won’t get any less so. We’ll need serious solutions from serious candidates. If we’re stuck with this insult of a two-party system, and I suppose that for now we are, then we need an opposition party that mobilizes ideas, ideals, knowledge, and fortitude. We need an opposition party that can and will fix what’s wrong with our nation and our society.

If they’re instead glomming onto the first famous face willing to run? What exactly is that in opposition to?

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Resolution Revolution


In the small amount of informal surveying I’ve done (friends and family, mostly; so perhaps not a representative demographic but surely an awesome one), I’ve found that most of us don’t muck about with New Years resolutions.

And perhaps there’s reasonable justification for that. Maybe there’s a feeling of artificiality, or maybe even self-sabotage, in designating this one wintry season as the time to stop doing this, or lose a few pounds of that. Some of us might feel that self-improvement, in whatever form, needs to be a year-round endeavor, and that focusing on it only when the calendar ticks over is at best merely dabbling in personal transformation, and a willful delusion at worst.

Again, maybe. But to those friends I’d respectfully point to the histories of every culture, of all of our ancestors. The ringing-in of a new year has always been a time for reflection—for a tallying up of the pluses and naughts of the year past, and of the charting out of a better way for the year to come.

And it can be argued that there’s never been a more needful time for that kind of reflection and adjustment. Anno dead-to-me 2017 was objectively awful, and I feel safe in declaring that I’m not the only one who thinks so. Something has happened over the last 12 months that seemed to inject into us all a junkie-sized dose of anger and unease. It seems to cut across all boundaries—even the zero-sum winners in the political and economic spheres appear unable to enjoy the fruits of their victories. They too are as pent up with this unnamed apprehension as the rest of us.

I fear this is a recipe for disaster. I fear this is how societies begin tearing themselves apart.

You might call it naive to think that a banal tradition like new years resolutions could have any impact on that, and maybe you’d be right. But I have to hold on to some related suppositions: That we haven’t gone off the rails so far that we can’t find our way back. That all of us, collectively and individually, have both the ability and responsibility to make that effort. And that we’re best positioned to do so when we’re living our best possible lives.

So if it helps, don’t bother calling it a resolution for the new year. And maybe don’t get so granular with the prescriptions and proscriptions. It could just be a matter of striving to do better, to feel better, to try your best. Those are highly personal, individualized programs, but if I might generalize, I can offer a few suggestions.  Be less sedentary, be more active. Strenuous exercise is of course off the menu for some of us, and all of us have some limitation or other. But all of us can do something. So push yourself, a little. Get your heart rate up, and generate a bit of sweat. Next week, generate a bit more.

Expand your mind. Learn something new. You have at your disposal unimaginable resources for self-driven education, so by all means, use them. Educate yourself about something that compels you, that fascinates you. Then educate yourself about something that’s dry and boring, but vital for the future of our people.

And relax, recharge, and rejuvenate. Do so often. Breathe. Meditate. If “meditation” sounds too tie-dyed and new-agey for you, then call it something else; it’s nothing more than your well-deserved and thoroughly necessary quiet time, for the purposes of getting your shit in order. So attend to that.

At midnight, 2017 will be behind us. There’s no reason to think 2018 is going to be all that better, but then again, there’s also no reason it can’t be. And it will be, if we choose to make it so. If we resolve to make it so, you might say.

Happy new year, and do not fret. We got this.

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Creative resistance

At the time it sure felt like 2016 was the culmination of the old “May you live in interesting times” hex. But just as the new climate-change normal leads us to designate each year as the hottest on record—but only until the next one—this waning 2017 is well on track to ante-up the 2016-level of awfulness we thought we knew so well.

The ways in which this is true are almost too exhausting to enumerate, but let’s start with the culture wars, which have scorched the earth more completely than ever this year. With the Trumpian brand of conservatism seemingly triumphant, the cultural warriors that count themselves as the MAGA rank-and-file have felt emboldened to roll back not just the agents and elements of social progress, but the very clock itself. Welcome to neo-nazi yesteryear.

The irony is that the kleptocrats at the apex of this treasonous pyramid do not, near as I can tell, care one whit about social issues, or even about traditionally defined conservatism. The do care about power, and its attendant keys to the national treasury. They’ll hold the former and plunder the latter by way of a culture war, and through the agency of the self-deceiving crypto-conservatives who believe that a Supreme Court seat, and a regressive Department of Education, and state-sanctioned religious intolerance, and a thousand other culture-war battlefronts—are all worth the price of a Trump presidency.

That’s more than an assault on democracy, it’s an assault on reason; and pity though we might the slow-counters who’ve run that math and somehow came away liking the numbers, what we cannot afford to do is offer them any quarter.

So resist, my friends. Let 2017 be remembered as the year we began resisting at every turn.

The overarching goal is to put an end to this illegitimate regime and see its architects frog-marched into the cells they’ve so thoroughly earned. That’s a long, heavy lift; I’m not sure how long it’ll take or how successful or satisfying its outcome will be. But that’s the prize upon which we’ll keep our eyes.

In the meantime, though, let’s not shrink from more modest goals. Let’s do everything we can to fight the culture war everywhere, all the time. Let’s get creative in that respect.

I hold up as inspiration the city of Memphis: like much of the south this city hosts an inordinate number of Confederate war memorials—not, for the most part, erected in the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, but mostly dating from the latter half of the 20th century. They were a slap in the face, in other words, to the Civil Rights movement.

Recognizing them for the civic embarrassments they are, Memphis has been trying for years to decommission them. The city has been stymied, though, by a 2013 Tennessee state law that prohibits the “removal, relocation, or renaming” of statues, monuments, or memorials located on public lands.

So Memphis got creative.

Over the last several weeks, Memphis has transferred the ownership of several city parks—ones in which particularly egregious Confederate statuary are sited—to a non-profit, non-governmental entity that was created specifically for this purpose. That non-profit has been busily hauling down the racist monuments and carting them away.

You can almost hear the neo-Confederates howling.

Trump will undoubtedly howl too, although as noted it’s highly unlikely that this Queens, NY land developer and reality-show host really cares all that much about southern culture and heritage. His legions (30% and dwindling) do care, though, so he has to seem to care as well. He’ll howl, they’ll howl…and we’ll howl right back.

That’s how this war will be fought, folks. It’ll be slow and unseemly, and the bad guys will occasionally win.

That doesn’t change the imperative. In a war with these stakes, there’s no battle—not one—not worth fighting.

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That you, Banksy?



It’s probably a little more common to snap a credible picture of Nessie than it is to catch the world’s most elusive street artist in action. But a British tourist in Bethlehem thinks that’s just what he’s done.


The photo to the left was captured last week by Jason Stellios of Essex, near a Banksy-sponsored project which is said to mark the anniversary of the creation of the modern state of Israel. Stellios says that at the time he didn’t recognize much significance in the picture he took—just another cargo-shorts-wearing, middle-aged stencil spray-painter. But in the following days, when he learned that the grotto-artwork (“Peace on Earth *terms and conditions apply”) now features prominently on the landing page of Banksy’s website, it occurred to him that he might have captured something extraordinary.


Well, maybe. But Banksy has been notably adept to date at avoiding identification. Should we believe that one lucky tourist put an end to that, in broad daylight, with the man of mystery himself glancing furtively over his shoulder and looking for all the world like Anthony Bourdain starring in a spy-spoof? Say it ain’t so, Banksy. Say it ain’t so.

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The kid stays in the picture – Met declines to censor 1938 painting

Given recent cultural shockwaves around the eternally fraught subject of sexual politics, no one should be terribly surprised that a painting which appears to depict a suggestively posed prepubescent girl is now in the spotlight, and in the cross-hairs.

Those cross-hairs take the form of a popular petition, around 8,000 signatures strong, presented this week to New York’s Metropolitan Museum. The target is Thérèse Dreaming, a 1938 work by French-Polish modernist painter Balthus (Balthasar Klossowski de Rola).

Balthus’ work is perhaps deserving of such scrutiny—he had a reputation for unsavory representation of young females (his earlier work The Guitar Lesson is far more questionable—and be warned that link is decidedly NSFW).

Artist’s intentions aside, we should ask ourselves whether potential objectification is, or should be, within the mind of the beholder. One interpretation could be that Thérèse is simply dreaming, or daydreaming; her innocence and lack of self-consciousness has eased her into a physical arrangement that others might sexualize, but for her is just the wholeness of the here and now. Balthus and others of malicious orientation might attempt to overlay their perversions on children, and I fully agree we should protect them from that. But I think we do them a disservice if that protection comes at the cost of their innocence and agency. Let a kid be a kid, in other words.

In any case, and possibly because the petition itself was rather ambiguous (its title included the phrase “Remove Balthus’ Suggestive Painting,” but the text contradicted that, and merely called for The Met to “more carefully vet” its collection), the museum declined to take action. Specifically, The Met confirmed that the painting will remain on display, and welcomes the conversation it has sparked.

Which, I assert, is a pretty admirable position. Art should challenge, and we need to talk about those challenges. Yes, the exploitation of vulnerable populations is reprehensible, all the more so because it’s been done with impunity for most of human history. We’re at a watershed moment where that impunity is being knocked back on its heels. But is there risk of overreach? And might that overreach include artistic censorship?

Hard questions, with no easy answers. And that’s why we need to talk it through.

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RIP David Cassidy (April 12, 1950 – Nov. 21, 2017)

A little bit of the seventies died yesterday. Rest in peace, Keith P.

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#ItsOnUs – This mess is our mess, fellas

The change in dynamic has been palpable and unstoppable, ever since Harvey Weinstein was outed as a sexual predator. Sure, there’d been naming and shaming before that, with varying level of impacts—Cosby acquitted, Fox News gutted. But the Weinstein story opened the floodgates, with the accusations now coming at us in a fast and furious pace.

There’s enough of that in the public realm now that we can begin to categorize it—although doing so risks generalizing incidents that might represent the most objectively awful moments in some victims’ lives. Still, it seems to me, that the behavior reported falls into one of these tiers: criminality (i.e., you belong in jail, and hopefully that’s where you’re headed), dehumanization (you’re accustomed to treating men, women, and children as your personal playthings), disrespect (you’ve treated people with anything less than the dignity, professionalism, and respect that they deserve).

There seems to be a descending hierarchy of gravity there, but that’s nuance, and perhaps, legality. Some of that behavior will land you in jail, some won’t. But make no mistake, it’s all wrong. If you have the slightest moral compass, even if you’ve somehow convinced yourself that you can’t or shouldn’t need to control yourself, you know it’s wrong.

So men (because let us accept this fact: the overwhelming majority of perpetrators we’re talking about are men), if you’ve crossed any of those lines, at any point in your life, you know you did it, and you know it was wrong.

Those living the very public lives, celebrities and the like, who are guilty but not yet named-and-shamed, must be sweating bullets right about now. Because they also very well see that the floodgates are open, and that their time in the pillory is surely just around the bend.

But here’s the thing that implies this momentum can change all of society, not just Hollywood: You don’t have to be a celebrity to be a scumbag. There are a lot more faceless, everyday harassers and abusers among the general population, than there will ever be publicly shamed within the pages of The New Yorker.

That doesn’t mean the shame isn’t coming. The tide is turning—it has turned—and we won’t be getting away with neanderthal behavior much longer.

I said we. I am guilty of treating female colleagues with less than the level of dignity, professionalism, and respect that they deserve.

I’m not writing this to purge myself of culpability, or to make it about me in any way. So I won’t go into a lot of details, other than to say that the behavior I’m admitting to was decades ago—I’ve changed somewhat since becoming a husband and father. I also don’t think it ever rose to the levels of criminality.

None of that excuses anything, though. Because, just like every man who acts this way, I knew I was doing wrong. I did it anyway. How can there possibly be an excuse for that?

I say, therefore, that this is on us, we who act wrongly, have acted wrongly, who condone such acts, who stand idly by while it happens to others. If we’re guilty we’ll carry that load forever; we cannot change what we’ve done. But we can now begin to be agents of positive change.

Start with your own admission, to yourself if no one else. If you’ve done wrong, you know it; you need to dredge that guilt up to the light of day and examine it, probably for your very first time. Recognize what you’ve done, make amends, never do it again.

But don’t stop there, because this thing seems to have a generational life of its own. No male mentor ever told you not to act like a jackass? Well yes, you shouldn’t have needed to be told that, but don’t let that stop you from breaking the cycle. Tell your sons, tell the young men who admire and respect you: Do not act this way. Treat your co-workers, treat everyone, with dignity and respect.

No one deserves to be treated with anything less. Those of us who’ve crossed the line, we knew that, but somehow it wasn’t enough to stop us. But now we can be sure that real consequences are coming: unemployment, public disgrace, jail time. If we can’t change our ways, and we can’t make others change theirs, then this will be the very least that we deserve.

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This Van Gogh has been hiding a secret

Call it a hazard of painting plein air (or maybe call it, “stilled life”). Vincent Van Gogh, mostly known for his sweetly tragic tenure, is nearly as celebrated for his extraordinary oil-painting technique and masterful interpretation of nature. Like the majority of his landscapes, Olive Trees (1889) was created outdoors, in the elements, amidst the artist’s inspiration. That setting, along with Van Gogh’s habit of deeply layering whorls of paint, has produced a 128-year-old surprise.

During recent study to update the artwork’s catalog entry, The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, which has owned Olive Trees since 1932, discovered the remains of a small, very dead grasshopper locked within the oil paint in the lower foreground. The carcass is essentially microscopic, and is not visible to the naked eye.

Curators contacted investigative entomologists, in hopes that examination of the insect might offer insight into Van Gogh’s process, and perhaps might identify the season in which Olive Trees was painted.

Unfortunately little could be discerned—the thorax and abdomen of the grasshopper are missing, complicating species identification. The experts did note that the surrounding paint did not seem to be disturbed, suggesting that the grasshopper was already dead when it landed on the canvas. Most likely it was wind-borne.

Interestingly, this was a phenomenon that Van Gogh seemed to be familiar with. In a letter to his brother, penned a few years before the creation of Olive Trees, he wrote, “…I must have picked up a good hundred flies and more off the four canvases you’ll be getting, not to mention dust and sand…”.

So is there a lesson to be learned from this well-traveled bug’s misadventure, or is it merely an art-history curiosity? Hard to say. Maybe it simply presents an apt metaphor: Do you yearn to learn more about Van Gogh, about painting, about art, about life? Then all you need to do is take a closer look.

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The process

It’s rainy and cool here in Deconstruction Central; seasons are changing and the wheel of the year is looping back to its wintry starting point. It is a time of adjustments.

And how we adjust, the process of adjusting, couldn’t possibly be more personal. It’s a puzzle we all must solve, each in our own way.

Another purely personal process, and a related one, is that of creation. Let us all create, and let us all do it our very own way. I cannot think of a better time to engage in creation—it can’t help but to ease this path we’re on, and to help us face these changes with clearer minds and somewhat less burdened souls.

With that in mind, let’s give a hearty thanks to artist extraordinaire Samantha Schumaker for this glimpse into her process. May she help light the spark of our own creative fires….

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A tale of two Renoirs

Let’s begin with what we know: Pierre-August Renoir completed “Two Sisters (On the Terrace)” in 1881. He made no copies.

We know that, in the present day, two separate entities claim they own this original Renoir masterpiece. One is the Art Institute of Chicago. The other is the president of the United States.

The Chicago Sisters has hung in the gallery since it was donated in 1933 by Annie Swan Coburn. Coburn purchased it in 1925 from dealer Paul Durand-Ruel, who in turn had purchased it directly from the artist upon its completion in 1881, for 1,500 francs (source).

The version that hangs in Trump Tower may or may not boast such bulletproof provenance. Trump isn’t saying. He insists that his is the original Sisters (he is in fact said to boast often about owning an original Renoir) but declines to share any particulars of its purchase or its history.

We’ve explored in this space often the fraud and deceit that’s endemic to the art world. Well-meaning patrons, cognoscenti, even world-class institutions can and do get taken by talented forgers far more often than most of them would care to admit. Both claimants to the ownership of “Two Sisters (On the Terrace)” would likely be embarrassed should it be revealed theirs was a fake. We can only speculate which would be more averse to embarrassment—and what lengths they might go to avoid such an admission.

To date Trump has resisted all suggestions regarding unbiased authentication of his Renoir, continuing to simply insist that it’s the original. He’s content, evidently, that his word alone should settle the matter.

And so in lieu of employment of the scientific method, we can only once again turn to what we know, and let Occam’s Razor do the rest. Who is more credible, Trump or the AIC? Which is more likely to admit a mistake? Which of them seem most likely to stick to their version of the story, no matter where the facts lead us?

It could very well be that Trump owns the original Renoir, and that the Art Institute of Chicago has been and continues to be snookered. But that’s hardly the point. The point, the overarching lesson—and it’s one that has implications far, far beyond the art world—is that Donald J. Trump has so thoroughly destroyed his own credibility, through his own actions, his personality, and his pathologies, that the razor wielded by Occam pretty much insists to us that Trump is lying. Every time, all the time.

Our own American pathology includes this defensive tic: All politicians lie. It’s one of the ways we force ourselves to accept that which should be completely unacceptable.

But here we’ve gone through the looking glass—here we have a elected specimen that lies so often, reflexively and in the face of easily proven opposing evidence, that we have to assume he lies with every word. If Trump tells you it’s sunny, do yourself a solid and grab an umbrella.

And his Renoir? I’ll be prepared to believe it’s genuine only on the day he publicly declares it a fake.

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The heir of the sea

The Air of the sea,

said the heir of the sea–

burrows its way in your bones.


It whispers a plea

one of gilt mystery

and of seeding the depths with unknowns.


The heir of the sea

took us there to the sea–

took us there where the tide meets the land.


He spoke then to me

of things yet to be

and of things bound be↓ow in the the sand.


The fear of the sea

brought the heir of the sea

a league or more u↑p from the coast.


He thought he was free

thought the sea would agree

but the sea fears his freedom the most.


The heir of the sea

stopped hearing the sea

stopped hearing its thunder & waves.


If silence would be

the new voice of the sea

then she’ll speak never more of her graves.


Take good care of the sea,

said the heir of the sea–

take care and show her your grit.


From her storms never flee

let her eyes never see

all the shadows you’d rather forget.


To be dear to the sea

slay the heir of the sea

stay his hand before it raises again.


Do it near to the sea

while the wind blows alee

while the waves rush to take him back in.


I saw the heir of the sea

stop to stare at the sea

he stopped staring when the sight left his eyes.


I thought I might then flee

but he passed me the key–

and I knew then the depths of his lies.


This affair with the sea

- said the heir of the sea -

is really quite more than I’ll bear.


I’m leaving, said he

he left the sea’s LOVE to me.

And the sea and I birthed a new heir ⏳

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Too sexy for the Louvre – censorship in 2017

It’s hard to say wherein lies the headline here: Is it that a 40-foot tall architectural sculpture can be so unexpectedly suggestive? Or that any sculpture can be suggestive enough to be banned by the Louvre?

Domestikator by the Dutch design collective Atelier Van Lieshout had already been installed in Paris’s Tuileries Gardens, an outdoor annex of the Louvre Museum, as part of an upcoming public-art exhibition, when the museum seemingly had second thoughts. Perhaps they just hadn’t looked at it carefully enough until then? Louvre president Jean-Luc Martinez said, “It risks being misunderstood by visitors to the garden.” Martinez ordered the installation dismantled and removed.

The risk of misinterpretation haunts every creative endeavor—artists, writers, and performers seem to understand this instinctively. The most sanguine among them make their peace with it by accepting that it’s entirely beyond their control. Interpretation belongs to the audience; if they’re perceiving something the artist never intended then maybe it’s less a case of misunderstanding, than one of spontaneous collaboration in creating something new.

As for Domestikator, the eyes are unlikely to lie. Yes, you really are seeing anthropomorphized architecture going where no building materials have gone before. But what does it mean? Its creator-collective might argue that it’s a statement on the post-modern landscape…that our use of technology isn’t just altering the world, it’s crudely dominating it.

Other interpretations are surely just as valid, as are opinions about its worth and worthiness. If you don’t like it, don’t want to look at it, don’t understand why anyone would—you have engaged, and you’re starting a conversation thoroughly worth having.

But not now, not anymore. The Louvre has narrowed our conversation and engagement, leaving us only to talk about something that should have been settled generations ago: censorship. The Louvre censors art; there’s your headline. Even if it’s one almost too dismal to write.

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RIP Hef (April 9 1926 – Sept. 27, 2017)

Opinions may vary and we might disagree as to the scope of his contributions, but it’s hard to argue that Hugh Hefner, founder of the Playboy empire (he launched the magazine in 1953 with a borrowed $1000 investment) wasn’t a prime mover of post-war American culture. And we can argue as well whether Hef and his magazine and his mansion full of bunnies were a positive or negative cultural influence…but there’s one vital fact that should play into any such calculation:

It was never just about sex.

What Hef created was a rare mixture of hedonism and erudition, of measured thought and base instinct. He sought to both elevate the every-man and every-woman to a higher state of refinement, while acknowledging—even honoring—the fact that they are and always will be creatures of the flesh. It’s a formula that never should have worked, yet it did. It works quite well.

Whether or not Hef was, or should have been, a role model is another point of contention. But if he was, let me posit that in death he offered up one last exemplar of a Playboy’s existence: he left us at a ripe old age, quietly, within the Beverly Hills mansion that’s been his own architectural synonym for decades.

So love him or hate him, let’s respectfully bid him goodbye. Goodnight, sweet Hef. May warrens of bunnies sing thee to thy rest.

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The dotard and the rocket man

The office of Dear Leader of the DPRK is traditionally endowed with a lot of not-especially useful superpowers (all three of them were apparently adept at finishing up golf outings with 18 hole-in-ones)…but not even the most loyal and/or terrified North Korean could have predicted that wee rolly polly Kim Jong-un could have out-flash-memed the Trumpster on his own virtual turf. Such a bizarre development could indeed suggest he just might not be the man they think he is at home. Oh no no no.

Because love him, hate him, fear him, and/or mock him, the rocket man in the platform shoes wins this round decisively, while the larger campaign of pre-nuclear dick-measuring rages on. He and Trump squared off, eyed each other, and launched tactical nicknames. Trump’s attempt probably sounded good in his head, but all he did was put an awfully enjoyable song in all of ours.  But when Kim that magnificent bastard returned fire, he sent half the English-speaking world scrambling for dictionaries.

Dotard. He called him a dotard. Donald J. Trump please click here for a directory of reputable burn clinics near you.

Our conundrum is this: no matter how you feel about Trump, if you have a spark of human dignity in you, you never ever want Kim Jong-un to be right about anything, ever. But then he goes and calls Trump a dotard, and either you looked it up or you already knew what it meant (sure you did), and then you sat and thought about it. Trump. Dotard. Dotard-Trump.

Uncanny, Kim. Uncannily on the nose.

You have to dig deep for it, but there’s a glimmer of hope in all this. Kim wins the internet, so we laugh. Laughter is unexpected yet so so welcome in the midst of intercontinental tandem temper tantrums. That pair of man-children both salivate over the idea of a war that neither will have to fight, but as long as they’re hurling names, just names, maybe we can enjoy a laugh or two before the dotard and the rocket man kick things up a notch or ten.

Or it could be better even than that. Neither of them shows any sign of being easily deterrable, but both give every sign that they loathe being laughed at. The opportunity is ripe—they’re acting like clowns after all. So let’s laugh at them and see where that takes us.

I can see a future where both are laughed from power: Trump free to schlump further into his dotage, and Kim eagerly sought after for Hollywood parties, where he exhibits his limitless skill in summoning the perfect obscure OED ephemera to hand out as nicknames. Dennis Rodman emcees.

You never know, and it’s never too late to hope, and it should never be too grim to laugh. So give it a try. Just laugh at those twits.

First though, we’re gonna need a funnier name than Rocket Man. Thanks, dotard.

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Public service announcement.

Hey. I’m a little worried about you. I think you need to take a breath.

I know you hear that a lot. Someone’s always telling you that, or versions of that. Chill down, chillax, get your bloomers out of their uproar. Fifteen thousand curveballs and fastballs life’s been throwing at you, big ones and small ones and ones that seem like they’ll shake apart the universe.

It’s enough to make you lose your breath.

And that’s one solution I suppose. You can overrule the autonomic til you turn blue. Stamp your foot. Shut your eyes and shake your head. Or you can breathe.

Just breathe. Slowly, to a count of four, thinking about nothing except breathing. Pull in your breath with your abdomen, use your muscles, fill your lungs for four beats. Hold for a tic. Breathe out four beats.

Then do it again.

Whatever life you are going to live, whatever fate has in store for you, your time here is going to be bookended by breaths. You drew your first one upon arrival, you’ll let out your last just as you leave.

And whatever life you live, you’ll always share a few common features with the flame: it needs to breathe just as badly as you do. It consumes, it propagates, but it’s going to sputter. Best it can do is leave some kind of mark before it goes.

How bright you burn, and whatever makes you burn, and whatever you do next is something only you can determine. Be a candleflame or conflagration. Either way, make your mark

Just take a breath first. Relax when you do. Draw in the air slowly, let it out slowly, and push away all other considerations. Just for a while.

Then go ahead and get busy immediately thereafter. You’ve got plenty to do, and there’s plenty that needs doing. You’ll lose yourself in that maelstrom, in what’ll seem like mere seconds. You shouldn’t fash yourself, it happens to us all. We all get swept back in. And we stay there, turning and churning—

until we remember to take a breath.

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