Italians, Paintings, and Art: Are They and We Manic? Hopelessly Romantic, or Driven, Possessed

    The peninsula and boot of Italia, Italy, inherited the vestiges of Rome. The once and forever empire. The one that the Hapsburgs tried to recreate, or later on der Fuhrer of Germany, or perhaps Vladimir Putin of today? An American, to try the same, in the line of Washington and Lincoln? Never! Balderdash. We Americans have all types of czars, but no real Caesars. Correct, U.S. Constitution.

    The Italians grew from the ashes and grape vineyards of the Romans, but they fancied fancies much too much. Paintings, sculptures, all kids of aesthetic qualities that possessed the eyes and the minds of those that fancied them.

    Confused? Sure, we could use more words. Figure them out. Fie upon them! Hamlet quoth.

    Italians valued art. Visual, emotional, spirtitual, all of it.

    Places like Mantua, I come to find out. Places in Italy, even more than Venice, Venezia, that inspired and informed the real Bard.

    My smarty pants professor from England at UCLA liked Italy, maybe above all places. Like Shakespeare, or perhaps more realistically Christopher Marlowe, the real Bard, according to Rodney Bolt in 2004. Italy, Italy, Italy. Was it the source? Is it still?

    The Italians. Later to be crime bosses in Siciliy or New York, or maybe New Jersey and Florida.

    They loved and valued art, perhaps more than most.

    The Spaniards came these ways, maybe the painters of Iberia, eventually modern men like Pablo Picasso. Today Spain has many film artists.

    Now my sister has a dog named Pablo. In Paris. Not the one you were thinking of.

    Different lights, different city.

    So, yes, the Italians brought more to light, to the fore.

    Viva italia.

    Forza italia.

    Long live all the manias.

    Let them not kill us, or drive us as mad as Hamlet. Manias and manic persons. Even dogs and rabblerousers

    Or the couple that lost their young son Hamnet. Likely related stories and romantic, albeit tragic, losses. Popularized in a 2020 book (the year of our recent plague, or pandemic), now made into an award-winning film.

    May we live forever and achieve the hightest artistic values. Love, as preached from the pulpit yesterday by the oldest man in the ward.

    Church.

    Some are pro, some are anti. Can we be at all neutral? Chaotic, likely.

    Inside jokes in a dialogue from some co-workers. One of Greek (mostly) origin. It has become of my intra-dialogue, whether he knows it, admits it, or not. People affect us. So do countries, languages, art.

    Yes. Si. I do not know a ton of fluent Italian, but I have learned a few songs.

    E similar. Sao similares. O seja, sao similareis.

    

 Pedantry

    What does that word mean? Define it. I read some books and magazines as a child growing into adulthood. I also would refer to and imbibe of encyclopedia articles and some essays, through academic pursuits and my own means. Sometimes church activity would bring more literature and knowldge. Shows, films, all kinds of gobbledygook and at times rot would besot my brain.

    I could not remember it all, but there were clear vestiges of the remains of the words, the phrases, the storylines, the meanings. The plots and the plans. Stories, adventures, deeper significances.

    What did math teach me? To think? Great. Thanks for all the logic and the quantifying. Let's take that further, braniacs. Not me. I need to get lost in the word sauce. The salsas of other minds.

    Words and stories beguile us. They have beguiled me. Always. Never stopping, oft times erring.

    Like to my bore of a professor, a man named Bell, at UCLA. Auspicious university, where I found some of my way. I erred with him, saying republic instead of federation. He thought less of me. I should have dressed better, for one. Less sports t-shirts. Impressions mean stuff to people. But then again, he was a blow hard.

    All these years later, the battles rage on. Or the battle rages on. 

    And what is pedantry. What is it? My mind hearkens back to little Mulchen, in the very off radar southern Chile.  1990. A man called my missionary companion and I "pedantes". Which my trainer took affront to, but was this visitor to our fair town right?

    Some would agree with him, that unknown accuser, possibly or probably a communist, or at least a socialist. Even a close one to me that pinged me by telephone this very minute.

    We are pedantic Christian or Latter-Day Saint or Mormon missionaries. Stool pigeons of an ideology or a nationalist cause, or sheer Adam Smith capitalism.

    We are caught up in pedantry, accoring to some.

    Are we? 

    Am I? Am I a pedant. I am pedantic? Sometimes, yes, I admit it.

    What is pedantry?

        I am well into my sixth decade. Is the math right? My birth month, closer to the higher ages of seniorhood. 

    What words have we learned? What phrases have we eexperiences and earned?

    Am I pedantic. Is it all wrong and ill-founded.

    Perhaps not.

    Perhaps we need and are more befit of more pedantry.

    Learn what the words mean.

    And not trivialize them.

Another Hopeful Season of Indiana Basketball; We Await in the Throes of Fickle Wizardry

    Yet again I am exposed to the hopes, travails, and in many cases wasted time hacks of watching and rooting for the boys of candy-striped pants and ever-optimistic hardwood Hoosiers. Most of the players have come from other states and countries, outside of the Indiana heartland. Sisley and Burton are the only natives of the beloved homeland, our fair state. The former from Santa Claus (yes, verily), and the latter from Mishawaka. Some of the best names of the south and north.

    Burton may be the answer as the man who moves the ball, and even shoots after deft passing options. Sisley? Showed some promise last year, but not enough. Not like the Hoosier Mullins of UConn.

    

    ASIDE:

    

    UConn. Connecticut Huskies. They are current giants. They win rings, moving beyond the 1980s peak of my Indiana guys. Alas. Bob Knight brought us glory, which has been mostly a fire sale of a backwash since. Practically 40 years of futility. Moses and his wife, and some million other Israelites understand our woes and crushed dreams. Four decades of not entering the Promised Land. We peered into back in the spring of 2002. Mike Davis seemed to be the one to truly inherit the mantle of master chess piece manipulator. But no. Recruiting went sideways and upside down. Sampson cheated, the fool. Not all his fault with new technologies later forgiven. Crean recruited a few good ones, and gave us some aspiring motives, but no, no, no... Miller next? Woodson, Hoosier legend but not a championship winner? Enter DeVries. Rhymes with please. PLEASE. Let us win.

    To be an Indiana basketball fan. Men's basketball. The women garnered our attention and entertainment for a few seasons. Theirs is not the real passion, the real verves, the real or true and false fanatacism.

    Knight only enhanced it, after the 1940s and 1950s brought the university and state greatness and aplomb.

    We look back to the halcyon days of yore. Where have they gone. I am like Hamlet, seeing the ghost of my murdered father (the General, aforementioned Knight, aptly named), and the wanton mother, be it Duke or Florida or the Hoosier-sucking Carolina Tar Heels. That dastardly Uncle, Kentucky, who killed Knight some years, or the next door Louisville Cardinals. They steal your home state bird, and your rings that were yours for plucking. Like the Virginia Cavaliers, Wahoos as it were, you exploited your own Mister Basketball! 

    There is not an end to the suffering. Ophelia righly drowns herself in that beautiful Danish stream. Might have well as been the Wabash, and its banks, far away. Thank you, Hoagy Carmichael. We are delusional in our leather hoop ord stardust memories and reveries.

    But I wax besides myself.

    Who else can bring IU the fame and glory, the buckets and rebounds? Harris, from Duke. He played at Saint Paul the Sixth, of northern Virginia. Many Hoosiers are from the DMV, we shall see. Harris, a guard from Herndon, Fairfax County. We have others from Baltimore and District Heights, closer to Andrews Air Force Base. Clearly a capitol city area of our great nation.

    We have a big Turk, named Samet. A long German, with a Russian name. A seven footer transferring from Alabama, who is of Detroit origins.

    Who knows? Indiana in championship years had players from neighboring states, namely Illinois and Ohio. What of 1940 and 1953? It had to be Indiana itself then. Times change.

    Knight tried a seven foot center in 1984, when we upset Michael Jordan and Sam Perkins. We had some hopes until the taller, better, more skilled Ralph Sampson. Virginia.

    Which reminds me Purdue, and Edey, and the other number one seed historically upset in the first round of the dance. We also had New Castle's Steve Alford.

    Have I listed them all? There is one called Moody. And perhaps Alexis will be the key to grit, hustle, and winning acclaim. Perhaps?

    Go Hoosiers. Butler hung tough, but we must go harder, faster, first.

    Florida, Duke, UConn, Purdue, and perhaps Illonois or Michigan await.

    Michigan. Three rings won since Indiana's Alford? Maybe only two. Either way, much more than the real purveyors of college basketball.

    Indiana needs, wants, craves more.

    You can sense that.

    Blog on.

 The Curious Case of a Dozen or More Running Backs - Modern Day Warriors, Bruisers

    Most countries do not have them, because most countries of 2026 do not have American football. They wear helmets, and sport large pads for the shoulder and body parts. Having worn these protective gears briefly in my life, I know that I was surprised how much of the body was not covered very well.

    Football delivers bruises, welts, contusions, scrapes, scratches, tears, concussions, and worse. Broken bones, messed up spines, torn muscles and tendons. It is a sport of blood, a sport for non-wimps.

    Perhaps the running back must be the toughest. He, of all the chess pieces of the grid iron, must bear the brunt of pounding and hounding. Run, catch, or block, the tailback or halfback or fullback must withstand adverse force and punishment.

    Some become famous, others made themselves infamous. I can name a few. You will know a few, while others barely ever were known more than fifty miles from my house.

    Let us see:

    1. Start with OJ? No, he deserves less acclaim. I will start with men, or young men, of more honour.

    Bobby Howard. He was tough, he was strong, he was Black. He was a workhouse of the Indiana Hoosiers. They as a team were not good, not competitive enough to go to bowls in the early 1980s, but Bobby was a fighter. I liked him. Perhaps I saw him in person or on TV as a young middle schooler, when my dreams of playing the sport myself were still extant? I cannot remember. I do rememember listening to his calls of runs and catches on the radio. In my room, maybe from a car or my dad's van radio. The ubiquitous IU radio man calling the plays...*

    I loved that guy. Those long suffering Hoosiers. Bobby went on the pros, did not do much there at the higher level. But he was an early hero running back of mine.

    2. Lynn Churchill. More on him later. Purple Panther.

    3. Randy Perine. Also a Panther.

    3. Whats-his-name. Deems. Charles? I will get to it, in my year books.

    4. Anthony Thompson. Wow. Amazing runner. Bruiser. My guy.

    5. Emmitt Smith.

    6. Barry Sanders.

    7. Ernest Lukes. A high school guy.

    8. Vai Sikahema.

    9. Lakei Heimuli.

    10. Jamal Willis.

    11. Luke Staley.

    12. Who to stop with? The killer? The brazen murderer? Yes, none other than Orenthal James, the Juice and airport luggage hurdler: Simpson. RIP his two unfortunate victims.

    Most running backs in the NFL, and college, and high school, do not wind up felons.

    Some do.

    More later.

    Blog it.

    

If God Exists, Does He Want All His Children to Be Holy and His Servants

    In short, yes.

    God does exist. I cannot absolutely prove it. Love and memory exist. Safet to say those are provable.

    He wants us to care about each other, take care of each other.

    He wants us to be priests and priestesses. All of us are holy.

    We are His, He wants us to be like Him.

    There is the Christian thing. Jesus came and left His impact.

    Son of God the Almighty to us Christians. Jesus is Him in the Flesh.

    A bit more to take in.

    Then, there are the prophets. Many prophets of old.

    Any current ones?

    Some of us think so.

    God speaks to us through current oracles, if you will.

    The Jewish have their own different beliefs and worship practices. They preceded Christianity.

    Later came Islam, from the verses of Mohammad.

    Siddhartha Gautama, and the Indian gurus and maharashtras and holy folks and scriptures of that subcontinent filled the holy thoughts of billions over time.

    There are others. Local shamans from the Maidu of Northern California to the Mapuche of Southern Chile, to the beliefs and traditions and practices of the Inuit lining the entire Arctic.

    So many. The Shinto of Japan, or the Confucious and Daoist of China.

    There on the non- Thereveda and Mahayana of Mongolia and Tibet. The friend of my daughter explained how they act or believe differently.

    Nietsche said "God is dead", as reiterated by that same daughter, the oldest of mine, but I replied to her that his quote is misattributed or misinterpreted. 

    Yes, I could break it down. I think.

    For those of us God believers.

    He does want us to be holy.

    And serve Him. And care for all.

    Yes, on these precepts we can agree.

    God or not.

My Week of Football. My Lifetime of Observations and Fantasies.

    I tried to play on my 7th grade football team way back in 1980 something. '83? I guess it was the summer after Return of the Jedi. A generational motivator or fantasty multiplier.

    There's that. Science fiction and fantasy and spectacle taking up many of my waking, sub-conscious, and likely unconscious hours. Dwarf Pine Ewoks burning needles at Camp Maumee.

    Trying to create and expand and expand and dream.

    Write, explore, share, dream.

    You name it.

    We dreamed of being football stars, Lance Allen and I. We liked throwing and catching. Being teammates and winners. That was fourth and fifth grade. It was a kinship, and it was not entirely fair. We stayed together; he was my guy on the play ground football field. He had the cocky kind of Han Solo attitude and posture. I was a little more like Luke. Skywalker, maybe. Even though I had the brown hair and Lance was more blonde.

    We drempt of being football players. I could catch and run. He could throw and bark out winning plays and calls. I could be a back-up thrower, too. But he was the boss. I liked being the go-to guy at the end.

    6th grade came and went, and 1982 slid into 1983. In 6th grade at Binford Middle School we sat out from football. At least I did. We did not have the same recess time like at Elm Heights. Plus, they used a real football, which sent my friend Seth Berry to the hospital in an awful way. But recess right after lunch in middle school was not conducive to playing all sweaty and dirty like in elementary school. Problems with staying with the sport that year?

    1. I had nicer clothes, like Levis and Polo shirts. They wer expensive and I did not want to rip them up or soil them. Plus, the blue jeans were tighter, and it was not easy to move and run in them. Did I wear the right foot gear to play after lunch? Maybe, but my arch supports were a thing... Which came up as an issue in the hot summer of 1983. The summer after my parents had broken up, and I got lazier. Fatter, softer, weaker. My brain and my body entered the world of confusion that comes with trying to grow up and trying not to cry when we sang about eternal families at church on Sunday.

    Sounds like pathetic excuses or pity party pleas, but that is the way it was. How could I not be affected? My sisters and I dealt with it differently. It was not great or easy. I resported to my comic books, other reading, mostly science fiction, I guess staying up late in the summer and watching David Letterman. Things that would carry over. Not a ton of friendships, but some. Scouts, church. Some neighborhood buddies. But their parents were not divorcing. And I was the most religious one, but where did that leave me and my family?

    Not that great, that faith and religion, huh? Not good enough to keep your parents together, even though we proclaimed it all the time.

    Not a pity party. Reason. Logic. The absence of logic and reason.

    So there was football, but then there wasn't.

    I put on the cleats, the helmet, and the pads for week.

    But I walked away. I slinked away. It was painful.

    Lance, my Captain Solo, left first. Not all his fault. Things and people move on.

    The coaches should have kept us, but they did not know or try too much.

    The experience was not meant for us.

    More later.

    Grateful to think of it on a Friday night while some of my loved ones are at the high school game nearby.

Fighting Off the Big, Dark, Monster - Spooky Tales and Thoughts and Premonitions

    It is October, baseball is going on. The playoffs and cool nights under the klieg-type lights. My Sox are still going. They are a bridge to my childhood. Topic for another post.

    But we have some scary thoughts this month, as we can in any month. Ghouls and goblins, phantoms and ghosts. Even real life killers and thrillers.

    Here's a possible scary one: what if each of us, or at least some of us, have some mental cloud or depression or awful demon (metaphorically or symbolically) that is being kept at bay? And it is simply waiting us out?

    My mom suffered from depression some times. At times kind of severely. I have known others who have battled deep, dark, stretches of the mind and soul. Not an easy thing.

    Maybe those things are welled up inside somewhere, waiting like a monster.

    Like Moby Dick chasing down Ahab, only Ahab thinks that he is the one to get the whale.

    Who is chasing who? Or whom is being chased?

    How deep and how far in the marvelous yet terrifying depths do the monsters lurk?

    Spooky thoughts for a cool and dark October evening.

    Happy Hallow's Eve.

    All month long. Or maybe all our lives.

    Love you, mom. The guy who used you against me in an interview for the government is the bad guy, not me and you.

    We are the good ones. Above the foam and the fray.

 

 It is Hard to be Mainstream because We Are not Mainstream - A Peculiar People

    My senior year of high school I tried... No, I was a junior in my honors English class. I tried to write up, mostly on my home computer, what or how or something about being a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A Latter-day Saint. My kind or brand of Christian. A Mormon.

    I struggled. I thought. I though hard, but distanced myyself. I procrastinated. I had a few flashes of brilliance, or at least ideas. The end result was not great. I wanted to make it great. I came up short. I needed help from others, most likely. More close friends or people who got me, or would help.

    Story of my life, perhaps.

    No chances to blog back then.

    At the age of 48 I was having a debate with some co-workers in the middle of nowhere, Louisiana if being of my religious faith was to be a minority. No, they said. Not a minority. However, part of me countered that statement. We are a minority. A religious minority, for sure, but not an ethnic one. There are differing types of minorities.

    Racial minorities. Linguistic minorities. Socio-economic minorities. Cultural minorities. Females in the military, is a minority.

    We Latter-day Saints are a combination of minorities. Religious, cultural, ethnic in a way. 

    We are not mainstream, though we want to be in most ways. But our rules and lifestyle precludes us in many ways.

    We want to be in the world but not of it. Not worldly.

    We wish to be a peculiar people, and a light on the hill, as the the Bible has prophesied.

    Like the Jewish, we wish to fulfill God's will and truths and be His people.

    That is the way it is, and how we strive to be.

I Had Some Really Good Ideas for Writing Some Posts

    I had them in my head a few hours ago, or less. But I came home, took a nap, and now I am struggling to remember. It had to do with places lived, or lives lived.

    One was about "Visiting Russia in the 1980s" ! Yes, I can remember that. What else? Visiting Russia...

    How about the one time champs of my my schools?

    Hmmm... Presidential elections or persons?

    Okay, let's go with Russia.

    But, yes! "Visiting Africa" (Eggypt and stuff like that.)

Bill Garret, Oscar Robertson, and 365 Plus Schools of Basketball Opportunities

Bill Garrett, Oscar Robertson, and 365 Plus Schools of Basketball Opportunities

    It has come to more recent attention to me that Bill Garrett was the Jackie Robinson of Indiana. More specifically, Indiana Univiersity. No coincidence, likely, it was a year after Jackie joined the Dodgers. back in the days of Brooklyn.

    The story goes that big, tall, skillful Bill Garrett, the best player in the state of Indiana coming from the ever popular high school level, was desired to play the game at the college level. Enter the dilemma. Indiana, which was a member of the Big Ten Conference, did not allow Black/African-American players in their league. IU wanted the best team, not some artificial construct of sport based on race. Or, rather, based on skin color. We are one human rice. Science proved it, over the fascist killers of Germany or elsewhere, killing a couple hundred thousand G.I.s a short time before.

    

    Garrett played for IU. Indiana broke the rules. Hurrah. Let's here it for fair play and meritocracy. Jesse Owens proved that in Berlin in 1936. Hello.

    While he did not lead them to a championship at the national level his immediate successors did in 1953. Maybe Garrett helped them get their NCAA ultimate victory during his tenure of play in Bloomington? I would think so.

    Oscar Robertson graduated from Indianapolis Crispus Attacks in the late 1950s. Apparently IU was too racist in those years under those coaches and environments, so he chose Cincinnati across the state border. Lucky Bearcats. Oscar was the best of his generation.

    These are gifted and talented Black men. Part of our shared history, glory, and joy.

    In 2026 we celebrate fetes and games in basketball more and more. 365 Division I schools, places of academic and professional training and potential, sponsor that many teams, giving thousands of Black, white, and all manner of backgrounds a chance to play, learn, matriculate, and succeed.

    Nothing is perfect, but even the smallest schools provide more opportunities to win, succeed, soar, and grow. Succeed on all levels. 

    This goes for women of all backgrounds. 

    This is good.

    We love and cherish basketball for all reasons. The pure thrill of the competition, the money generated, the spectacle and unity offered, the communities built and expaned.

    The schooling, as Bobby Knight would emphasize.

    Opportunity meets effort.

    It may be beside or on a hardwood court, but the nets and hoops and backboards give way to the worlds of hope and prosperity.

    From the 1940s till now, and long into the future. For Turks, Slovenians, Chinese, and on.

    Which school did your player attend?

It Gets Worse and Uglier: We Americans Have Helped the Jihadi Terrorists Kill the Victims

    How do we unaware Americans contribute to letting victims of terrorism suffer and die? Not too complicated. Yet opaque to many of us erstwhile hopeful citizens of our fine country.

    First of all, we do fight jihadi and other terrorists worldwide. We are the good guys in this sense, overall. Sometimes we mess up and torture, or bomb the wrong locales. Like a school full of girls. Accidents honestly and sadly do happen. We make mistakes. Torture and improper detentions and imprisonments. Errorful reports and actions can victimize the wrong folks. It happens all the time. But most of the U.S. military and law enforcement mean well. I truly beleive that. I believe in us, since 1776 and before. But we can be ridiculously bad and inept, or even bloodthirsty at times. Beyond mistake prone, hurting our enemies and ourselves, we can do some purposeful mayhem and debauchery. We need to improve, do better.

    Some men women were captured by Boko Haram terrorists in 2022. The women were raped and contracted HIV. The men, their lawful husbands, unknowingly got the virus and some died of AIDS. Some of these poor women, already bereft a spouse, then had to fight HIV and AIDS. They needed medicine, like Magic Johnson received since his shocking diagnosis in 1991 and did well ever since. He's wealthy. So are most U.S. citizens in comparison to most Nigerians.

    But, in 2025, a few people on our side of the planet decided to cut off the medicines and clinics to people in Borno State of Nigeria and dozens of other African countries.

    People got sicker and died right away. Hard to count the numbers.

    Some of the women raped and infected in 2022 got sick and died.

    Not our fault that they got sick in the first place, but...

    Donald Trump and Elon Musk have nothing to do with their deaths?

    Who is the terrorist? Certainly Boko Haram, in the name of Allah and their extremist and awful jihadi ideology and actions.

    Who else is terrorizing and killing the victims?

    Tell me, please.

    Physicians, heal thyselves.

    Jesus cannot be in this. 

    Are we Christians? Humans? Caretakers? Protectors.

    Look again, my fellow citizens. I have a slew of mirrors.

    Please keep looking.

    Accept how ugly we can be.

Thanks, Clarity. Bullies are Insecure: They Hurt and/or Kill Others from their Hubris

    This blog post should make sense. Let me know if you have trouble believing or understanding what I am going to explain.

    Nicole Simpson, the abused then murdered ex-wife of Orenthal Simpson, aka The Juice, was beaten lengthily and persistently for a long time until she was brutally butchered by the father of her children. A famous, and quite successful fellow. Problem was, he was a bully, a tyrant, a coward, and full of himself to pyschotic degrees. Much like the current commander-in-chief, Donald J. Trump.

    One beat and killed with his hands and fists and brute strength, and eventually a knife; the second kills with his callous sense of humanity and mendacious self-aggrandrizing and idiocy. Is he racist? No. I do not think so. He simply does not value human life that much. Was O.J. racist? I do not think so. A maniacal abuser and killer? Yep. 

    Sadly, a two time president has killed (and abused) a lot more innocent victims than the former Buffalo Bill great. That could be reason for impeachment, in my opinion. Turn off the medicines to thousands and it makes you a killer. If at all avoidable, we do not let any innocent people suffer and die. I mean to speak of true blue Americans that realize that we should help people live, even at a cost or sacrifice to our time or pocketbooks.

    This is America. Home of the brave, free, and magnanimously generous. We preserve and save others, we do not igorantly or purposefully let them die.

    Come to find out or more fully realize decades later, OJ would basically torture his wife many, many times. Did he hate white people? Women? I do not think so. Did he hate himself? Probably. Some self-loathers hide their insecurities and hatred pretty well. They prance, they preen, they brag, they gas light, they puff themselves up, they narcissustically fancy themselves the victim.

    Sound about right? OJ? Your ghost? Donald? Your huge ego? Both will reckon with God, as we all will. Sure, I am casting a few heavy stones here. I am not past my own faults. But I am not a bully. I am secure and brave enough to call out bullies and cowards and killers as they are.

    Simpson. You were awful. 

    Donald. How can you look at yourself as a grand or great American leader? You are fired, sir.

    Which U.S. president was responsible for the most deaths of the sick and dying in Africa? Perhaps 15 countries, likely more. Blame Elon Musk for his lack of humanity or knowledge of how clinics and life-saving medicine and treatment works? Not good enough.

    No. Our twice elected leader cut off the aid to hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of desperate and underprivileged sick and needy. More or less overnight. No planning, no forethought. Maybe even less afterthought.

    That is why guys like me are around. We count the losses, the gains. We analyze. And we do not shut our eyes or turn off our brains or memories.

    Once a killer, I think you are always a killer. Truth.

    What are some names of those who died? I can find out.

    On September 11, we memorialize or commemorate the names of the poor souls vanquished on that awful day in 2001. I was thirty years old with a small baby. OJ was maybe locked up, with his two kids pushing adulthood. Donald was in his 50s, on his second or third wife, with his collection of kids, some adults, maybe. Others can do the math.

    Here is my math. OJ killed two. Nicole, and ill fated Ron Goldman.

    Donald (via Elon and the DOGE)? Some say 700,000. Was that the first year after his second inauguration? We have people dying right this second in 2026 because of lack of previous clinics, some of Ebola that might have been combatted otherwise...

    Okay. Pause for now. Do I have holes in my argument?

    Please tell me. Let me know where I am wrong.

    Killers are bullies, and bullies are insecure. How can they not hate themselves? Unless the psychosis is complete.

    Good night and good day, America. I will strive to protect us all: the weak, the lame, the poor, the sick. All of us.

    Lady Liberty is so much more a New Yorker than Trump, whose name gets more revolting the more that I think about it. Mudd seems innocently bland to me now.

    My parents were inspired by a former U.S. president (who was rich AND served heroically in the military and war) and went to Africa, Sierra Leone and Togo, to save lives. Ove. r two years of their lives to help the needy. Those with less. Losers? My folks or their patients and clients? Hardly. Heroes.

    Whom do I admire and acknowledge as champions and saviors and protectors?

    Thank God for the real heroes.

    Love you.