Month: August 2017

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Walls, by Ray S

It was a grey March morning in 2007, the view looking
south through my dining room window was one of frozen earth and the black
remains of last summer’s garden. The thought came to me in an instant. “No, I
can’t do this again.” “This” was in reference to the task of planting a new
garden, of battling weeds, and tending a too-large lawn. Then too, our little
1940’s spec-ranch style house had suddenly become too much house of one ageing
widower.
After engaging the service of a good family friend and
realtor, the end result was a sale that required new owner occupancy by April
first. “Goodbye” to forty-some years of suburbia and relocation to a small
ground-level apartment, replete with sufficient essential facilities and
surrounded by all white painted interior walls. It was all such a
welcome no brainer not to concern oneself with color, anything works with white
and, besides, this was the beginning of a new, colorful life.
The new life lasted until the bank chose to pursue the
condo’s owner for nonpayment of the bank’s loan. So goes the “white walls.” And
the search for more walls to hang my art stuff, memorabilia, and toothbrush. With
the miraculous touch on the computer apparatus my “darling daughter” phoned me
to say she had found a possible new home for the homeless and aged Pater.
Another phone call arranged a meeting with the owner
of a rental condo near Washington Park; all of this having been discovered by
daughter while browsing the internet and finding the listing on “Craig’s List.”
Here’s the kicker; daughter and I met the owner’s
representative at the prearranged hour. I noted that the front door key and
lock didn’t like each other, but it finally unlocked revealing an apartment
consisting of required living spaces, all six of them including a kitchen and a
bathroom replete with claw foot bath tub, and each room sported a different
color on their respective walls.
Ever since that day it has been one colorful day after
another within my painter’s “Somewhere over the Rainbow” palette walls.
© 24 January 2017 
About the Author 
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Hero – Heroine, by Phillip Hoyle

My dad deeply respected two ministers who pastored the
church I grew up in: Brother W.F. Lown and Brother Charles Cook. Both highly
educated men were skillful preachers, fine administrators, and dedicated
ministers. Brother Lown baptized me at a rather early age because I insisted on
it. Several years later he spoke to me about becoming a minister. I was eight
years old when he planted that seed. I started paying attention to what was
being said around the church—sermons, lessons, conversations, and discussions.
When Lown left to become the president of a nearby church-related college, I
got to know Brother Cook, our new minister. I watched him carefully and was
surprised (and probably disappointed) one weekday afternoon at junior high
choir rehearsal when some girls were paying no attention and talking mindlessly
while we were practicing. He yelled, “What in the Sam Hill do you think you are
doing?” He made it clear he wanted us to work not gab. Although I was mildly
shocked, I realized that ministers were people with a full range of emotions.
That was probably the main experience that made it possible for me to actually
become a minister. That day I realized that ministers are human beings not
heroes, well all but one of them.
My hero a minister I started hearing about when I was
a few years older: The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior. I paid
attention to his career, preaching, and activism. He eclipsed my attraction to
Billy Graham whom I also greatly respected. King’s power as a speaker got my attention,
but mostly his message of equality for all people made great sense out of the
old gospel message of salvation I had heard since the first Sunday after my
birth. And his message of racial equality filled a void made in my life by our
family’s move from the Army town where I was born to a small county seat town
where there were no African Americans, no persons of Asian descent, and only
two Hispanic people—a mother and her daughter. I missed people who looked,
thought, and lived differently. I missed people who were recent immigrants from
Germany, Japan or Puerto Rico. I missed many friends and neighbors who, thanks
to Kings preaching, I realized weren’t getting a fair shake in America. I liked
the practical, daily, living, moral message of his preaching. And of course I
liked his oratory and forceful leadership. I had a real hero—one who was a
warrior, a leader, a strategist, a public figure who served his people—the
whole people of the United States of America—and who paid the ultimate price
for his courage and leadership.
Years later, when my African Son whom I was visiting
in Memphis, Tennessee took me to the MLK Memorial at the place King was
murdered, I realized this man, unlike activists I met in the late 1970s, was
not living high on the hog. He was staying in an old motel in downtown Memphis.
Nothing fancy. He lived with the least of these his brothers and sisters. And
he was a real human being with the full range of human emotions and experience.
King became my first hero and to date my only one.
© 30 January 2017 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Sorting it Out, by Louis Brown

“Sorting it Out” for me,
means tying up some loose strings.
Some other final thoughts
on The Red Tent by Anita Diamant:
(1)           
Circumcision:
the whole ritual becomes a symbol or precursor of mass murder or genocide.
Three of Dinah’s brothers – Simon, Levy, and Reuben – hire a small army of
goons and invade the walled city of Shechem at night and kill almost all of the
Egyptian men by slitting their throats. To please their king, Hamor, all the male
inhabitants of Shechem had been circumcised and had agreed to this because King
Hamor’s son Shalem wanted to marry Dinah, the Jewish Isaac’s granddaughter.
Hamor and Shalem were also circumcised, which they agreed to as a peace gesture
and soon after were murdered by Simon, Levy, and Reuben and their goons.
I think the author’s intent was to portray
men as having a bad killing instinct whereas women are life-givers and
nurturers. Men have it in their DNA to kill and, if able, to commit genocide. I
think the author was being a little too pessimistic. Although I note the
popularity of boxing and that of the John Wayne style of Western in which it
was perfectly OK for white people to plan the extermination of the native
American population, and earlier the Pilgrims doing pretty much the same thing.
(2)           
The once-a-month menstrual cycle explains
why all the ancient moon deities were women: Innana, Diana, Luna, etc. The
monthly cycle of the moon includes: no moon, crescent moon, half-moon, ¾-moon,
full moon, and it takes one month.   
(3)           
In the ancient tribe of Jacob in the tents
of Mamre, children with birth defects were left in the desert to die.
(4)           
I asked the Librarian, Della, at the
Lakewood Library if they had a gay and Lesbian book section. Della said not
exactly but gay and Lesbian literature, fiction, and non-fiction, has its own
Dewey decimal number so can be researched. I said most of gay literature that I
had read so far was either extremely politically polemic or just plain gossipy.
Della recommended:
(a)     I left it on the Mountain by Kevin
Sessums (2015) – the psychological and spiritual journey of an AIDS patient.
(b)           
“And the Band played on.” Starring Matthew
Modine. In a word, The French (Institute Pasteur) discovered the AIDS virus
first. Dr. Gallo of the American CDC claimed otherwise.
(c)     Sarah Waters who wrote the novel The
Paying Guests (published 2014). This is a Lesbian murder mystery. 
© 8 May 2017  
About
the Author  
I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Queer as a $3 Bill, by Lewis Thompson

I see little in common
between being “queer” (in so far as that term is used in reference to someone’s
sexual orientation) and a “$3 bill”. 
This room at the GBLT Center of Denver is filled with individuals of a
sexual orientation that has been and still is often self-described as “queer”, that
term having lost its pejorative connotation not so long ago.  As for the $3 bill, can I see by a show of
hands how many of us have ever seen one? [pause]
A much more apropos
expression would be “queer as a $2 bill”. 
By this I do not mean to further devalue gays but simply to recognize
the fact that $2 bills exist.  I enjoy
carrying them in my wallet.  For one
thing they are handy for tipping.
This topic begs the
question as to how many of us there are—queer folk, that is.  And are there degrees of queerness?  It is related to flamboyance?  Affect? 
Appearance?  Lifestyle?  In my experience, I would have to say that
the long-tenured belief that queers comprised 10% of the population has long
been discredited, unless you want to include men and women who admire their own
bodies, in which case the number would likely be much, much higher.  Based upon my personal observations, I would
have to estimate the fraction of humans who indentify as queer to be in the
order of 1-2%.  I have attended every one
of Hutchinson, Kansas, High School’s Class of 1964 reunions.  Out of a class of 450, to my knowledge, I am
the only alumnus who is “out of the closet”. 
There are a few “suspicious” characters among the lot but nothing
definitive.  Based upon that unscientific
observation, I would have to conclude that queers comprise about 0.4% of the
general population—roughly equivalent to my estimate of the fraction of $2
bills within the wallets and purses of the American populace.
If it weren’t for our
straight allies, I think we would be much worse off, both spiritually and
physically.  So, allow me to raise a
toast to all those “$1 bills” that have kept us safe and allowed us the freedom
to show our true colors.
© 14 Mar 2016 
About
the Author 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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Smoking,by Gillian

“I
quit smoking when I was in college”,  I
say, righteously; but that is a huge distortion of the truth!
It’s
not exactly a lie. I have probably not smoked more than ten cigarettes since
the late 1950’s. But I didn’t quit in the sense of the huge conscious
effort of concentrated willpower the word implies. I just kind of drifted away
from it and never really missed it; rather in the same way I had drifted into
it. It was attractive, for a while, in the way of all forbidden things,
especially to the young. We smuggled ill-gotten packs of cigarettes onto the
school bus, puffing away at them huddled on the back seat while the driver
turned a blind eye. He chain-smoked so why should he care if we took a few
inexpert drags?
I
didn’t quite get the attraction, but of course did not say so. There’s a limit to how much of an odd-ball one
is willing to become, and holding a cigarette between my fingers for a few
seconds every now and then was a cheap price to pay for belonging: not being an
outcast. (Being the child of a local teacher offers many challenges.)  Nobody seemed to notice whether I ever
actually placed the cigarette between my lips, much less inhaled. Life was
easy.
In
college, at any social gathering, I always had a drink in my hand. So did my
fellow party-goers. Most of them also held a smoldering cigarette. But the
drink was my membership card, so few, if any, noticed the lack of burning
embers.
A
few years later, at a party with several twenty-something co-workers, my husband
and I both had the obligatory drink-in-the-hand when the joint came by. We both
passed it on, untouched by human lips; untouched by ours, anyway. We both knew
that we had enough of a challenge controlling the attractions of alcohol and
had no need of another.
So,
in a very strange way, booze has saved me.
But
the attitude of the medical profession towards drinking and smoking which I
find rather strange.
“Yes”,
I acknowledge, “I probably drink more than is good for me.”
“Do
you smoke?” is the inevitable response.
I
think if I said, “There’s a huge pink elephant in the corner of your office,” the
reply would probably be, “How many packs do you average a day?’”
© August 2016 
About the Author 
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
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The Gayest Person I Have Ever Known, by Betsy

What does it mean to be
the gayest?  Using the word gay in its
generic sense and being a woman myself, I will discuss the term gayest in
relation to the only woman I know about whom I can make that judgement. And that
would be yours truly.  Now that I think
about it I find that I do not know how to apply the adjective to anyone except
myself.  How do I know how gay someone
is? How do I know how straight someone is? 
Are we talking about their libido? 
I don’t think so.  I have heard of
lesbians with very strong libidos, but I don’t consider them to be gayer than
others.  On the other end of the scale I
have known a few women who have a dislike and distrust of men in general,
suggesting that they may have been abused in the past. These women avoid men,
prefer not to associate with men, gay or straight, relate only to women and are
considered by themselves and others to be lesbians. Yet they are not interested
in sex with a woman either.  They are
basically asexual.
 Or perhaps we’re talking about
a gay person who never associates with straight people. Does this make a person
gayer than one who has a more diverse group of friends and associates.
Certainly not.  Could it mean a person
who is more secure in his/her gayness. 
Possibly.  But I reject that as well.  That just means the person is more secure,
not GAYER. 
And so, I repeat. The
only person whose degree of gayness I might have any idea about–has to be
myself.  And to compare my degree gayness
with that of others, I have to be able to measure the degree of gayness of
others.  And I have just made the case
that such a measurement is impossible. Hmm..This presents a problem.
But wait!  Enter the queerometer.  Just when the problem seems impossible to
solve, I remember the queerometer.  I
discussed this very issue once before in a piece called “Queer, Just How Queer.”  Could we not just as well have called it “Gay,
Just How Gay.”  I’m going to revisit what
I wrote then.
Imagine that we could
measure an individual’s degree of sexual orientation by taking, say, a blood
test.   This would be an ugly world
indeed with a rigid caste system.  The
most heterosexual would be on top and the most homosexual on the bottom. 
Newborns would be
immediately tested at birth.  Here’s one
scenario.
“Congratulations, Mr. and
Mrs. Jones.  You have a healthy baby boy
measuring only two on the queerometer.  He will be your pride and joy.” 
Or, the dreaded scenario:  “You have a healthy baby boy, Mr. and Mrs.
Jones.  He has 10 fingers and 10 toes and
all his parts.  I’m sorry to tell you
that he tests positive on the queerometer. 
He’s a 9.6″
“Oh,” says Mrs. Jones,
gasping for breath.   “A 9.6 !  Does that mean, does that mean?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” says
the attendant.  “At the age of eight years
you will be required to turn him over to the Department of Corrections.  He will be yours until then.  Enjoy!”
Or the following
close-call:
“Congratulations, Mr. and
Mrs. Jones.  You have a beautiful baby
girl.  She appears to be in perfect
health and all her parts are in the right place.  However, she does measure a five on the
queerometer, which, as you know, is high. 
The state will provide you with all the materials you need to guide her
in the right direction.  If you use the
manual wisely and stick to it, she will turn out just fine and I’m sure she
will live a normal life and give you many grandchildren.”  
Or imagine a world in
which LGBT people took on a particular hue at puberty.  Say, a shade of purple.  The really dark purple ones would be the
really, really, queer ones, and the light violets would be only slightly
inclined to be homosexual or transgender, or bisexual, or queer.  I can see the pride parade right now.  A massive multi-shaded purple blob oozing
down Colfax.
Alas, this does not
answer the question at hand: who is the gayest person I have ever known. The
queerometer fortunately does not exist and we hope it never will. So, the
question “Who is the gayest person I have ever known” remains unanswered.   As I write, an appropriate answer comes to
me.   WHO CARES!  And the more people who don’t care, the
better off we will be.
© 28 Jul 2014 
About
the Author 
 Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Where I Was When Kennedy Was Shot, by Ricky

I was in a theater watching a movie. 
I think it was a western, but I don’t remember for sure.  When he was shot, I wasn’t sad at all because
he was a bad man.  I went home feeling
rather good about the movie as John Wayne triumphed again.  Later on in his career, Kennedy won an Oscar
for Best Supporting Actor for his role in the movie Cool Hand Luke.  George Kennedy 18 Feb 1925 to 28 Feb 2016.
Joseph Kennedy Sr. was not shot but died in 1969 8-years after suffering
a stroke less than one year after his son was elected president.  I was in the Air Force at the time and really
didn’t care.
Joe Kennedy Jr. was killed in a bomber explosion during WWII.  I wasn’t even born at that time so I don’t
know where I was at the time.
Robert F. Kennedy was shot dead on 5 June 1968.  I was in an Air Force tech school in Texas
studying to become a Radio Intercept Analysist. 
I was sad because his brother was also shot.  I learned later that Robert’s young son was
upstairs in their hotel room watching the events on television and saw his
father get shot and die.  I can only
imagine the trauma that inflicted upon him.
Edward M. Kennedy died 25 August 2009 of complications from a malignant
brain tumor and was not shot.  I was living
at my current home in Lakewood, Colorado, but once again, I didn’t care very
much.
John F. Kennedy Jr. was born 25 November 1960 and died in a plane crash
16 July 1999.  I did grieve for him as I
still remembered him as the little boy who saluted his father’s caisson as it
passed him on its way to Arlington National Cemetery.  As I noted above, he was not shot.
John F. Kennedy was shot 22 November 1963 while I was taking a biology
test as a sophomore in high school.  I
had not studied for the test and was struggling with the answers.  I was about half way through the exam when
Mr. Al Hilldinger opened the door and shouted, “Kennedy’s been shot.”  The next day, our biology teacher, Mr. Harold
Mapes, gave us all a revised test because we had all done so poorly on the
previous day’s exam.  He blamed it on the
Kennedy assassination.  I wish he had
told us about the second text so I could have studied for it, but he didn’t and
I did better but not up to my normal performance on that test.
This “story” would have been much shorter if the topic would have been
just a bit more specific when referring to people.  There are way too many people named Kennedy
to just be so generic by using last names only.
© 3 Apr 2017 
About the Author 
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
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My Happiest Day, by Ray S

Where do I start? Looking back over many years the end
result for me is that there were just as many happiest. Sorting them for this
story was the challenge and not necessarily in any order of importance—just
Happiest days as they occurred in the life and times of one who has had the
privilege of hanging around this sphere so long.
Some fifty plus years ago the happiest days were
marked by the arrival of several of our baby son and daughter.  Certainly, those two gifts came along with the
trials and tribulations of all of us growing up together, but today the loving
rewards far outnumber those trials.
Which was the happiest day? The day was one of my
luckiest with the receipt of my army discharge, the little gold button
disparagingly christened the “ruptured duck” and the G. I. Bill, a gift of a
college education, and a whole new world to try and master.
In retrospect with diploma in hand I looked around and
asked my fellow classmate, “What do we do now?” that was happy in the guise of
wonder. We survived in spite of ourselves.
There was along the way a surreal wedding with an
unsuspecting (I think) college sweetheart, not to be confused with any happiest
day, but some did happen later and we actually survived to feast on the joy of
many Christmases, Halloweens, graduations, and holidays.
For all of the above perhaps these were
“semi-happiest”, but full of the excitement and comfortable routine of home and
family.
“My Happiest Day” happened when I sensed the feeling
of belonging to my true GLBTQ family and marching behind the color guard in my
first Pride Parade. Liberation abounded for me and since then I have surround
my body with a rainbow flag, kissing and hugging the members of my tribe and
even more members. Stop and think about it all, right now and see if you don’t
recall the heady exultation and joy of your first “outness”?
And the parade marches on!
© 31 October 2016 
About the Author 
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Games, by Phillip Hoyle

As a kid I never much liked games of competition, but
I did like games of simulation. The former were based on beating
others—winning. My early aversion arose most likely from my lack of physical
strength and coordination combined with my weak skills in strategizing. If I
ran a race, I simply ran. The problem was that I ran too slowly. I couldn’t
throw balls far or fast and the balls rarely showed up where I thought I was
throwing them. At the shooting range I couldn’t see very well even though I had
no idea of that. Then when I got corrective lenses I never could figure out how
to compensate. I had a hard time concentrating on activities that didn’t
capture my imagination.
I avoided football and baseball. I was attracted to
basketball, but I wasn’t even a good basketball player. I wasn’t aggressive
enough and didn’t care to be better than the other guys. But growing up I did
like games like War, Cops and Robbers, and my favorite, Cowboys and Indians. I
probably liked the costuming, props, and improvisatory acting. I was especially
repelled by party games—games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, or dropping
clothes pins into milk bottles. I could play cards: War, Canasta, Gin Rummy, Pinochle,
Poker, and Pitch, but I abhorred spin the bottle. I wasn’t interested to kiss
anyone (well until 10th grade when I learned to kiss Buddy).
I started working in churches fulltime in 1970 at the
outbreak of the Learning Games Movement. Some of these were pretty awful and
met strong resistance particularly from adult groups. I did like the Simulation
Games—an accommodation of military training practices used to introduce
students to strategic thinking as related to their topics of study. (It seems
strange that I liked them given their origins!) Of course school teachers had
long used competitive games like spelling bees and other more complicated ones
like debate. Even in my high school years church youth rallies sported television
game-show-inspired competitions over biblical knowledge pitting teams from
neighboring churches. Although I knew the Bible pretty well, I never was
interested to use the knowledge for purposes of showing off. It seemed somehow
antithetical to the sense of charity or cooperation I learned from the Good
Book’s best teachings. And remember, I was not very competitive.
During the 70s the New Games Movement started
introducing cooperative games strategized to create community—Hippie-inspired group
play that featured Earth Balls and sometimes flowers. I started developing similar
games—both the New Games and Simulations—for youth retreats and elementary
residential camps, ones related directly to the curricular themes and that
often involved the creation of environments, for example, a simulated
archaeological dig or a Middle-Eastern marketplace. These were much more
related to the simulation games of childhood than they were to sporting events,
and they proved effective in teaching.
To this day I fail to understand any competition that devalues
human life—either that of an individual or of a group. Still I do appreciate
the grace and power of athletes. I also like a couple of card games that have
so little strategy as not to stifle conversation among the players. But I don’t
like playing even those games with players who take winning too seriously.
Lest you think I am just an old stick in the mud, I
will admit to enjoying the Christmas games my youngest granddaughters planned
for our family. They involved individuals and teams. My favorite was the Reindeer
Game. For my team I hurriedly blew up and tied off small balloons until I was
out of breath and feeling very light headed. The balloons were then stuffed
into panty hose. The team that first successfully filled the legs like antlers
and whose reindeer donned them first won. Selected for the honor of being the
reindeer were my son Michael and his wife Heather. They looked bizarrely cute,
but my favorite part of that game was my daughter Desma’s story of trying to
purchase panty hose. Suppliers have become rare. Finally she found a store that
still carries them. The clerk said, “Yes, we have them. You must be going to
play the Reindeer Game; it’s all the rage at the State workers’ office parties
this year. You got here just in time.” Handing Desma the hosiery she said, “Here
are the last two pair.”
Oh the games people play.
© 16 January 2017 
About the Author 
 Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Resist-Opposition to Donald Trump, Louis Brown

“Resist” is the newest
rallying cry for those opposed to the Trump political and social agenda.  
This gives us the
opportunity to update our observations on the current political situation in
Washington, D. C.
(1)          Did you notice that Colorado Senator Michael
Bennet plans to vote yes for Trump’s pick for the U. S. Supreme Court, Neil
Gorsuch? I guess that means we can safely scratch Michael Bennet’s name off of
our list.
(2)          According to many historians and
scholars of political and economic science, capitalism inevitably grows more
and more corrupt. The upper 1% of the upper 1% grab more and more of the
nation’s wealth and purchase politicians and elections. And they are the only
ones who benefit from this arrangement. Eventually the victims of their austerity
programs try at least to fight back.
(3)          I remember when Ronald Reagan was
president, the news media went on a frenetic promote-Reagan campaign, calling
him one of the greatest of U. S. Presidents. This was deceptive journalism.
President Reagan’s greatest accomplishment was to impoverish the American
middle class. And on a personal level, he was painfully ignorant. A lot of
people noticed. On the positive side, he was patriotic, and he was not as evil
as Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.
(4)          Bernie Sanders has said that he fears
that the United States is becoming an “oligarchy”; this is an extremely polite
way of saying that the U. S. is becoming a fascist state.
(5)          If you compare the careers and
personalities of Donald Trump and Benito Mussolini, you will be struck by the
similarities. Now Donald Trump’s version of fascism is (not yet anyway) as
harsh as that of Mussolini, but many of the same basic underlying suppositions
apply.
(6)          In both cases, the upper classes feel
threatened so put up an authoritarian leader to suppress dissent and a
militaristic government dedicated to suppressing any real version of democracy.
The government’s credibility declines, and the public slowly but surely stops
believing anything the government has to say. This results in more suppression
of democracy.
(7)          In Italy, the upper classes felt
threatened by communism. In the United States now, the public not only has
stopped believing anything our government says, we mostly do not support our
foreign policy, and we want something radically different.
(8)          I think therefore that progressives can
make deals with certain Tea Party organizations, many of whom want to
“overthrow” Paul Ryan. So, do we.
(9)          Actually, morally speaking, Paul Ryan
is much worse than Donald Trump, in my opinion. Donald Trump has some redeeming
qualities, Paul Ryan does not.
(10)                 
Progressives can also work with Senator
Rand Paul who has a very appealing isolationist foreign policy. I never understood
why, when someone calls him an “isolationist,” he denies it. At some points in
history, it is a very good thing to be an “isolationist.” At these same moments
in history, it is good to be a “pacifist” – like now for instance. The American
public is deriving little or no benefit from the perpetual wars in Afghanistan
and Iraq. Let us take advantage of the broad-based public disapproval.
(11)                 
The other morally reprehensible fascistic
or at least authoritarian leader on the current international scene is Vladimir
Putin. Have you noticed how Mr. Putin supports far-right movements in most of
the countries in Western Europe? And then there is his homophobia.
© 10 Apr 2017  
About
the Author  
I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.