Postcards to the President

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times -- Justice Dept. Is Said to Open Criminal Inquiry Into Its Own Russia Investigation -- A Forecast for a Warming World: Learn to Live With Fire -- They Know What You Watched Last Night.

When hawkshaw versus hawkshaw there's an awful whoop-de-do.

Investigating your own boss will put you in the stew.

I recommend  the DOJ just take a long vacation,

and let us common citizens police our own damn nation.

@ktbenner  

@adamgoldmanNYT

***************************

And so our world has gone to blazes

while we sing the fulsome praises

of a president gone mad

who sees ev'rything in plaid.

Yes, I speak ad hominem --

and his cronies I condemn.

Let us hope the world survives

with more than insects in their hives!

@thomasfullerNYT

****************************

When watching the boob tube, take heed
lest all of your data they bleed
to figure a way
to get you to pay
for stuff you just really don't need.
@tiffkhsu

For the love of Amy

On a whim, I called up my former wife Amy yesterday, Thursday, October 24, 2019, to invite her to dinner. She accepted. What follows is my report on our proceedings together. There are also email responses from friends I sent the sad tale to, and something from my daughter Virginia, which has almost no bearing on this story but I felt like putting it in anyway, and then Amy's crushing, final email reply that I received today.

I cleaned up the joint in preparation for Amy’s visit this evening. Even flushed the toilet. Got the couch turned around so we could sit on it to watch movies . . . 

When she drove up to my patio door at 4:15 this afternoon I was a little surprised -- I thought she said 5. I greeted her warmly. She smelled heavenly. I pressed her to me; her skin was soft and yielding. I kissed her on the lips. She didn’t resist, so I tried for another; this time she coyly turned her head, and so I nuzzled her neck instead. I completely lost my head and blurted out: 

“I’ve missed you so much . . . “

So much for my plan to play it cool as a cucumber. Restraint was not to be my major theme this evening.

Ghostbusters Two was on cable when she arrived; I asked her if she wanted to go out to eat right away or sit and watch the movie a while. As I hoped, she opted for watching the movie. She started to sit in the big upholstered chair, but I swooped down on her and with an amorous waggle of my eyebrows I quoted to her that famous line of Groucho Marx to Margaret Dumont: 

“Ah, Mrs. Rittenhouse, won’t you lie down?” while pointing at the couch. She laughed softly, accepting my invitation. 

I put my arm around her shoulder. I massaged her neck. I drew her to me for a kiss. Then she asked, just like Margaret Dumont, “What are your intentions, Timmy?”

“I’ve missed you” I reiterated, “and I want to visit with you and take you out to dinner because I have missed your company. And I want to cook for you -- that would make me really happy.” 

 She floored me with her response.

“What am I supposed to get out of all this?” she asked.

Completely flummoxed, I held her hands in mine and stared at her like a beached carp. 

“What . . . what do you mean?” I finally stammered.

“All this affection and taking me out to eat -- how do I benefit from any of it?” she helpfully explained. 

I could only gabble at her like a man with his mouth full of peanut butter. A free meal? A makeout session on the couch like the good old days?  The offer to cook for her whenever she liked? These meant nothing to her?

I saw I was on the slippery slope to abject bondage to her every whim, and I hadn’t the willpower to apply the brakes.

“I’m very vulnerable when I’m with you” was what I finally said.

“I know” she replied. And then she looked deep into my wildly gyrating eyes and placed my hand on her thigh. Then placed her hand over my hand. Oh, she is good. She makes Mata Hari look like Phyllis Diller. 

Fortunately, the movie took an interesting turn at that moment -- so we resumed breathing and watched Dr. Venkman’s shenanigans for a while. Would he and Sigourney Weaver ever reconcile? Would Amy and I ever reconcile? 

Barbarian that I am, I began to press myself on her, little by little. She didn’t resist -- but she didn’t respond, either. This was not the passionate Amy of old. Her smile was still beatific. Her breath was honeyed myrrh. Her silken hair ran through my fingers like warm, fine-grained sand. But she did not, would not, or could not, return my open and frank passion. So I backed off. 

During a commercial break for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, she divulged to me the reason for her slow response to my confession of unbridled passion. Today, this very day, she had felt inspired to move to Seattle as soon as she possibly could. She was making arrangements to sell her car and get an advance on her salary (she works for Amazon.com in Draper as something called a trust facilitator -- she gave me the job description but I’m still as vague about it as before.) And so, while happy to see me once again, she needed to know how becoming friends, or more than friends, could help her in her ‘calling’ to go to Seattle. She didn’t ask me if I would go with her. We both knew that was not part of the plan. 

At this point I excused myself to use the bathroom, where I pounded my forehead against the medicine cabinet mirror until some micro-fractures appeared (in the mirror, not my forehead.)

I came out, resigned to accepting the craziness and see where it would take the two of us.

The movie was over. We went to Good Thyme Eatery down on Center Street here in Provo. Amy had the kale caesar salad, strawberry balsamic beets and arugula, a bowl of chicken pumpkin curry, and a large Nutella cookie. She took a cup of raspberry/ginger tea. She also got a big bowl of rocky road chopped ice cream. They pour cream and sugar onto a surface that instantly freezes the cream, then use a pair of Ginzu knives to chop it up with additional ingredients like at Beni Hana -- except it’s frozen, not fried. I had no appetite, so ordered a small bowl of squash soup and a saucer of mashed potatoes with goat cheese. 

We spoke of me taking her to see the Downton Abbey movie, and then cooking her a nice dinner at my place tomorrow. At first she was enthusiastic, but then her ears started to leak. 

Her ears start to leak, she explained to me back in her car while she cleaned them out with a dozen cotton swabs, whenever she is exposed to insincere flattery. Which, she said, is what I had been giving her all night.

“But I was just trying to be transparent with you, complimenting you, telling you what I think and how I feel about you” I said desperately, seeing our movie and dinner slipping inexorably away. 

“You’ll have to change that” she said as we drove up to my place.

“Care to come in for a nightcap?” I weakly asked, hoping against hope that she would want to come in and talk the night away.

“I’ve got to do laundry tonight and then do initiatory work at the temple before going to work tomorrow” she said. How could I cajole her out of that without appearing to be a cad?

“May I have a kiss goodnight?” I meekly asked. 

“No you may not -- my ears will really start gushing then” she said primly.

“When can I see you again?” I said, much against my will -- this whole thing was turning into a cliched adolescent angst-fest. 

She scribbled on an index card from her purse, then handed it to me.

“I want you to watch a Jordan Peterson seminar on YouTube and listen to several Dr. Les Carter podcasts about honest communication first. Once you’ve done that call me and I’ll think about letting you take me out again” she said.

That, my friends, should have been the straw that broke the ungulate’s back. Striking a manly pose, I should have sternly told her that I would never knuckle under to any kind of ultimatum just for the pleasure of her company. We would be equals, or nothing.

But instead I replied mildly that I would give it a whirl and let her know when I had finished. Maybe by Saturday, and then I could take her to see Downton Abbey . . . ?

She gave me a soft glance and a brush of her hand across my cheek. But answer was there none.  I could smell aloes on her. And now I write this all down -- perhaps as my last will and testament, for, if I’m not mistaken, I have just been drained of my heart’s sap and most of my backbone is now jellied eel. I can’t be long for this world . . .  

Rob Reed’s email response:

This kept my attention, and I have no new thoughts you haven't already had.

Her question of what she was going to get out of it would have ended it for me.  Her question of your intentions probably would have brought out the truth from me -- but that would have ended it for her.  Why she even bothered to come over I don't understand, if she was planning to go to Seattle. She got all smelly for you just to prove to herself that she still has power over you, and then to prove her superiority by telling you to listen to some rich self-help person about honest communication -- all that's kinda disgusting to me.  You're both smart people, and can hold your own in most any conversation, but she is shallow and conceited. (Sorry, I know you still love her.) She reminds me of my ex, who will never ever admit to herself the possibility that she could have been wrong about something. She's so beyond hope and help that the best thing for me to do is to not think of her.  (I did tell Tom that I'd respect him if he did treat his mother nicely even though he knew how I felt toward her, which is really, really, really badly.) Your ex may be the only one who can get your motor running, but still that doesn't mean you could ever be happy with her. And she would only get your motor running so she could kill it and then leave with a laugh.

When I first "separated" from the ex, subconsciously I thought I should show her that I still loved her and cared about her.  I had a picture of her on the table in the front room where I had moved to. She came over and saw it. Why the hell did I do that when all it did was reinforce her sense of superiority?  I should have just told her I detested her and the was the worst person I had ever known, and she was the biggest mistake in my life, and that she was the exact opposite of what a Christian should be like.  Perhaps I didn't say those things because I knew she held the cards for future negotiations regarding the kids and my financial state. Of course it turns out that she turned the screws as tightly as the law would allow.  Totally disgusting.

But I try not to think about her.  I still have to deal with her to some extent in the future probably with regard to the kids.

See, I haven't told you anything new.

I suggest you publish your piece for all to see, so that she'll be seen for the person she is.

Thanks for sharing.

Nathan Draper’s email response:

Wow! Great story Tim! This could be the start of a whole new genre. This would make a great podcast for seniors.

Sorry it didn’t end better! But hey!!! You must feel good about making the attempt! You got in the game! You hit the playing field. More than most can say....you’ll feel better soon!

From Virginia:

Ive seen that you've been sending these to us, and the poems are very good. What does it mean that your comment was approved, though? Does it mean they published it in the Times? 

Also, I showed Cecilia Dumbo for the first time this week and she loved it. She's not into princesses a whole lot, but boy howdy does she love animals. While watching Dumbo, I can't help but think of you and your time in the circus. Does Dumbo miss the mark for being accurate about what the circus is about? Does it bother you to watch it because it's inaccurate? Just wondering. Hope you're staying warm up there. It's rainy and cold here, and the girls got their shots yesterday so they are feeling pretty crummy. Crummy weather to match their crummy moods. Do you like pecans? We have 3 trees in our front yard that dropped their fruit and we've gathered quite a bit. We can send you some if you'd like. Let me know, take care of yourself!

First things first -- YES! Send me all the pecans you -- I love ‘em!  My address is

Tim Torkildson

650 West 100 North  Apt 115

Provo  Utah 84601

I send dozens of poems to the NYT each week  -- most never see the light of day. When the online paper decides to post one they send me that email, so I forward it to you or Madel or Daisy just to show you the old man is still alive and kicking.

I got my flu shot two weeks ago -- didn’t have any after effects at all. I’m surprised by the many old geezers here in my building and at church who scoff at flu shots, saying they are no good or make you more sick than the flu. I had the flu 2 years ago and felt like I was gonna die, so I always get my shots now -- besides, they’re free!

We’ve had dry crisp sunny weather here most of the time -- just perfect for going out for a walk. And I need to get out and walk more -- I put my back out a few weeks back and it’s been a struggle just to stay upright, let alone walk! But I’m doing better now. I haven’t actually been to see a doctor since last May (a new record for me!) but I’m scheduled to start seeing my thyroid specialist and my dermatologist and my gp again all in November. The roads are all tore up in Provo, so there’s no bus service for me to take to my clinic so I have to scrounge around for rides, which I hate doing. I might start asking your mother for rides to the doctor, cuz we’re getting tight again . . . 

I took her out to dinner last night and we talked a long time -- she seems open to reestablishing some kind of relationship, although she is moving out to the West Coast as soon as she gets enough money saved up. While she’s here she wants to come over to watch movies on my big screen and let me make her special organic free range grass fed dinners. So, I guess we’ll see how that goes . . . 

As far as your Dumbo questions go, I love that movie too -- although I’ve always been a bit disturbed by Dumbo and the mouse having to get drunk to discover their true talents.  I equate the circus with being young and healthy and joining the Church -- all very joyous things, so the celebratory spirit of Dumbo I can relate to, even though I knew plenty of old and disappointed and sour people with Ringling; but that was never me. Not back then. I seemed to get really sour in my forties, though -- but now that I’m 66 I feel pretty happy and carefree again. I guess that’s because I believe I am getting a second chance to be funny again through my writing. It’s a great feeling to wake up and know you can make people smile and laugh. 

Give my regards to Andy and the kids. I hear Daisy is coming down to visit you during the Holidays; maybe she can bring the pecans back?  Love, dad.

Hello Tim,

I have been considering the advances you have made toward me in the last 24 hours. 

I appreciate the gesture but I am still very puzzled that you would decide to try connect after such a long time and after the bitter way we separated.

If you recall, I had said things that were distasteful to you and you had said you want nothing to do with me.

I did walk over to your place earlier in the summer time and I told you the things I had appreciated from our relationship. 

I had expected that if anything was of value from that connection, you would have done something then.

In considering the long term effects of a relationship rekindled with you I must decline.

I do not want to have anymore contact with you at all.

Sincerely,

Amy


And just today I got a belated email response from Bruce Young:

Wow! I guess that's my response both to the situation and to your writing. 

In regard to the situation, I have to say I don't really quite understand what happened--and though, as they say, I would have to have been there, I'm not sure even that would have entirely done the trick. I'm not sure YOU quite understand what happened. 

But with my even more limited apprehension, here's my impression: First of all, it sounds as if she is being controlling, even if some of her methods are charming or alluring. Her insistence on your learning how to communicate honestly seems to me ironic, even perhaps a symptom of her own blindness or self-deception. What I mean is that--like many of us who get on hobby horse and use it to judge other people--we think we have mastered a skill by virtue of being obsessively focused on it and using it as a lens to assess other people. But in fact, by doing those very things we reveal our own defect in the matter, and we perhaps unconsciously use what we do to blind ourselves to our defect. 

That was a long winded way of explaining why I think she was bearing down on you about honest communication and in doing so was badly misjudging you. 

In any case, from your report it doesn't sound like there's much hope for a genuinely positive close relationship between the two of you. She's definitely giving you mixed signals, but (as you note) her focus seems to be on her own agenda, and she doesn't feel she has much use for you unless she can reshape you into what she imagines you should be. 

It's sweet in a way to see how easily you were falling for her. But I'm afraid I think that this way lies not only angst but madness. I'm afraid you're going to have to keep sublimating. They say that much of the greatest art, music, and literature of the world came from frustrated people who were sublimating their desires, turning them into something transcendentally good. 

I look forward to learning more as we chat one of these days.

Meanwhile, my best wishes for your happiness.

Bruce

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- He was acting drunk but swore he was sober. Turns out his stomach was brewing its own beer. -- A hunter was fatally gored by the deer he thought he killed, officials say -- Rats are capable of driving tiny cars, researchers found. It eases their anxiety.

"How dry I am" the stomach cries,

and so creates a big surprise.

It manufactures its own booze,

which complicates the daily cruise.

So if a cop pulls you aside,

just say "It's auto-brewery, Clyde!"

@marisa_iati

***************************

Beware of hunting deer that fake

their demise, so they can take

a swipe at you with antlers sharp --

and send you off to play the harp.

@TheArtist_MBS

*************************

It's a rat race out there, folks --

and I ain't just a-tellin' jokes.

In tiny cars the rodents swerve

around our feet and take a curve

at eighty-plus, and when they crash

they make Allstate pay out in cash.

@lateshiabeachum

The heart holds treasure

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
3 Nephi 13:21

The heart holds treasure in a vise

that may be foolish, may be wise.

If worldly prizes I desire,

they lead my heart into the mire.

But when my trove of treasure glows

with gospel light, 'tis as a rose --

sweet smelling and delightsome, oh!

 No vault can hold such great cargo. 

Verses from stories in today's New York Times -- Government Loophole Gave Oil Companies an $18 Billion Windfall -- The Student Vote Is Surging. So Are Efforts to Suppress It. -- Trump Administration Moves to Lift Protections from Delta Smelt and Divert Water to Farms

Drilling an oil well is tricky.

In government waters it's sticky;

so no royalty

is charged, naturally --

in these things you can't be nitpicky.

@HirokoTabuchi

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Republicans are leery of the college student vote;

they usually vote Democrat, which really gets their goat.

And so those sly Republicans are making it too hard

for busy students to depart away from their schoolyard.

It's easier for soldiers who are fighting in Iraq

to vote in an election than for kids with a backpack.

@miwine

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The delta smelt no longer is endangered anymore.

It now is self sufficient and had better learn to roar.

The water that it lives in is now needed to baptize

the orchards of nut farmers for our almond milk supplies.

So if you are a delta smelt and want to keep on living,

I'd recommend to lobbyists a lot of money giving.

@CoralMDavenport

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- Trump’s favorite venue for making news is right in front of the presidential chopper -- Health-care system causing rampant burnout among doctors, nurses -- Argentina’s economy is collapsing. Here come the Peronistas, again.

When you are the President you think it only proper

to answer questions from the press in front of your own chopper.

If there is a question you don't like to recognize,

you simply do not hear it while the blades tear up the skies.

Of course it's windy underneath those whirling blades of steel;

but it becomes a hurricane when Trump begins his spiel.

But all that talking's wasted; it would really be a boon

if Trump replaced the chopper with a nice hot air balloon.

@farhip

************************************

My doctor's always tired; the nurse is sleepy, too.

Even the receptionist is looking kinda blue.

They're working many hours to keep my health robust;

but they are now so understaffed they crumble like pie crust.

Dear doctor, hit the golf links; kind nurse, go on a toot --

as long as I have Medicare you'll always get your loot!

@thewanreport

******************************************

Way down in Argentina, where beef was always cheap,

the Peronistas hanker in office back to creep.

They love the common people, and always subsidize

utilities and wages (while telling whopping lies.)

Austerity don't cut it; the gauchos think the past

of easy money and the bribe should be returned at last.

Once crooks have been in office, they never go extinct;

voters are forgetful even when they've been hoodwinked!

@Anthony_Faiola

Commit thy way unto the Lord

Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.
Psalm 37:5

Help me to fly straight as an arrow,

my focus unflagging and narrow,

when serving thee, Lord --

thy grace my reward --

disdaining the bombast of pharaoh.

Break every yoke

Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?
Isaiah 58:6

I saw a man against a wall; he had no place to go.
The wind was sharp; the darkness damp; I did not stop or slow. 
Our eyes met not. He didn't speak. He huddled in a heap
that told of desperation and of things that made him weep.
My errand was a pressing one; I had no cash on me.
And so his yoke remained unbroke as I passed hurriedly.
(Will fasting ever help me be less like the Pharisee?)

Henry David Throckmorton

I asked the man in front of me: "Pardon me, but are you Henry David Throckmorton?"
He turned and gave me a big friendly smile.
"Yes I am" he said. Then we all moved forward in the line.
"I just wanna say I'm a great admirer of your work with displaced dental hygienists" I told him. 
"Not at all" he replied modestly. "It was the only decent thing to do at the time." 
The line had stalled again. And it began to rain. Mr. Throckmorton held out his hand for my ticket.
"Let me have that" he said. "I'll take care of it."
I handed him my ticket and he simply went to the head of the line and brought back a full pound of hemmy for me.
"But I was only slated to receive half a pound" I protested.
"Not a problem" he replied, with a mote in his eye, "sometimes being famous has its advantages. Shall we go  have some iced tea?"
So I sat down with the famous, wonderful Henry David Throckmorton at a tea shop in the middle of a heavy downpour. He drank nothing but distilled water with a lemon slice in it; I had ginger/ginseng herbal tea. His treat, of course. I was so nervous that I put three packets of sugar in my tea, instead of my usual one packet.
"I have to ask you something, sir" I said to him nervously. "I hope you won't take it the wrong way."
"Fire away -- and don't call me sir; only Lieutenant Generals at the Pentagon do that" he replied graciously.
"Well, okay" I gulped. "From what I've noticed, and read, every famous person eventually turns into an obsessed lunatic and becomes at the very least a nuisance and as often as not actually becomes dangerous. Where are you right now on that curve?"
Mr. Throckmorton chuckled deeply and warmly before answering.
"Son" he said, clapping me on the shoulder, "I like you -- you're not afraid to speak your mind. That's very rare in a young man these days."
I began to blush.
"To answer your question" he continued. "Ever since I negotiated that ceasefire in Alaska I've noticed the beginnings of a crazed look in my eyes when I shave in the morning. I also talk to myself when I'm alone at my office in Manhattan. And I now carry a fountain pen filled with white vinegar, in case of an attempt on my life. So I'd say I'm about a four on the Cuckoo Scale. Eccentric, but not yet dangerous."
"Gee" I said, "that's swell of you to tell me."
"Why shouldn't I?" he replied. "The public needs to know their heroes are not supermen or deities; we're subject to all sorts of encumbrances like Tic Douloureux, or a fear of wimples. If you prick us, do we not yell?"
The rain was really coming down hard now outside the tea shop. An elderly couple were trapped inside their car out on the curb by the rushing stream of water roaring past them in the gutter.
"But tell me, my friend" Mr. Throckmorton continued, "what is a handsome young man like you doing standing in line for a measly half a pound of hemmy?"
I flushed up again like a fire hydrant.
"My . . . my mother needs it" I said quietly.
"Oh" he said, understandingly. "It's one of THOSE cases."
He took out a small black notebook and jotted something down in it. An awning collapsed across the street, enveloping several people sheltering under it before it was washed away in the rising flood.
"Would you like another glass of tea?" he asked kindly.
"Could I have a birch beer instead?" I asked.
"Of course. Waiter, make it so." he said confidently.  
As we sat and silently watched the wind outside rise to gale force and shatter several plate glass windows, I couldn't help admiring Mr. Throckmorton's delicate sense of noblesse oblige.
When I had finished my birch beer the great man stood up and shook my hand.
"Young feller" he said earnestly, "I've enjoyed our talk immensely. My gondola is calling for me now, and you are being left behind to most likely drown in this typhoon. Good luck to you!" 
So saying, he stepped out into the lashing rain and into his gondola, which sailed majestically away.
But as everyone knows, Henry David Throckmorton's gondola sank in that storm with all hands. I, on the other hand, managed to survive by clinging to a wooden produce crate. In six month's time I had written his hagiography, entitled "A Glass of Tea with H.D. Throckmorton." It's been a bestseller for months now. I've been on Oprah twice, and she's helping me raise funds for a reindeer sanctuary in Lapland. 
Nowadays I can step to the front of the line myself for hemmy -- and I can get two pounds of it if I want.
Can I tell you something? The hemmy isn't really for my mother -- it's for me.