I Don’t Know

Man: What do you mean you don’t know?

Woman: I just don’t know.

Man: You always say that!

Woman: Well, it’s true!

Man: What’s true?

Woman: I don’t know. I really don’t know.

Man: Wait a second. You mean you just don’t know what’s true, or you just don’t know anything?

Woman: No – not at all. It’s that I just don’t know. I know some things – but I just don’t know about this.

Man: What don’t you know about it?

Woman: I told you. I just don’t know!

Man: Okay, I’m sorry – let’s forget it.

Woman: Forget what? That’s just like you.

Man: What do you mean?

Woman: You are always ready to dismiss me.

Man: That’s not true.

Woman: Well, you just did!

Man: Why do you say that? Just because I said, ‘forget it’??

Woman: Yes, that’s right. You always do that.

Man: I don’t always do that.

Woman: Oh, yes you do!

Man: But I don’t always do anything!

Woman: Sure.

Man: No, it’s true. I said ‘forget it’ because I didn’t want to have an argument.

Woman: I’ve had it! I can’t even tell you I don’t know something without you getting disgusted and then cutting me off.

Man: What do you want me to do?

Woman: Nothing.

Man: That can’t be true. Tell me – just tell me what to do when you say. ‘I don’t know’.

Woman: Nothing. Don’t say anything.

Man: You mean that I shouldn’t answer you at all?

Woman: Yes, that is exactly what I mean.

Man: I’ve never done that in my entire life.

Woman: Done what??

Man: I have never said nothing when someone told me that they ‘didn’t know anything, or something.

Woman: What do you say?

Man: Well, sometimes I say – ‘What don’t you know, or how come you don’t know, or why you don’t know?’ Many times I say, ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

Woman: And what do they usually say?

Man: I don’t know.

Woman: Don’t be cute.

Man: No – you know what I mean. They usually say, I don’t know.

Woman: Is that so bad?

Man: No.

Woman: But you look confused. You look bewildered.

Man: Well, it’s just that I’m not sure how to continue after someone says, ‘I don’t know’. If I don’t answer them, then what do I do?

Woman: Nothing!

Man: Just be silent – not say a word?

Woman: Yes. Then forget it and go on to something else.

Man: But earlier I said forget it, and you jumped down my throat.

Woman: I know, but that was because I was angry at you.

Man: For what?? Why were you so angry?

Woman: I was angry because you wanted me to talk about something I didn’t know about. Do you know how difficult it is to talk about something you know nothing about, or not sure of?

Man: But I was asking about you. I wanted to know your thoughts – your feelings.

Woman: I know what you wanted.

Man: And that’s why you said, ‘I don’t know’?

Woman: Exactly… I think.


Help! There’s a Murderer in My Home


“I can’t stand you anymore,” my Mother cried out. “I won’t stand for it.” Her eyes were full of tears.

“But you said I could go outside.” I pleaded.

“Stop it, stop it now!” she screamed. “Stop it or your father…” She was interrupted by the sound of the tea kettle. She ran into the kitchen.

What about my father? I had heard the threat before, many times. “Ouch, damn it, god-damn it.” she hollered.

I reached over for my jacket, just as my Mother came back into the room. “That’s it! You’re really going to get it. You’re in for it now. Wait until your father comes home, ” she threatened.

I stopped listening to her threats, put my jacket down and went into my room. As I closed my door, I could still hear her ramblings of helplessness. “He’s gonna get it good. When his father hears…”

My mind was preoccupied with thoughts of my father. I was trying to recall his features, which proved to be difficult despite his having left home just five hours ago. My father, Sam, age thirty, almost five foot, eight inches tall, Caucasian, Jewish, and HOMICIDAL!

Could my father murder someone? Not just anyone – his own son!

The idea of my father being capable of murder was incredible, but my feelings of apprehension were undeniable.

My father’s daily behavior was the essence of non-violence. He was mild-mannered, and rather gentle. He spent most of time working, eating, and sleeping. I couldn’t recall being hit by my father, nor did I recall him sitting my brothers or sister.

At his assaultive best, he was heard to mumble – “You’d better listen to your mother”, or “Cut it out.”

Why was I so apprehensive? I could almost understand, “Beware, the Ides of March”, but what did “Wait till your father come home” foretell?

Perhaps my fears of bodily injury were related to his muscles. I remember him carrying the washing machine on his back up two flights of stairs to our apartment. God, I was amazed! He put a large canvas belt around the machine and tied the belt around his chest.

With one heave, he had the machine off the lobby floor. When he reached our apartment, he wasn’t even sweating or puffing.

Now I remember, I remember him saying, “Don’t push me” or “You’d better watch out.” Some references to not making him mad, or “I’m warning you.” I am fairly certain the troublesome issue involved my mom. I recall him saying phrases that suggested pain, if not doom. With my mother threatening his punitive potential, and my father hinting at some sort of limits to his endurance I was left with my fantasies. There were no hard facts to draw upon. I might get slapped, punched, kicked, choked, or KILLED.

The murderer in the home, was in my head – was I alone?

Did other children harbor similar fears of patricide?

My Gut Feelings


Dear Mr. Robin,

The following comments are in response to your opinion in the February 3rd edition of the Suburbanite.

I have gut feelings.

Somewhere near my spleen.

Like most gut feelings

They don’t equal what I mean.

I have gut feelings

That leave me in despair

For in my job as Editor

I have opinions I must air.

I’m not qualified to speak

Of barracks, wars and gays.

But I try my best to speak

If in rather schizo ways.

I’m trying to ignore my guts

But I can’t stay in my head.

I fear I may be going nuts

Losing readers is what I dread.

If gays fought with Washington

And rights are free to all,

Why then are my intestines

So knotted in a ball?

Oh to be born in ‘60

And not in ‘59

My guts would be less twisty,

My mental life sublime.


But It’s So Simple


While sitting in my smock and waiting (and waiting) for my doctor to return, I overheard the doctor saying – “Look Sylvia, if you eat more calories than you need you’ll gain weight – if you eat less, you lose weight. – IT’S THAT SIMPLE!” I couldn’t hear his patient’s response, but it was probably more distressed than joyful.

How often we hear the desire for leisure time – “Oh, I wish I had the time to play some tennis or golf”, and the concerned response is “So do it – if you really want to you’d find the time – you make everything so complicated.” Even in matters of “life or breath” as with the habitual cigarette smoker, the concerned public suggests that all one has to do is “simply” stop smoking.

Changing human behavior is typically not so simple, so easy or just a matter of “really wanting to.” In fact, each time we are confronted with the suggestion that changing our behavior “is so simple” and then we fail, the chances of successful change become even less. We are quite familiar with the feelings of self-doubt and embarrassment that result from our “failure” to achieve the “simple” goals of daily living.

The mistaken notion that we can readily change long standing habits by “simply” being told how easy it is to change is one of the myths about human behavior. In part, the myths come from our having learned that “you are the master of your own fate” and all change must come from within yourself. If you have been raised with the notion of “lifting yourself by your own bootstraps” and yet find yourself still on the ground, daily living can be quite depressing.

We need to become more appreciative of the complexity and uniqueness of each person’s behavior and the influences of the environment upon those behaviors. We must understand that most of our behavior, particularly habits of long standing are not maintained because we are “lazy”, “stupid” or “lacking desire” for change. Many habits, e.g. smoking, excessive eating and working, are continued because they bring pleasure and/or relief from discomfort despite the contentions of other persons. In addition, the social world we live in is often inconsistent in helping us change, e.g. the food store that has a sign requesting – “Please, do not smoke” – and just to the left of the sign is a fully stocked cigarette vending machine. The most caring family often belittles the fact that you are eating the bread, and yet ignores your having stopped late night snacks… Many of us find that the most appealing aspect of our lives, is the very habit we are told to change.

Although many persons in our lives are “good” intentioned when they suggest “IT’S SO SIMPLE”, that statement does not represent a realistic assessment of the hows and whys of human behavior. Telling someone to change and TEACHING them are not the same – TEACHING of behavior change requires more investment, and work – a commitment we must be willing to make.


Bedroom Technology

Our bedroom is quite ordinary at first glance. A large king size bed, a dresser, two night tables, curtains, and a chair piled high with yesterday’s clothes, a Burpee Seed catalog, and last Sunday’s New York Times. Perched on top, a half-finished bowl of oatmeal. Upon closer inspection one sees the chrome, plexiglass, wiring, dials, buttons and switches of the 21st century.

At the foot of the bed stands our color television. The cord for the set curls around the bed to a wall socket behind our bed. The skill with which we avoid entangling in the cord is the mark of a demolitions expert.

We recently acquired cable T.V., as a result a second fifteen-foot cable connects the television with a control panel resting on our bed along with ten feet of insulated wire. The cable installer told me the wire can’t short out, but I’ve never believed the Underwriters Label on our heating pad, and I am not going to start now.

In between our pillows lies the remote-control unit that controls our television. Fortunately, the remote unit has no wires or we would have long since strangled in a web of vinyl coated copper.

On each of our night tables rests a Tensor, high intensity reading lamp. Both lamps have low and high power settings. My wife’s lamp has a switch on the bottom of the lamp, while my switch is located just behind the bulb. The placement of the switch is crucial to ones’ health. On full power, my lamp shade is an inferno, requiring fine muscle coordination  to avoid third degree burns.

The height of the lamp is adjustable. When my wife is asleep, I can lower my lamp and read without disturbing her sleep. At the same time, I can remove the varnish from the top of my night table owing to my high-intensity torch light.

The sounds of the 21st century permeates our room. Our cable control box has fifteen switches, allowing access to thirty separate channels. Combine that with the three volume settings allowed by our remote-control unit, and we can click ninety times per night without repeating a sequence.

The late show is over and my wife clicks the off button on our remote control. The lamps are doused, and we pull up the covers and crawl under them. Our hands touch, and a muted click is heard, followed by a blast of light, and the blare of Gloria Gaynor singing, “I will Survive.” One move of my left knee, and all is quiet once again.



And We Stopped Talking


When you found yourself, we stopped talking.

When I showed myself, we stopped talking.

When you felt your needs, we stopped talking.

When I showed your fears, we stopped talking.

Expectations, guilt, suspicion, and we stopped talking.


Tell me,

That’s alright.

Tell me,

It’s okay.

Tell me,

Forget it.

Tell me,

It doesn’t matter.

Tell me,

You won’t understand.

Tell me,

You don’t care.

Tell me,

I CAN’T!!!


Perhaps we never talked.

Perhaps I told and you listened.

There are no second chances.

You talk to others now, and they listen.

It’s their chance to know.

What I know is forever and complete.

And you will never know me.

I always told – we never talked.


I despair to know that some do talk.

They say they do, I hope not.

If there is a way, don’t tell me.

There are no second chances.


Will he or won’t he

She thought day after day.

Marriage was so near, yet so far away.

Autumn fell to winter then

Spring burst in the air.

Their love was still burning

But why was there still fear.

To those who went before them

Such fear is not unique.

To love is very simple

To marry is to seek,

A lover and perhaps a friend

A partner who can pretend

To show no pain despite the ache,

And long for rest yet stay awake.

To make a vow, and take an oath

To be just one, but cherish both.



Style for the Infantile

I’ve been thinking about layettes. For those of you who have never thought about layettes, I’ll describe them for you. A layette is the first fashion wardrobe given to a new  born child. It is usually a blanket, pillow case, booties, sweater, panties and assorted accessories. If handmade, the layette is crochet or knitted.

Boy babies are given blue layettes, and girl babies are clothed in pink. Sometimes, the infant is given a yellow layette. Yellow why yellow?? That is because the layette was purchased prior to the birth of the child. There is no explanation for the yellow color, other than to match a rather jaundiced complexion.

There has not been a change in layette fashions for a thousand years! It is now time for a change. I suggest the opening of a “Layette Boutique”.

The fashions for layettes will be regal. A parent can buy yards of rich, black mink to wrap the baby. Hand  crafted, calf skin booties and jewelry of all sorts; gold earrings, precious stone necklaces, pearl head  bands. No more washed out blue or faded pink. The maternity doors of Bellevue Hospital open and a little prince or princess is presented to the world.

Another issue comes to mind, and that is the contrasting styles of death and dying as opposed to birth and living. Mourning families are led by police motorcycles, followed by flower cars and shining black limousines. Mourners are dressed in their finery. Who comes out of the hospital with a newborn? The father goes to the hospital and pays for his wife and child. The wife is weak, and whoosy. She hasn’t been out of the hospital for days. Her head is spinning. Father doesn’t know how, or who to hold first.

They drive home, alone, no fanfare and no public acclaim. When they arrive at home there is frequently a family gathering, but rather subdued    no grandeur, no cops, no politicians, no theatrics.

Why not beep the horns, ring the sirens, shoot the pistols. A child is born. A child wrapped in silk, magnificent Tahitian silk. Joy to the world. A child is born. Whose got the pampers???


A Foreign Language

Customer: I would like to buy a pair of jeans.

Clerk: Certainly. I can show you our latest Sassoons.

Customer: No, I don’t think so.

Clerk: But they are the latest fashion.

Customer: Oh. I didn’t realize that.

Clerk: Perhaps you would like to try our Jordach model.

Customer: No. I’m afraid not.

Clerk: We do have a nice selection of Clouds.

Customer: You do not seem to understand. I would like a pair of jeans.

Clerk: Sir, I do understand. I understand you perfectly well. That is why I have showed you the Sassoons, the Jordaches and the Clouds.

Customer: I know that, but I want jeans!

Clerk: Alright! I am doing my best, I assure you sir.

Customer: Excuse me. I did not mean to make you angry. I need a pair of jeans, and I had no idea that it would be so difficult to purchase a pair.You do have jeans, don’t you?

Clerk: Sir, we are the largest seller of jeans in New York.

Customer: Fine. May I please see some jeans.

Clerk: Of course, of course.

Customer: Great!

Clerk: We have just received a shipment of Wranglers.

Customer: That’s it!! I have never seen anyone so determined to lose a    sale!

Clerk What are you talking about?

Customer: What am I talking about? What a laugh! I came to buy jeans.      I have repeatedly asked you for a pair of jeans, and you refuse to sell          me any. That is what I am  talking about!!

Clerk: Sir, I am completely confused.

Customer: Well, I’ll make it simple. I would like to buy a pair of jeans.    That’s J  E  A  N  S! Will you, or won’t you sell my any??

Clerk: You’re damn right I will. What is your size!

Customer: 34 waist, and 32 long.

Clerk: Fine!

Customer: Great!

Clerk: How about Vera?

Customer: What?

Clerk: Vanderbilts!?

Customer: Who?

Clerk: Bonjour?

Customer: Au revoir!


My Gut Tells Me…


“My gut tells me” and then Michael Smerconish, radio commentator, continued to respond to a caller’s question. The caller spoke about the new union of ATT and Warner, and some consequences for citizens and Comcast. Michael initially said that he was not very familiar with the but, “My gut tells me,” and Michael gave his opinion.

Let us talk about ‘gutsy’ talk. Michael is not the only person to have ever expressed, ‘my gut tells me’. Everything we think or feel does not have to come from “I think” or “my heart tells me.” Sometimes we feel things deeper, or at least more deeply than from the heart. Sometimes we can’t just shut-up.
Back to ‘my gut tells me.’ At a joint meeting of the Chiefs of Staff in the Spring of 1945, President Truman was told about the Atom Bomb. Harry initially expressed his ignorance about uranium and plutonium. He did receive many memos about the technology of the bomb, but he once stated to an aide, is ‘fusion the same as fission, or are they just spelling errors?’ The aide thought that President Truman was just joking, but in fact he was not joking. The President was not at all clear about the technology, use, and consequences of the atom bomb, but one thing for sure. Straight talking Harry knew when his ‘gut’ talks to him, and he approved the use of the bombs.

“Mr. Senator, sir would you please tell us your stand on the bill on abortion.” said the reporter.

Senator X reflects on the reporter’s question about abortion. “Well to tell you the truth”, (reporter interrupts)

“Yes Senator, I would like the truth.”
“As I was saying prior to your rather rude interruption, I am not that familiar with the particulars of the actual, real process of abortion, but I have a feeling that..”
(reporter interrupts again)
“Sir if you are not familiar with abortion how can you vote on the issue. How?”

“Miss, if you would please allow me to finish my statement. I was just going to say that in my heart of hearts, and in my guts, the whole idea sounds pretty disgusting. I mean really ugly. I have feelings, you know. And my guts (whole package of guts) tell me, even without all the particulars that it is not right, G-D be praised.

All too often when we are questioned about an issue, and we believe that we should aware of the issue, we have the fallback position of affably expressed ignorance, followed by ‘my gut tells me’ and offer a full-blown exposition rooted in ‘I think’ or ‘my heart tells me.’


On Being Presidential


Recently newspapers have printed the diagnosis of narcissism as it applies to President Trump. Increasing numbers of psychologists have identified narcissistic characteristics in the President’s behavior. Professional mental health persons fear professional liability, ethical concerns or career damaging responses if they offer an illness label without interviewing the person. Once upon a time we did not have labels for mental illness. There was a time when one could say, if it “walks like a duck, and quakes like a duck, it’s a duck.” So let us look for a “duck, ” and we might find a raving “malignant narcissist.”

During a search, I have found the following clues to our diagnostic mystery. Our President has said:

“I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose voters.” “I take out  those ads to wake up the Government…” “Then what does all this…the yacht, the bronze tower, the casinos really mean to you? Props for the show!”  “The show is Trump and it is sold-out performances everywhere.” “I play to people’s fantasies.” “If I put my name on something you know it’s going to be good!”

“I know words, I have the best words!” “I’m rich, therefore I tell the truth.” “But my primary consultant is myself and I have a good instinct for this stuff.” “I know far more about foreign policy” than Obama. “I’m speaking with myself, number one, because I have a very good brain and I’ve said a lot of things.” “I will demand anything I can get.

“When you’re doing business, you take people to the brink of breaking them without having them break, to the maximum point their heads can handle without breaking them”. “Islamic terrorism is eating large portions of the Mideast. They’ve become rich. I’m in competition with them.” “I’m the least racist person that you have ever met…”

“Every successful person has a very large ego. Every successful person? Mother Teresa? Jesus Christ? Far greater egos than you will ever understand.” “When the students poured into Tiananmen Square, the Chinese government almost blew it. Then they were vicious, they were horrible, but they put it down with strength.”
“I will absolutely apologize if I’m ever wrong.” Please do not hold your breath.

The Lawful Traffic Violation



Location: Hillside Ave. Cresskill, N.J. Approx. 2:30 am. November night.

Cast: Town policeman,and Tom, a resident of a neighboring town.

Tom is driving toward his home when he sees in his rear view mirror the flashing lights of a police car. Tom pulls over to the side of the avenue. After several moments,the Policemen approaches the car shinning a flashlight into the face of Tom.

Policeman:  May I see your  drivers license?

Tom: Officer, did I do something wrong?

Policeman:  Your license please.

Tom: Certainly. ( he removes his wallet from his jacket pocket.  The officer moves  a step back from the door of the car,and places his right hand on his holster. Tom removes the license from the wallet and hands it to the officer.)

Policeman: ( The officer reaches out for the license, while still standing away from the car. Officer reads the information on the license). Do you know the speed limit on this street?

Tom: Yes.

Policeman: What is it, Mr. Tom Niller?

Tom: Miller, that’s Miller.

Policeman: It says Niller.

Tom: I know officer, but they made a typing error.

Policeman: Do you have another form of identification? (Miller reaches for his wallet). Forget it. Let me see your auto registration.

Tom: Well this isn’t my car. It’s my fathers car. I am just using it for several days.

Policeman. The registration please. ( Miller hands over the registration. Officer is looking at the registration.) What is the speed limit on this road, Mr. Miller?

Tom: I believe it is 25 miles per hour.

Policeman:  Do you know what speed you were driving?

Tom: About 25 miles per hour. Sometimes  I was driving slower, but mostly I was going 25 miles per hour.

Policeman:  How come?

Tom: What?

Policeman:  How come you were driving exactly 25 miles per hour?

Tom: Well it wasn’t exactly 25, but that is the speed limit, isn’t it?

Policeman:  Yes it is, but that’s not the point. Why were you driving at 25 mph.?

Tom: That’s the limit officer. I don’t understand what you want.

Policeman: Have you ever been on this road before?

Tom: Yes.

Policeman:  How fast have you driven before?

Tom: Probably the same as tonight.

Policeman:  Never 30, or 40 or maybe 55 mph?

Tom: No, I don’t speed.

Policeman:  And why did you signal a left turn?

Tom: Because I was going to turn left, sir.

Policeman:  Was there any car near you, or behind you?

Tom: I didn’t notice.

Policeman: Well, there wasn’t . I was watching you, and there wasn’t another auto in sight.

Tom: Officer, I don’t understand all the questions. What did I do wrong?

Policeman:  Maybe nothing, and maybe more than you think.

Tom: What are you talking about? Are you going to ticket  me, because if not, I want to go home.

Policeman: Relax, Mr. Miller. Do you mind stepping out of the car?

Tom: Why?. Tell me why do I have to leave my car?

Policeman: Mr. Miller, please do as I say. It’s just routine.

Tom: It’s not  routine in my town.

Policeman: There is no need to get wise.

Tom: I’m sorry, but this is really ridiculous.

Policeman: Please step out of the car.

(Tom opens the door and steps onto the roadway. The Policeman shines the flashlight on the front seat, and on the floor of the drivers side of the auto.)

Tom: May I go now officer?

Policeman: Please empty your pockets, Mr. Miller.

Tom: Why?

Policeman: Just empty your pockets, Mr. Miller.

Tom: No way am I emptying my pockets. Forget it!

Policeman: Are you refusing my request for you to empty your pockets?

Tom: You better believe it, and furthermore….

Policeman: Alright then, will you please open the trunk?

Tom: What the hell are you doing?

Policeman: I simply want you to empty your pockets, or at least open your trunk.

Tom: Well I refuse to do either, and are you giving a ticket or I’m going home.(Tom starts to re-enter his car).

Policeman: (somewhat pleading) No wait. Don’t go back into your car. I just want to be sure that you are not carrying drugs, that’s all.

Tom (Nervous): Well why didn’t you ask me. No I’m not carrying any drugs.

Policeman: How do I know that?

Tom: Because I told you. You just have to take my word for it.

Policeman: But you were driving very suspiciously, do you realize that?

Tom: I was driving at the speed limit, and I signaled at turns. What is suspicious about that.

Policeman:  It is never done on this road. No one drives under 35mph. Unless they see a police car. And as for signaling, your last turn doesn’t even require a signal, but you did anyway . How come?

Tom: I’m a very defensive driver, especially when I feel defensive. (Tom realizes that he may have made a fatal admission).

Policeman: You’re right, Mr. Miller. If I was carrying drugs I would drive very defensively, and obey all traffic rules.

Tom: But I’m not carrying any drugs.

Policeman: I know that, I was just thinking that your careful, slow driving was something I would do if I was carrying drugs – just thinking.

Tom: Officer you sound like a decent guy. All I want to do is go home.

Policeman: You will go home. I didn’t say you were under arrest did I?

Tom: Officer I am really sorry if I did something wrong. If I did please write the ticket and let me go.

Policeman: One last time. Mr. Miller are you in possession of any illegal substance or any paraphernalia?

Tom: Sir, I have no drugs or anything else.

Policeman: Is that the truth?

Tom: Yes, honestly.

Policeman: You can go, Mr. Miller. But I must tell you that you were mighty close to crossing the line.

Tom: What line?

Policeman: I don’t think I have to say more. Goodnight Mr.Miller.

(Tom gets into his car and drives slowly away. In his rear view mirror he sees the officer making a U-turn with red lights blazing, chasing a car on the avenue.)

Syria – What Can We Do?


What can we do about Syria? We can allow an increase in the numbers of Syrian refugees into the United States. In 2016, 12,486 Syrian refugees entered the United States. If all 50 states accepted refugees from Syria, that would be just 250 persons per state. A modest proposal. I would suggest that we increase the state amount to 500 in the year 2017. Increase that to 1000 Syrian refugees per state for every following year. For the fearful, we will investigate each refugee to be certain that we have not allowed “bad guys” into the country. As of this memo, there has not been one case of a Syrian refugee committing a terrorist act in 2017.

With such a civil refugee policy in place, we can sit back and finally feel good.



The Drone Story


The U.S. Naval vessel, Bowditch, was about to recover the drone glider when a Chinese Dalang III class Chinese warship approached within 500 yards of the Bowditch, launched a small vessel and snatched the drone out of the water,

Oh where, oh where has my little Drone gone, oh where can it be? With it’s nose so round, and it’’s tail so short, oh where, oh where can it be? I think it went down, to the bottom of the sea, to see what it could see. And in it’s head, with a lite so bright, I wonder what it could see. I saw it last by a Chinese boat, going round and round, but I can’t see it anymore. It can’t seem to be found. Perhaps the men over there will know. They may have seen it go by. Who knows where it may have decided to go, but we have to give it a try. So I said:” Oh where, oh where has my little drone gone, and they said:


Please No More



The news broadcasters of every stripe are dizzy with breaking news. Presidential news that is characterized as unique, unusual and always “shooting from the hip.” Yes,  the Donald does say one of a kind announcements, such as he can grab any “p—-y that he wants. He could walk down Fifth avenue in New York and shoot someone and no one will be disturbed. Crazy President Obama taps the Donald’s telephone. If not tapping the phone than Crazy Obama spies on  the Donald. If not spying, perhaps President Obama belittles the Donald during Obama dinners. Donald shoots from the hip, and kills all moral, and ethical standards. Would a hip replacement relieve our angst? The Donald is truly a disturbed man. No single diagnosis will suffice, and a psychiatric label is unnecessary. The Donald is a born again Grossingers Hotel master of ceremonies. The Donald is the original tin man. A man who speaks, bada, bee, bada boo talk. That is street talk for Broadway Johnnies. Donald could be the ring master at the Ringling circus, but the circus has closed. The Donald could be the chief barker at the Otsego County Fair in August of 2017. The Donald is without any shame – without any sense of humility. The Donald froze at 12 years of age. How is it possible for any sane commentator to deal with the insanity that the Donald pronounces? As for the citizenry , we are overwhelmed by a national post traumatic stress disorder. We wonder if what we hear from the White House is true, fake, or produced by Russian hackers. We argue with one another and vigorously defend a position, that is rooted in confusion, and emotional longing for truth, fairness and a sense of well-being. We turn on the television, listen for minutes, and then realize that we are submerged in a morass of deceit, or self-aggrandizement. Through it all the Great Barrier Reef is disappearing, Mosel, and Aleppo are no more. Men, women and children throughout the world are starving to death. The glaciers fall into the sea, and cold water Codfish is near extinction.