Politics and Poker Don't Mix in the Age of Trump

The monthly poker game was at my house Tuesday night. Unlike a scene in the Tony award winning musical Fiorello!, which ran for 795 performances on Broadway beginning in November 1959, we did not talk politics while cards shuffled around the table. 

In case you’re not familiar with the song “Politics and Poker,” here’s a link to the original cast rendition (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APsYihdXPRE. For those not interested in musical diversion, here are the appropriate smart and jaunty chorus lyrics that encase deliberations of New York City Republican machine politicians grappling with the difficulty of finding a candidate to run for Congress in a district thought to be unwinnable): 

Politics and poker, politics and poker 

Shuffle up the cards and find the joker 

Neither game's for children; either game is rough 

Decisions, decisions, like 

Who to pick, how to play, what to bet, when to call a bluff 

Politics and poker, politics and poker 

Playing for a pot that's mediocre 

Politics and poker, running neck and neck 

If politics seems more predictable 

That's because usually you can stack the deck! 

Politics and poker, politics and poker 

Makes the average guy a heavy a smoker 

Bless the nominee and give him our regards 

And watch while he learns that in poker and politics 

Brother, you've gotta have that slippery haphazardous commodity 

You've gotta have the cards!

My poker buddies don’t smoke. We didn’t talk politics because, frankly, it’s too depressing. To my knowledge they all share my progressive leanings. 

Not that I am not friends with Trumpsters, few though they may be among my acquaintances and relatives. It’s just becoming a lot less taxing to simply avoid them or set ground rules for discussion topics.

Trump is not unique in dividing allegiances among the populace. Think back to the tenures of Bill Clinton, George W. Bush and Barack Obama. But with Trump the divide seems to be deeper, more extreme, more personal. 

Perhaps it’s a Forseter gene, but my sister Lee feels the same way. She has permitted me to share an exchange we had the other day after it became known that Trump waged a global war against breast feeding in favor of corporate America’s infant formula empire.

“The worse it gets the angrier I get at people I know that still support him,” wrote Lee.

“Or as they say, ‘we agree to disagree’. I’m about to tell them that their reckless silence or support of his behavior is so disgusting to me that I can no longer value them as friends and until they realize how hurtful he is and what a threat he is to democracy I do not wish to associate with them.

“Endorsing his hateful attacks on minorities and children and weaker nations is bigger than any friendship I feel for his supporters, regardless of how long I have known them. I feel I then become complicit in supporting him by not rejecting my friends.”  

“I informed David (her husband) that there will be no Fox News allowed in our home anymore. Certain radio stations are also banned. Emails are also off limits if they support him. Our home will be purged of all conservative venues.

  

“As for my friends, I am still confused and struggling with what to do. But the worse it gets the harder it is to remain connected to those who advocate and support him.”

When I first read those words I felt the real pain engulfing Lee, a retired early elementary school teacher in a mostly Hispanic neighborhood in Los Angeles, and still a semi-practicing psychiatric social worker. I identified with it. 

A year ago in late May I wrote about the Trump fatigue factor (“The fatigue factor is setting in. Donald Trump and his gang that couldn’t shoot straight is overwhelming me. There’s too much to write. If I miss a day the accumulated copy weighs me down.”)

I am not as depressed by Trump’s actions as I am by the reaction of too, too many of my fellow Americans. As Maureen Dowd observed in The New York Times the other day, “On the occasion of America’s 242nd birthday, we must ask who we are, if we can see accounts of infants snatched from their parents and returned covered in lice, and not worry about our country’s soul.”

Could be a timing coincidence, but I was intrigued by an article, “The Power of Positive People,” currently among the most popular on The Times Web site. Teased with the question, “Are your friendships giving you a boost or bringing you down?,” the article opines, “Friends can exert a measurable and ongoing influence on your health behaviors in a way that a diet never can,” according to Dan Buettner, a National Geographic fellow and author, later adding, “I argue that the most powerful thing you can do to add healthy years is to curate your immediate social network” (https://nyti.ms/2m4V7Hr).

Sounds like a no-brainer, but keeping the Trump Fatigue Effect from infecting my personal relationships could become a full-time job. Not something I would relish in my retirement.

By the way, in case you’re interested, I won $10 Tuesday night, not enough to cover the expense of hosting the game, but better than losing at poker. For the short term, at least, national politics is a lost cause.

The Domestication of Murray and Other Meshugas

When asked over the years if I cooked, Gilda usually replied, nine times out of ten I could boil water—maybe. I would respond, Gilda and I had a mutual-partition-of-domestic-labor-pact: she would cook, we’d both enjoy the gourmet meals she prepared, I would be in charge of setting the table and cleaning up the dishes and pots and pans. 

The arrangement worked fairly well from my perspective for 40 years, but change is afoot. Given Gilda’s work schedule which includes waking up at 5:18 am, I have been conscripted into the meal preparation corps. Tuesday night was our first dinner at Maison Murray, Cucina Murray, Bistro Murray or just plain Murray’s Kitchen. We dined on broiled salmon, baked potatoes garnished with butter and sour cream, and steamed broccoli. We don’t eat dessert, as a rule, unless you count after-dinner pills as a treat. 

Tonight’s pre-tennis menu includes cheese blintzes and salad. 

Don’t think my cooking exploits know no bounds. I’m very much the neophyte chef in the kitchen, though I’ve put together a list of some dozen meals to rotate into our Monday through Thursday repasts. I’m writing down detailed instructions for each dish, making sure we have a balance of protein, starch and vegetable. 

This is a brave step for me, though not entirely a new world as I cooked for myself while in graduate school at Syracuse University. In my garret of an apartment in an old Victorian-style house on East Genesee Street, I would cook tuna casserole, meat loaf and anything else that would fit into a toaster oven. I also learned to drink beer, really drink beer. My friend and classmate Steve Kreinberg introduced me to Lum’s, a chain of family restaurants whose signature dish was hot dogs cooked in beer. I preferred their basket of fried shrimp, but what made a visit to Lum’s special was the frosted mugs used to serve the beer. To commemorate those days I keep a few mugs frosting away in the freezer. 

This Is Crazy: I'm always amused when gentiles try to speak Yiddish. They never get the intonation right. For example, instead of a guttural, growly “chutzpah” that conveys the indignant reproach of the speaker, it usually comes out as a soft “hutzpah,” a kind of “oh, really” quality to the put down.

Incorporating Yiddish in one’s writing isn't easy, either. Take Maureen Dowd’s attempt in her column last Sunday for The NY Times. Analyzing Hillary Clinton's 2016 presidential prospects, Dowd wrote, “Her challenge is to get into the future and stay there, adding fresh people and perspectives and leaving the Clinton mishegoss (italics added) and cheesiness in the past.”

When I first read this I chuckled. I wondered how many non-Jews would realize she meant to say “meshugas,” the Yiddish word for craziness. I was all set to lambaste her for failing to correctly spell meshugas when I decided to do some checking and came across the following 2009 article from The Jewish Daily Forward (http://forward.com/articles/116716/clearing-up-the-meshugas-for-maureen-dowd-and-will/). 

For those not willing to jump on the link, here’s a precis: It seems Dowd had previously used the meshugas spelling but was chastened by Times columnist and wordsmith William Safire that the correct spelling was mishegoss. Safire might have been the only one to believe that, but his stature was sufficient for Dowd to follow his example. 

The lesson to be learned from this—before criticizing, it’s a good idea to check as many facts as possible. Thank you Google and the Internet.

Mr. Lucky: I consider myself fortunate not to be in school these days, not when technology enables teachers to monitor a student’s reading and study habits (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/09/technology/coursesmart-e-textbooks-track-students-progress-for-teachers.html?ref=education&_r=0). From high school on, I was a lousy student. I received good grades in subjects I was interested in, but not because I read the course material. I was just hard-wired, or lucky enough, to know the answers in subjects ranging from history to English to elementary sciences. 

I’d be in real trouble if my grades depended on whether I was reading the assignments. 

For Shame: There’s no doubt Margaret Thatcher was a polarizing figure, not just in British politics but throughout the world, as well. I find it shameful, however, that while media baron Rupert Murdoch praised the former prime minister for being "undoubtedly one of the most important figures in the 20th century. I found her attitude an inspiration in my business life,” he allowed his British tabloid paper, The Sun, to trumpet her passing with the following headline: “Maggie Dead In Bed At Ritz.” 

How tawdry. How lacking in respect. How shameful.

Am I Safer Knowing About Guns in the 'hood?

Do I feel any safer knowing one of my neighbors has a permit to own a handgun? Not really.

Even if I knew for sure he, or she, actually possessed a revolver or pistol, I wouldn’t feel any more secure. 

Nor do I feel any less secure. Here’s an interesting fact—over the near 30 years in our current neighborhood, the only two homes burglarized were ostensibly protected by alarm systems. And by dogs. So much for high tech and man’s-best-friend protection systems. I’m always amazed people don’t employ the simplest and most effective security system—lights that automatically turn on and off. Don’t people realize a completely dark house any time from sunset to at least 11 pm is an open-for-business invitation to house burglars?  

Since the tragic shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Conn., there’s been lots of talk for and against tightening gun control laws, everything from doing nothing to restricting the sale of semi-automatic military-style weapons to placing limits on the size of ammunition magazines. Some schools have added armed security guards (about one-third of all public schools already had armed security). 

Our local paper, the Westchester Journal News, published a map pinpointing all holders of handgun permits in the county. The map does not reveal addresses where long guns (rifles or shotguns) may be present. Curiosity finally got the better of me, so I checked out our subdivision. I counted three homes certified to pack heat, with another two on a nearby street. 

In a recent Op-Ed piece in The NY Times, David Cole, a professor of constitutional law and criminal justice at the Georgetown University Law Center, wrote, “The right to bear arms typically invokes the romantic image of a cowboy toting a rifle on the plains.” True enough. But I seem to remember in Westerns featuring Wyatt Earp, Marshal Dillon or some other sheriff the rule of the lawman in charge was everyone had to surrender their firearms if they wanted to walk around town. When did we adopt a laissez-faire attitude toward gun possession in public, so much so that states seem to be falling over each other in their rush to permit open and even concealed weapons in public spaces including bars, schools and houses of government? 

It’s really rather depressing that so many care more about the right to bear arms than providing our fellow citizens with quality medical care, education and enough food so they and their children don’t go to bed hungry.

Pillow Talk: Speaking of going to bed, after reading my post on sleep habits, a representative from Anna’s Linens filled in more details about the company’s survey. 

Seems I’m not the only person who sleeps with three pillows—35% said they sleep with three or more, though they did not elaborate if they configured them to their body as I do. Another 45% sleep with two pillows; 20% rest their heads on just one.

The survey also found 18% sleep in their underwear to go along with the 8% who sleep in the buff and the 74% who wear pajamas.

Debt Service: Maureen Dowd in The Times wrote about Senator Michael Bennet (D-Colo) the other day. Bennet was one of eight senators to vote against the bill to prevent the country from slipping over the fiscal cliff. Like many who want to curb spending and lower the national debt, Bennet argued against saddling the next generation. He told Dowd, “I think if we can get people focused to do what we need to do to keep our kids from being stuck with this debt that they didn’t accrue, you might be surprised at how far we can move this conversation. Washington politics no longer follows the example of our parents and our grandparents who saw as their first job creating more opportunity, not less, for the people who came after.”

I wonder, what do Bennet and those like-minded mean when they say “kids (are being ) stuck with debt that they didn’t accrue”? Of course children didn’t vote when they were young. Their parents did. They voted for presidents and congressmen who passed on to us such benefits as Social Security. Medicare. Medicaid. The interstate highway system. NASA. Food and drug safety programs. OSHA. FEMA. A national park service second to none in the world. 

Creating opportunity for the next generation doesn’t just means the chance to make lots of money. It means being able to enjoy life, to be safe in your place of employment, to not worry about the surety of your food and water supply. Are there too many regulations? Probably, in some areas. Should we remove all regulations. Absolutely not. Let’s stop with the rhetoric and start and real discussion about what we expect from government and how to pay for it. Tax rates are at an all-time low. Let’s be grown up and realize if we want protections and services we need to pay for them. 

My Green Giant Chevy Vega

Today marks the 100th anniversary of Chevrolet, that iconic American automobile brand.

The first car Gilda and I bought with our own money was a Chevy Vega. In 1973, we paid Dworkin Chevrolet in Derby, Conn., $2,100 ($10,188 in today’s dollars) for the privilege of driving a four-cylinder, forest green hatchback. We took out a 9% two-year $1,800 car loan. My parents were upset we didn’t borrow the money from them, but we reasoned we needed to establish a credit history to enhance our chances of securing a mortgage one day.

I loved riding around in that car. It was not peppy, but it reliably got me where I wanted to go despite an on again-off again oil leak common to many aluminum-engined Vegas. Plus, the hatchback proved useful in toting things, especially tree limbs I would find along the roadside for the wood-burning stove we installed in our first house in White Plains seven years later.

It was at that house our son Dan had his first driving experience at the tender age of 4. While I raked autumn leaves, Dan sat in the Vega’s driver’s seat with the car parked in the sloped driveway near the closed garage. He somehow managed to engage the gear shift. Fortunately, the car stopped as soon as it rammed into a panel of the garage door. It was hard to tell who was more shaken by the experience, Dan or his parents.

Since the Vega didn’t have air conditioning (I foolishly believed the salesman that a/c wasn’t necessary in Connecticut), I installed a small fan to the dashboard. I added a Citizen Band radio during the CB craze 30 years ago, playfully giving my handle as the Green Giant.

In 1986 as I waited to make a left turn in downtown White Plains while picking up some last minute supplies for Gilda’s Passover seder meal, the Vega was rear-ended by a teenage driver who mistook the accelerator for the brake pedal. I wasn’t hurt, but the back of my car was crunched into the rear wheels. I had it fixed but the Vega was never the same. My brother-in-law needed a car to drive to Camden, NJ, every day, so we arranged for him to take title after I made one last business trip in it to New Jersey. As I approached the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel the muffler fell off. By the time I reached the Manhattan corner where I was to give the Vega to my brother-in-law, the car could barely travel more than half a block without stalling. Clearly my Vega was sending a message our time together was over.


Driving Blocks: I’m six feet tall, Gilda almost a foot shorter, so it was not easy finding a car we both felt comfortable driving. In 1979, within a year after Dan was born, Gilda could no longer abide the Buick Regal my father had given us a few years before in exchange for the red Buick Skylark Gilda had learned to drive in and had lovingly named Bertha. We embarked on a car buying excursion that reached its height of frustration at a local Chevy dealer. When Gilda complained she couldn’t reach the pedals even when the seat was positioned as close as possible, the salesman countered that other short people had no problem. Further, if she really had a problem she could have wooden blocks installed to raise the level of the brake and accelerator pedals.

We quickly beat a retreat from the dealership and found joy with a Datsun (now called Nissan) Sentra wagon. Perhaps it was because Japanese are generally shorter than Americans, it was eye-opening to sit in a car that easily accommodated our different heights. Maybe that’s one reason Japanese cars enjoyed such success in America over the last 30 years.


Copycat Cain: So how upset or flattered should I be that one day after I wrote about Herman Cain’s presidential aspirations the NY Times co-opted my headline “Cain Not Able” for a column by Maureen Dowd (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/02/opinion/dowd-cain-not-able.html?src=me&ref=general)?

I don't think its a copyright violation, just another example you no longer need to rely on The Times for commentary.