Spoiler Alert and Snowmageddon Update

Spoiler Alert: Former New York City mayor and billionaire Michael Bloomberg is considering an independent run for the presidency.

Can he win? If not, who might benefit from his third party candidacy?

The New York Times says Mayor Mike might jump into the race if Donald Trump or Ted Cruz captured the Republican Party nomination and if Bernie Sanders secured the Democratic nod. Or if he believes Hillary Clinton is too damaged to win the general election after winning her party’s nomination.

Doubtful Bloomberg could win outright. His pro-choice and anti-gun stances make him an unlikely choice in most southern and western states that generally vote Republican. He would have to lock up all the true blue states Democrats usually secure and some swing states, such as Ohio and Florida. That would be hard even against a weakened Hillary. Splitting the vote with Hillary would shift those states into the GOP column.

Best case prospectus is that none of the three major candidates would garner the required 270 Electoral College votes to be named president, thus throwing the decision into the House of Representatives where each state delegation gets to cast one vote. Such an event would be more traumatic than the 2000 election decided by the Supreme Court. 

If enough state delegations controlled by Republicans are turned off by the prospect of a Trump or Cruz presidency, Bloomberg just might squeeze into the White House, but that’s a real far-fetched scenario. What probably would happen is that Republicans would believe they wouldn’t be able to control Bloomberg so they’d take their chances with Trump or Cruz.

It must be nice to have a billion dollars available for an independent run to save the country from itself. If Bloomberg were running as the standard bearer of either the Democratic or Republican party I would seriously consider voting for him. But as an independent, he’d be a spoiler, not just in the election but for the country he so very much wants to save.  

Snowmageddon Update: During Saturday’s snowstorm I asked Gilda if she were pregnant. She laughed, knowing I was referring to her puttering around the house, cleaning the front of our stand-alone freezer, reorganizing the pantry, and in general engaging in nesting activities commonly associated with child-bearing time.

Outside our side yard windows where I have hung bird feeders, stocked Friday with extra seed, there was a frenzy of activity. Blazingly red cardinals, bright blue jays, red bellied and downy woodpeckers, along with female cardinals and lots of chickadees and sparrows—nearly 50 in all—competed for access. Surprisingly, few squirrels roamed the top of the snow looking for spilled seed. 

One of our patio tables had a mound of snow close to a foot high. The other, more exposed to the wind, was covered by less than an inch. 

I ventured into the mud room. Gilda had thrown out nearly half of the literature (my biased word for the assortment of paper reminders and magnetized business cards) that has obscured the front of the freezer for decades, literally decades. She was obsessed with cleaning. I’m a hoarder. We engaged in civil, comical discussion. Why, she wanted to know, would I keep outdated MetroNorth train schedules when it’s easier to look up online current timetables? Why? Because I’m a hoarder. 

Don’t get the impression I just sat around doing nothing. I did two loads of laundry. 

During a lull in the blizzard around 3 pm I spent 45 minutes clearing the driveway and front walkway. Nine inches of soft powder, good for snowblowing, bad for snowball making, had fallen. Truth be told, the real reasons I went outdoors was to see if The Times had been delivered (it had) and to replenish the bird feeders.  

No sooner did I sit down to input my toil in this blog but Gilda informed me the buzzer had sounded—it was time to take my clothing out of the dryer. I tell you, there’s no end to a man’s work around the house.

In case you’re wondering, the snow blocked out any energy production from our solar panels. 

Creature Habits

If you’re not careful, it’s easy to fall into slovenly habits when you no longer commute to an office. While I haven’t shaved every morning, I have fastidiously showered and washed my hair daily to avoid any appearance of seediness. But a little more than a week ago the NY Times ran an article about people who blithely let days go by between showers and shampoos, or even an application of deodorant, what we used to call in summer camp a “marine shower” (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/31/fashion/31Unwashed.html?scp=1&sq=daily%20showers&st=cse).

Especially as we flow through the parched-skin fall and winter months, the option of not subjecting my (sensitive) outer layer to excess water looms as a very appealing morning option. After all, how grungy could I get just hanging around the house, or running the occasional errand?

Well, I’m not going to tell you what I decided. Next time you see me, though, I won’t take offense if you keep your distance, or at the very least sniff the air around me before approaching.


Three Birthdays: Last Saturday Gilda and I went to two birthday parties. We started the day at the bar mitzvah of the youngest son of one of the doctors in Gilda’s office. Michael made his parents proud.

Saturday night we helped celebrate the 85th birthday of our friend Milton. He was the art director of my publications for close to 20 years. Several of his paintings hang in our home, my favorite being a self-portrait that, to me, makes him look like a Portuguese fisherman. I become transfixed whenever I gaze upon it.

Over the years I worked with many art directors, none who possessed the love of literature Milton did. Moreover, he always took the time to read our stories before designing a page. Never an easy man to get along with—cantankerous would be a mild description of his usual workplace demeanor—Milton has mellowed, even becoming quite sentimental. He reads poetry to his partner of many years, Marianne, as they walk along the Hudson River. To the assembled friends and family at his party, he read the following poem by Robert McCrum:

I have learned, in short, that I am not
Immortal (the fantasy of youth)
and yet,
strangely, in the process I have been renewed
in my understanding of family and, finally,
of the only thing that matters:
Love

Next Tuesday will be the first birthday of our grandson, Finley Hawthorne Forseter. It’s a race to see if the tree we planted last spring, a Winter King Hawthorn, will lose all its leaves before the milestone day. It’s also a race to see if Finley will master walking by then. He’s already able to stagger about before dropping into the arms of his parents. Any day now he will permanently defy gravity. For a video of his latest efforts, visit http://findingfinley.blogspot.com/2010/11/walker-arlington-ranger.html.


Rocky and Friends: I really like watching squirrels. I know they’re rodents, as Gilda repeatedly points out to me. But they’re industrious. Extremely smart. Resourceful. And cute.

Squirrels are attracted to my bird feeding stations. They feast on seeds indiscriminately dropped to the ground by the birds. Of course, being rather self-centered creatures, squirrels prefer to eat seeds straight from the feeders, but I’ve prevented that possibility by strategically placing inverted funnel-shaped plastic squirrel guards along the chains above two of the main feeders that hang from nearby trees.

The other day as I was eating breakfast, I looked out the window at my new bird feeder, a white house with an A-frame metal shingle roof hanging from one of our pine trees. It recently replaced an open gazebo-style feeder that surprisingly never interested the squirrels. The new feeder was promoted as squirrel proof—its perches are levers designed to close up the seed area under the weight of any bushy-tailed scavenger that might pull up a chair, so to speak, to the dinner table.

The new feeder had been up for about 10 days without incident, but on this morning I was brought up short in my Cheerios-crunching by the sight of a squirrel busily munching away on bird seed while it rested comfortably on the perch. Four or five times I shooed the squirrel away, only to witness its methodical return. The squirrel would climb up the pine tree, scamper across the limb from which the feeder was suspended, and shinny its way down the chain till it plopped onto the roof. The last straw was when it didn’t even bother to sit on the lever. Rather, it hung upside down from the roof to casually chomp away at the cache of seeds at its disposal.

My daily rounds that day included a trip to the wild bird store to purchase yet another plastic baffle to baffle and confound the squirrels. Only the squirrels were not content to go down without a fight. For the next day they repeatedly crawled down the chain from the tree limb until they’d get to the edge of the squirrel guard. At the bottom of the guard, the widest part of the funnel, they were forced to leap for the house. But it was too steep an angle. They’d tumble four feet to the ground, shake themselves off, climb back up the tree and try once more. It took several unfortunate falls before they learned they could not get around the squirrel guard.

But perhaps they could avoid it. So the most resourceful did his best impersonation of Rocky the flying squirrel. He jumped from a tree limb toward the feeder. Alas, for him, at least, I had placed the feeder too distant for a successful aerial assault.

Granted, outwitting a squirrel might be considered an insignificant achievement, but it sure beats the office political games I once had to play.