Trumped By The Pope

Do you want to know what stinks? My luck when it comes to New York. The last time I was there, in 1985, I suffered an extreme case of intestinal distress so bad that it caused me to jump from my seat and race to the nearest exit. Just short of the 16th floor--the floor my room was on--my guts erupted.  I don't know if it was the hotdog from the cart across the street or the slice of pizza I had for dessert--and that was just for breakfast--but I wanted everything the city had to offer and I didn't care about the consequences, but obviously, my digestive system did. I was travelling with the All American Musical Ambassadors Band from Purdue University in Indiana. We were a hodgepodge of teenagers from all over the country representing the US as we played our instruments throughout Europe. We were in town for three short days and our time was filled with 14-hour rehearsals, brief and harried introductions to those sitting nearby and overwhelming anxiety as many prepared for their first flight out of the country.  We had little time to spare but one afternoon a group of us set out to see the sights. We rode a cab through Times Square, glanced down into the subway too frightened by the unfamiliar to chance a ride. We viewed the Statue of Liberty sheltered under a massive curtain of scaffolding as crews worked to repair the wounds from years left exposed to the elements. We were astonished as the mass of humanity gathered at every crossing awaiting the light and startled by the bleeping honk of a yellow taxi if we ventured too close to the curb. We walked into the lobby of the Empire State Building--no time to scale its length--and gawked at the homeless and bums that settled on every bench and stoop as nightfall beckoned. Our senses were shocked and energized just like the third rail that runs beneath--the vein pulsing through the heart of the city connecting the chaos and us together in a lifelong embrace. Nothing struck us more though than the magnificence of the twin towers. Most of us were from small farms, villages and towns where the tallest structure was a three-story bank building or a silo filled with grain. We stood at the base, mouths agape and looked skyward--how was it possible to build something so large we wondered. We hadn't seen anything that resembled nor imagined anything quite like them. The three days went quicker than a Babe Ruth home run leaving Yankee Stadium, but the visit, for me, will always be marred by the unpleasant occurrence just short of my hotel door. Thirty years have passed and I'm planning my return to an all too familiar beat: something stinks and once again it's my luck. The Pope and I are headed to town on the same day. We both want to see Freedom Tower but I worry that the Holy Father will call trump and hinder my plans. Ever since I saw the twin towers disintegrate like a too short fuse blowing off the finger that clutched it I knew the singe of the blast would be forever emblazoned across my soul every time I saw the charred, vacant land at Ground Zero. The void was as cavernous in our hearts as a Wednesday afternoon football game at Giants Stadium. I watched the progress--the rise from the ashes as your metamorphosis took place--just like a phoenix--reborn and released from its death sentence and able to begin anew. I can't do anything about the day. The trip is planned, the checks are written and the route lined out. I could pray to the Holy Father or even send him a tweet but I know he wants to go, too, so wouldn't that just be a wasted prayer? Is it a sin to ask for something like that? "Excuse me, Father, but I haven't been to New York in 30 years and my last trip didn't turn out so well. Actually, it stunk. Could you help a gal out and reschedule?" Or better yet, maybe we could hang together--they say your Papacy is trending now and although I'm not Catholic, I'll take your blessing, along with the rest of the city, anyway I can. Even if it doesn't happen to be on the same day. And one last thing: let's skip the pizza.

Why Don't You Speak Proper American?

This doesn't really have anything to do with Sarah Palin. I'm glad she's still up north keeping an eye on the Russians and I'm happy that she checks in periodically just to make sure that we know that she still hasn't made the team. She and Tim Tebow (who I like very much) are pretty much the same: as hard as they try they aren't good enough to be the leader of the third string (according to some people) or even worse,  actually make the third string team. Ouch. It's been fun watching Trump and his disciples irritate about 60% of the registered voters across the country while the brain surgeon just looks around and wonders "Where do they find these idiots?" At least if Palin was thrown into the mix it would give us something else to look at other than the pinched expression on Ted Cruz's face or the ferret that crowns the Donald's head and tries to keep his ego in check. I discovered after doing a two-second Google search that Trump has the same answer for any possible question that he could be asked. Himself. 1. How will you fix the immigration problem? Donald Trump can fix anything. 2. How will you bring back the economy? Donald Trump will sell off everything. 3. How will you defeat IS? Donald Trump can defeat anyone. 4. How will you beat the other Republicans? Donald Trump will give everyone a cabinet position. 5. How will you defeat the Democrats? Donald Trump can buy anyone and the Donald is really like most of them. See what I mean? I think I've heard those answers before but the ferret must be working because he hardly ever uses his name in the third person anymore. I think that's because he, like a lot of other Americans have spoken proper American for so long that it actually now makes sense. And that's my problem too: I  speak proper American and it has done nothing lately but get me into trouble. Proper American is not the same as proper English. I use too much slang in my everyday vocabulary and after years of too many "had beens", "fixin' too's" and "ain't gonna's" my language (or lack thereof) has spilled over into my writing causing me and the people (Niamh!) (Gina!) around me needless amounts of headaches. I think I can do better, but honestly I think I need a complete overhaul. I need to strip everything apart and start with the basic person, place or thing. I've been advised to read several different books and that's what I'm going to do. My pal, Gina Barreca, says that writing is serious business and until you treat it as such you're just wasting everybody's time, including your own and that's doing a disservice to everyone. I was going to use the combination of improper words listed above in one last dramatic incorrect sentence but my new habits are already beginning to take over. Almost. Just wait 'til all y'all get a looky-loo at my new book. Gianetta says it might just be the best thing she's ever written...