“Have you seen the paper today?” a man I know asked, clearly irritated. I nodded yes, but wondered why he was so angry. My bewildered look prompted him to open the newspaper and turn to a story about a transgender man going to court.
“Nobody cares about that shit here,” he said, throwing the paper on his desk. The story was about Gavin Grimm, a transgender man, and his case being heard at the Supreme Court. “No one wants to see that. It doesn’t matter.”
On Friday night, Donald Trump tweeted, once again, about his disdain for the media.
The FAKE NEWS media (failing @nytimes, @NBCNews, @ABC, @CBS, @CNN) is not my enemy, it is the enemy of the American People!
— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) February 17, 2017
My twitter feed filled soon after with cases of journalists who are not the enemy. Journalist Lauren Wolfe pointed out countries, such as Russia, Burma and Venezuela where the media has been declared enemies of the state.
Immigrants have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Every immigrant I have ever known has had a positive effect on my life and shaped who I am today.
Last week, US District Judge James L. Robart ruled against the president’s executive order banning Muslims from Somalia, Iran, Iraq, Sudan, Syria, Libya, and Yemen after a lawsuit was filed against the EO. Robart granted a temporary restraining order.
NOTE: The Star-Herald has decided to stop allowing reporters to write columns. This is what I wrote for tomorrow’s column and would have run on Thursday, February 2, 2017. I normally have more links and photos in my stories, but I did not know until late Wednesday afternoon this column would not run in the paper. I’ve added links for the sites I could remember and could find again.
I’ve been driving around town for about a year with this playlist in my car. I don’t think I’ll be changing it anytime soon. It’s a good mix of different styles of music.
In mid-January 2016, I came across a reading challenge. Since I like to read, I figured I’d have a go at trying to finish each category. It wasn’t always possible. Here are the categories and how I fared.
Everybody wants to be somebody and, once, I was. For a little while.
The girls from Love two and three walked down to the Cather-Pound-Neihardt dining hall together. It wasn’t an unusual sight. Whoever was around at dinner time would eat together. Sometimes, they would hang out and wait in the TV lounge until a few people had gathered. Tonight, however, was different.
A squirrel in Estes Park, Colorado.
This little guy was near our hotel. He watched me carefully while resting his front paw on a pine cone, then darted across the lawn and up a tree.
I swear this squirrel is sticking its tongue at me.
He only stopped for a moment, not enough time to focus and get a good shot of him, but I think he was mocking me.
Fuck life. Fuck adulthood. Fuck being responsible. Fuck you if you hand handle a four letter word. No one asked you to read this fucking tirade.
Fuck diabetes and the fucking bullshit that goes with it. Fuck needles. Fuck insulin. Fuck half the paycheck that goes to keeping me the fuck alive. Fuck eating healthy and still being fucked over by the gene pool. Fuck never being able to eat anything unhealthy or risk the five fucking days it takes to recover. Fuck everyone who makes fun of you for the things you eat. Fuck the daily exercise that results in zero weight loss after three years. Why the fuck am I even trying?
Einstein sleeps on the train.
The LED board at the train station said our train was leaving from platform 3, but when we arrived, everything was broken. Signs confirming which platform you were on were non-existent. Platforms 2 and 3 were at the top of the stairs. Platform 3 could have been on the left or right. We didn’t know. The mechanical board on the platform was broken. So we asked. And asked. And asked.
No one seemed to know. The man sweeping the platform told us we were in the right place. Everyone who spoke English gravitated toward one another, asking the same question. We all had tickets on the fast train to Athens. We hoped we were in the right place.
The train eventually arrived. It was dirty and covered in graffiti. We found our seats in first class. Einstein was sitting in Paul’s seat. Eventually, we convinced him he had to move.
The first class seats weren’t fancy. They’re not quiet. They’re not much nicer than cattle class. You share a compartment with six people. Einstein wore dark blue jeans and an orangish-yellow polo shirt. He took a nap as soon as the train left the station. Einstein snores.
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