Know Thyself?
Socrates’ phrase is part of the world lexicon. In a way, through my writing, I’ve made a practice of it almost my entire adult life. I was at a point where I didn’t think I could surprise myself anymore. And now President Trump’s defeat has hit me very hard. I’ve always hoped I would evolve away from being ridiculously emotional, a trait that would surprise most of my acquaintances and even some family members who have never witnessed me blubber publicly. Even though I know the USA has been moving toward socialism since FDR — the left winning, routing the right in policy matters except for a few pauses through the decades, and even though I suspected mail-in voting would be Trump’s undoing, I must have hoped deep inside that I was wrong, that the majority would reject the Dems’ abandonment of its incremental march to socialism for an all-out strategy. I feel like such a failure, my literary efforts seeming more of an exercise in futility than ever. The likes of despicable people such as Biden, Pelosi, Schumer, Soros and Bloomberg are winners. That’s tough to take, and the hurt is compounded by the joy of friends and family at the elevation of their chosen. I resisted the urge to respond to their posts, even one of the all-time most ridiculous — “Love has won over hate.” I guess the rioting and looting do not count as hate. What good would it have done to respond? I believe they are hopelessly misguided but I must hope that they are right and I am wrong, which is hard for someone who has always been a sore loser. A couple of acquaintances delivered the news yesterday while I was out selling books. I said nothing but my feelings must have been obvious. Fortunately, business was brisk enough to distract me. When I got home I was too wired for my afternoon nap and remained so until about midnight. Unfortunately, a good night’s sleep has not elevated my spirits. That is stupidity, since I, 70, am among those least likely to be affected if the Dems’ policies go south. I remind myself that life remains endlessly fascinating and frequently beautiful despite the reprobates who hold power. Some will take heart in the fact that Republicans have retained the majority in the senate and may have gained seats in the house. I do not. There’s not much difference between most Republicans and their alleged counterparts. There is only a big difference between Trump and the swamp.
RIP Alex Trebek, 80, who made a difficult job look easy.
Last night Movies!, channel 5–2 on over the air antennas in NYC, ran yet another old flick I hadn’t seen, The House Across the Bay (1940), starring George Raft and Joan Bennett, directed by Archie Mayo with, according to IMDb, an assist from Alfred Hitchcock. Since I fell asleep with a half-hour left, I can’t report on it fairly. In researching the film I discovered another of those Hollywood stalwarts, Max Wagner. Born in Mexico, the son of an American railroad exec killed during the revolution, there are 444 titles under his name in a career that spanned 1924-’75, the year of his death. In 1941 it was estimated that he had driven 50,000 miles as a movie cabbie. He served in the U.S. Army during WWII in the North Africa and Tunisia campaigns. Fluent in Spanish, he composed songs used in westerns. His meatiest role may have been as a Sergeant in Invaders from Mars (1953). Here he is in character in The House Across the Bay:
It was a second straight day of T-shirt and shorts, as indian summer persists. It looked like the return on the floating book shop was going to be minuscule, as the only customer for nearly three hours was the woman who returned for two more reading primers. About 15 minutes before closing, a middle age woman spotted Making Rugs for Pleasure and Profit by Marion Koenig, which has been on display for months. I’d expected it to go a lot sooner. She also selected an MLK bio and then focused her attention on Rising Star, turning it over to read the blurb and seeing my picture. She bit. Minutes later a gentleman came along and was thrilled to find three Tom Clancy novels, and also Overwatch, a thriller in that same vein by Matthew Betley. My thanks to the patrons. I don’t know why I should be so lucky, especially given my blue mood, which I hope I disguised well.
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