It Can't Go On

I was driving home and heard the “press conference” on the radio. I listened, I laughed; I was talking out loud, alone in my car.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Holy shit.”

“He’s nuts.”

“What an unstructured asshole.”

I caught myself and chilled out, focused on the road ahead.

I’ve heard a lot of crazy talk in my life; I’ve been guilty of it myself when I was drunk, coked, angry. I tried to convince people of shit I didn’t believe. It never worked. I was raised to doubt myself and had to work on self-esteem, honesty, and the clear articulation of thoughts. I’m still working but I heard a guy today who doesn’t have the ability, or need, to reflect.

He has never had to use words, so he sounds clumsy and stupid.

If he wants a banana he points to the menu and somebody brings him a banana. If he wants to get laid he grabs someone by the pussy and sometimes he gets what he wants because he’s a wealthy celebrity. If he needs a new tie he sends some schmuck shopping. He’s probably never talked to an auto mechanic in his life.

And here’s what I heard today.

He believes he is really, really smart. Super smart and funny and charming. It’s an unwavering belief. Christ, you can hear it in his tone; condescending, patronizing, cocksure. He will continue to sneer at average people, to laugh and ridicule you and me and anyone he views as weak: poor, old, disabled, sick, uneducated, marginalized.

 He’s convinced that he is vastly intelligent and knows more than his critics, absolutely convinced, not because he’s educated or he reads a lot or has been a close observer of life.

Nope, he believes it because it is his birthright to be smarter than everyone else.

Who, in his small, power hungry, needy, money-worshiping life has ever reproached him?  Everyone laughs at his jokes. He lives in a private world where normal interaction is rare and alien.

But he thinks he’s wildly smart. Uses words. Has ideas. And though he couldn’t articulate it, he may feel that he is Chosen, an ubermensch, godly, a separate and higher species, “The Rich”. Complete delusion. Out of his fucking mind with narcissism. Irrational. Fucker can’t even pretend to care. He doesn’t have to. It can’t go on. It can’t last. It just can’t.

Double Valentine

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” She wasn’t smiling.

I looked up from the computer. “What? Yes, same to you.”

I pointed to the package she had set next to my elbow; a red heartbox tied with a thick cream-colored bow.

“What is this?”

“It’s your Valentine’s present. Open it.”

Shit. I didn’t get her anything. Again. Bella had always been tolerant and forgiving but for the past year or so I felt as though she was placing minefields and hazards in my life. I couldn’t get through a whole week without disappointing her and I was always guilty. Had she found out about Connie? No, impossible. I’d worked that out; never call Connie from home, immediately delete all emails and texts; our assignations were successfully accomplished while Bella was at work or away on business. No, this new failure was simply a result of Bella’s expectations and what she referred to as my pathological self-esteem.

Too bad I couldn’t just reach in my wallet and give her a couple hundred-dollar bills. A few years ago that may have worked.

I pulled the ribbon on the box and the top came away easily. Inside were several rows of chocolates with a different calligraphic ornament on each one. I think these symbols were supposed to communicate what flavors were contained within each piece of candy; orange, coconut, fudge.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t care because I now remembered that I had not bought anything for Connie, either. And if anyone was going to be disappointed about being forgotten on Valentines Day, it was Connie.

She called it “Valentime’s Day.” With an “M”. Jesus.

Bella shifted, waited for my response. “Thanks. Nice. Candy. How sweet. Ha.”

Another stupid holiday and I felt like a fucking moron.

Bella looked at me, her eyes flat, a slight smile.

“Hang on, I have to go down to the car. I have something for you, too. Really. Happy Valentine’s day.” I didn’t try to kiss her.

Excited, big smile, I dashed out the front door and down the stairs to the carport. I made a lot of noise opening and slamming doors, rummaging in the trunk. I swore loudly.

When I came back in the house I was empty-handed and breathing hard. Bella lounged on the sofa with a copy of Vanity Faire.

“Goddamn, you know what? I forgot your present at work. No, don’t look at me like that, I remembered, bought a nice present last night, but I forgot it on my way home.”

Silence.

“Look, I’ll be right back. I’ll go by the office and pick it up and come right back. Hang on. No problems. Happy Valentine’s day.”

Before she could speak I was backing the car down the driveway. Shit.

I knew what I had to do. Find a place that sold flowers, of course, perhaps something else like candy and a big stupid card. Then I’d have to buy two of each and drive like a madman fifteen miles to Connie’s house and drop off her presents, candy, flowers, card, big kiss, a little groping, no, no, I have to get back, love you; turn around and make it home before dinner to present Bella with my token of appreciation and respect.

This was going to kill me.

A New Driver's License

Last week I had to get a Driver’s License because mine expired while I was out of the country. I’d been dicked around at the local Motor Vehicle Department because, they said, I didn’t have the proper documents. A license, a passport, mortgage statements and utility bills weren’t enough. They sent me home and I didn’t know what else to do. I mentioned it to my friend Tim and he said, “Let’s go to Questa. It’s easy up there.” I didn’t believe him but we drove 20 miles north and pulled into the empty parking lot. I thought they were closed. Nope. Ten minutes later, with the same documentation, I had a renewed license with a nice photo. I didn’t even have to take an eye test. I was in shock. Local government that works for the consumer.

During the procedure they ask a series of questions: Is this you? Have you been arrested for DUI? Are you a citizen?

The last question was: Do you want to register to vote or change your political party?

Well, hell yes.

And holy mackerel, I am no longer a Democrat. Just like that, after fifty years, a few keystrokes and I’m an Independent and I feel like I just got sober. A huge weight has been lifted from me. I may have added ten years to my life. No more money from me, DNC, you lying, cheating creeps. No more stupid emails or robo-calls. Seriously, does that shit work? Probably does, on the “We Are The Chosen” wing of the party. Weak.

In advance, I wish none of the following were true because I dislike the current so-called administration and its supporters, apologists and asskissers more than I ever thought possible. They are the embodiment of corruption and immaturity. The clowns in Washington are not alone; the same kinds of people are in power or trying to get in power everywhere. Sometimes they win. And we know why they win and why they will continue to win, don’t we?

Things have changed and the Lib Dem’s timeworn system stopped working about 20 years ago. The Democrats have to get much, much tougher and put their old ways in the ground. Did they not notice that evil fucks like Karl Rove were being successful? Did they care so much about their image as well-mannered, educated, clever financially secure saviors of the future that they wouldn’t learn from their opponents and from their own mistakes? Wow. Better get it together pretty soon or it will be too late. Hope not.

As of November 9, 2016 political thought flipped on its back but many of the Democratic opposition are still trying to work within an archaic system. The following is a list of replacement conduct and new definitions for outdated terms that will need to be adopted if the Dems want to regain some power in government, save face, grow their brand and enter the world of reality.

Manners          =  Elbows out, take up space, talk loud, disregard others.

Logic               =  Emotional reactions based on childish inclinations.

Facts               =  Unnecessary and a waste of everyone’s time. Grow up.

Fairness           =  Set traps, cheat, blame someone else.

Hygiene           =  Plastic surgery, Rogaine, implants

Truth               =  Lie your ass off and your supporters won’t care. Ever.

Patience           =  It’s for the weak. Threats are more effective. Follow through.

Respect           =  Ridicule all challengers without mercy.

Ethics              =  Get what you want regardless of the cost.

Kindness         =  Don’t waste time with it.

Education        =  Critical thinking is treason.

Resistance       =  Indicates enemies who must be crushed.

Compassion    =  Obsolete unless there is monetary recompense.

Legal                =  Rules for the weak and pathetic.

Government    =  Potential for huge rewards based on services rendered.

There you go; a new system of conduct for the modern activist, a gift from me to the remaining Democrats.

Go ahead, continue what you’re doing and see what happens. Peaceful protests and hats and crafty signs, Facebook outrage, online petitions, prayer, high dudgeon, tears, chants, Instagram, Twitter, Linked-in, Gofundme, begin organizing for 2018 or 2020 or 2024 or whatever. Not for a second will your aggressive and treacherous antagonists listen or care. Get dirty. Give up the ancient image of well-groomed dignity and be willing to take some heat, lose friends, sacrifice the grandchildren. If not? More of the same.

I can say this because I now have a clearer perspective.

I’m an Independent.

Don't Be So Negative

Last week women and men across the US and around the world gathered to demonstrate resistance to antique repressive policies, condescension and wretched treatment and the events happened to overlap with D. Trump’s inauguration. Women, minorities, marginalized groups have made some progress, not great, but good, and President Trump could reverse those advancements; it’s a legitimate concern. He’s everything I’ve ever detested; rich entitled bullying loud country-club fratboys who haven’t worked or read a book since college. He’s what I hate and what I never want to be. And I have been in plenty of locker rooms, poker games and rock bands and we’ve never talked about women the way that he does. The psychobastard can go frig himself with that bullshit.

He was correct, though, when he said that because he’s a celebrity he could get away with stuff the rest of us would be arrested for. That’s an indictment of America’s Shallow Values. He’s such a puke that perhaps his hateful words and actions will precipitate a denunciation of him and his corrupt attitudes towards women, money, and celebrity. The guy is so vile that rejection of his standards could be a new pathway towards a better world and sensible behavior.

I’m a dreamer.

He’s the President and magical thinking, prayer, and Facebook petitions are not going to alter that fact. That’s delusion.

Sure, the New Dark Ages may be upon us. A militarized right wing apocalypse. The end of kindness, peace and human rights. Things change, guaranteed, but often they don’t get better for a long, long time; centuries. Resist, demonstrate, oppose.

 But, check it out.

Don is 70 years old. Old man, right? He’s fat, bloated, red-faced. He is totally externally referred and worries about what others think of him. A lot. He insults and ridicules people he perceives as weak and believes he is some kind of expert on human nature. He’s angry as all get out, obsesses about people who disrespect him, quick to react, revenge seeker. He has an extended family of dipshits who, at any moment, could go off on some deviation that will unravel the whole expensive sweater. His business empire requires significant attention and he claims it will now be run by his moronic sons; he is hyperactive and can’t hold still, a jittery facemaking motherfucker; he’s loud; he has a modest education and competes with smarter people every single hour of every day; he has surrounded himself with sycophants and asskissers who will tell him what he wants to hear so he really has no idea what’s truly going on in the world of people; he likes the spotlight but he’s going to notice very soon that he will never never have another moment of privacy; his wife looks as if she’s ready to bolt or OD; Barron, the young son and heir and possible future candidate may turn out to be a flake off the old rock; the world is a shitstorm on spin with the dial set to eleven and Attention Deficit Don’s homework will be to study and familiarize himself so that he can make important informed decisions about international relations.

His stress levels and confusion are probably off the charts.

I don’t even know what I’m going to have for dinner so I can’t pretend to predict what will happen in the next six months, two years, four years, but based on the above data, real and observed, Trump, a piece of shit, is going to be in ICU sooner rather than later.

There is something about the image of D. Trump on an around-the-clock ventilator, I.V.s, morphine drip, strapped to a hospital bed, twisting in his restraints, surrounded by monitors and alarms, babbling 140-character coprolalia to an army of docs and therapists as media-weasels peek through the blinds at their president; out of it, degenerate, incontinent.

The thought cheers me up.

The future, coming soon.

Good Luck in the City of Light

 What a great day; everything I expected and more. So lucky.

Up at sunrise. That is, when the first light slips over the top of the building next door, around 9:30 a.m. I find that I’m totally responsive to the rhythms of nature. Dark = tired, Light = awake. Late light means better sleep and that surprises me for some reason. For the past year, since returning from always-loud Italy, I’ve used earplugs at night and hours go by without the slightest disturbance. I’ve never been a sound sleeper, five or six hours is a good rest, and now, with low light and less sound I am putting in an easy seven or eight. Dark and quiet, highly recommended. In Paris, the garbage guys begin with broken glass at six a.m., traffic horns at seven and by eight the drills of the remodelers and workmen are in full cacophony. I sleep right through, until the sun. Learning to live better through travel.

It takes a while to wander around the apartment and get dressed. My underwear is in a cabinet in the foyer, sox on a shelf in the kitchen, shirts and pants hanging in a giant armoire with sliding doors that stick and rumble. Bathroom light sucks so I always look unwashed and badly groomed, poorly shaved. Don’t care. It’s Paris. Everyone looks tired, hassled, windblown. Four floors down from our apartment to the busy street where I walk to the convenient metro No. 1, Champs-Elysees-Clemenceau, at the end of our street, Rue Miromesnil, named after Thomas Hue de Miromesnil, deputy to the Chancellor of France from 1774 to 1787. He abolished the use of torture during the interrogation of the accused. Thanks Tom. Because you never know when you’re going to be jacked up in this city. There are security people everywhere, two by two, armed, chatty, laughing and flirting with each other.

The metro is crowded since there are, of course, too many people everywhere in the world and Metro Number 1 runs east/west, the much-used area from the Bastille, along the Seine, to the Arch de Triumph. I was going the opposite way, opposed to the workers, and I found a seat. It is rare not to be mashed up against strangers with varying degrees of hygiene. I got off at Chatelet, one of the crowded stations that connects to most other metros and trains. One learns to walk in a mob without being jostled and or bumping into others. There is a way to move that is simultaneously aggressive and respectful. Not everyone employs the technique, particularly the very young and very old, but for the most part I can cruise at a brisk pace through the maze of underground passage ways from train to train, up escalators, down stairs, across platforms and mezzanines, and I surface into the city on the Rue Rivoli without knocking someone over or being pushed onto the tracks. There are confrontations, but we’re in Paris and moments of rudeness and hostility are part of the charm.

I was early for a lunch appointment so I walked to Shakespeare & Company, “famous bookstore, tourists, used to be better”, blah, blah but it’s a great store and well stocked. Most of the other English language booksellers traffic in blockbusters, popular pulp, YA bestsellers, but Shakespeare et al proudly carries obscure translations, experimental fiction and classics.

Last week I was in London and visited the Tate Britain Museum where I was blown away by roomfuls of paintings by J.M.W. Turner and sculptures by Henry Moore. In one room there were drawings, etchings and watercolors by mystic, poet, printmaker and illustrator William Blake and I had a chance to see his phenomenal work up close. I now feel driven to read and study more about Blake and I have looked in several other stores in Paris but they don’t carry his work. I knew Shakespeare & Co. would and they did. I picked up an illustrated copy of “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” and stepped to the counter to pay. The clerks at S&C are generally English or American students who speak very good French and are smug and dismissive to anyone who isn’t a young English or American student.

“Eight Euros, please.”

“Here you go.”

“Would you like me to stamp it?”

They have a stamp that is a drawing of William Shakespeare and proudly lets anyone who cares know that the book was purchased in Paris at the famous Shakespeare &Co. They assume that we all want that stamp. Why not? Nice souvenir. She pounded the stamp on the inkpad and I said, “No, no thanks, that’s fine.”

I didn’t want to cross-pollinate William Blake with William Shakespeare.

The woman looked at me suspiciously.

“Do you want a bag?”

“No, I’m good.” I love going into Shakespeare & Co. and treating the clerks like clerks and not as self-appointed privileged superstars of the booksellers international confederacy. I put Blake in the bag that I carry everywhere. A lifeline in a crowded metropolis. Inside my bag are a hat, a notebook and pen, my French phone and a small camera. And a copy of William Blake. I am secure.

My friend, JB, was already at Chez Gladines, 44 Boulevard Saint-Germain. JB and I have been good friends for several years and we meet at this restaurant for lunch a few times whenever I visit Paris. The place is amazing, seriously terrific. We have to get there right at noon, at the latest 12:20, or else we join the crowds waiting outside, rain or shine. The restaurant doesn’t take reservations and is pretty laid back. The food? A couple of idiots have bitched on Yelp and Google Reviews about the food, the service, the crowds, but those people are fucked up and wouldn’t know how to appreciate a good restaurant or food that doesn’t come in a bag. JB orders Escalope Montagnarde, which translates, to “Mountain Climbing” on Google Translate. Fairly accurate. Specialty of the house with potatoes, ham, veal, cream sauce and mushrooms. Just ask for The Mountain. It’s a mountain of food and looks delicious. I have my usual, the Cassoulet Basque. White beans cooked in duck fat, duck legs, pork breast, chorizo and Toulouse sausage. I cannot write about it. It is so goddamn good. I’m looking forward to having it again next week. I cannot write about it in the same way that Muslims cannot make drawings of Muhammad.  

JB and his wife have lived in Paris for many years. They are both schoolteachers, fluent in French and educated. He teaches Literature and our friendship is a surprising bit of good luck. We had a two and a half hour lunch and as Chez Gladines filled to the walls with those Parisians who respect good, inexpensive, perfect French/Basque food, we talked about politics, literature, health, philosophy, relationships and how goddamn good the food was. Great afternoon; we sat down at noon and didn’t leave until 2:45. The waitstaff and management were busy, friendly and efficient.  A nice antidote to the Shakespeare & Co. pretensions.

JB walked me back to the metro and we stopped and looked at buildings, wove our way through the crowds in front of Notre Dame, peeked into Album (a terrific comic book store), checked out the river from the Petit Pont. He bid me goodbye, a bientot, until next time.

I was out of metro tickets and bought some from a vendor, waited for my train and got another lucky seat on the Metro. Such a great day, such good luck. A few minutes later and I was heading out the sortie at Champs-Elysees-Clemenceau with the rest of the Christmas shoppers, workers, tourists. It was pretty busy. Ahead were a couple of young metro cops. A man and woman, short, uniformed, asking people at random for their tickets. This happens occasionally, to make sure that everyone isn’t jumping the turnstile, cheating the city. I’ve never seen them checking tickets during the day; usually they roam the platforms of the metro at night to make sure that bands of drunks and kids aren’t making trouble.

And they pinned me.

I’m a nicely dressed older man with a bad back and good shoes. What the hell?

“Monsieur, please step over here.”

“Oui. What do you want?”

“Your ticket please.”

“My ticket?”

“Your ticket, we must see your ticket.”

Not a problem, I just bought a carnet, a package of ten tickets. When I use a ticket I put it in my left pocket so that, if need be, I can show it to the cops. See, here it is. It’s supposed to be big trouble if you don’t have a ticket.

I bumbled around in my coat, came up with a ticket, handed it to the guy. His partner was a slim, nervous woman. She was holding a card reader, looked like a Taser at first and scared the shit out of me, but they slipped my ticked into a slot and he said:

“Non. Non, monsieur, this is an old ticket.”

“The fuck? I just bought a carnet at the Chatelet and that’s one of the brand new tickets. The hell you talking about?”

Things begin to escalate. He’s getting pissed.

“This is not a valid ticket. You must pay a fine.”

He shows me a card with a list of fines for various infractions and points to a number. 35. Thirty-five euros for not having a valid ticket. Except that I did.

“Well shit, man, I just used that. I don’t have that kind of money.”

I had only 35 euros after my lunch and book shopping, but I wasn’t totally sure what was up and wasn’t about to fork it over. I asked for their IDs, they showed them, big smiles. I took out my camera to snap a shot of them, what the fuck, another souvenir. A copy of William Blake from Shakespeare & Co. and a nice photo of the assholes who were hassling me in the metro.

Well, shit, you’d think I pulled out a gun. They freaked out.

“NO, NO, monsieur, no, I will call the other police, this is a big fine, you cannot take our picture.”

“?”

He pointed to another number on his laminated card. 180 euros. Holy crap this was spinning out of control really fast.

“Wait, let me check my wallet.”

I took out 35 euros and handed it to the guy.

“There you go. Thirty-five. Wow. You guys. What the hell?”

I was hoping that I could skate, roll back the clock, get that original fine and be on my way.

“I’ll get you a receipt, monsieur.”

I was relieved. Never know what might go down. I leaned against the wall and waited.

He is still suspicious but takes the money across the hall to his supervisor who is currently jacking up a couple of youngsters. They mutter in French, the boss takes my dough, tears off a receipt.

Meanwhile, I’m baffled. I just rode the metro with a valid ticket. I wondered if I was being played. Assholes. I fiddled in my pocket for a while, keys, gloves, a napkin. A metro ticket. Another metro ticket. Wow. Christ.

Short cop comes over with a yellow slip of paper, the receipt, and I’m holding out a metro ticket.

“Here. Try this one.”

Everyone has a pocketful of old metro tickets. It’s a pain in the ass, we’re always putting a used one in the slot, getting a nasty buzzer sound, and then you have to step out of line and find an unused ticket. That’s what happened at Chatelet and that’s why I bought a stack of fresh billets pour le metro.

I know he doesn’t want to take new one, but I’m holding it in his face and it looks legit. He shifts from one foot to the other, nods, takes the ticket over to his boss. They are both looking at me. Where will this go?

Boss puts the new-old ticket through the card reader and bingo, a green light, I’m good, it’s a valid metro billet. All the cops are gathered together, some giving me the eagle eye. The supervisor takes out a cheap purse, the kind you buy for a few euros from a discount store. It was striped and ugly and he unzips it, takes out some bills and hands them to the original officer who comes back and gives me my 35 euros.

“You may go. You had the valid ticket.”

“Fuckin A.”

“Here.”

He holds out the bad ticket that I had first given to him.

“What?”

“Here, this is yours.”

“Nah, of course not. Jesus. You keep it. It’s a souvenir.”

I climb the stairs to my apartment on Rue de Miromesnil and think, “Respect,” to Thomas de Miromesnil, the guy who abolished the torture of detainees between the years 1774 to 1787. Today could have been worse.

A delightful day in Paris. Good books, healthy walking, beautiful city, a fine friend, great food, a little metro agro and no torture.

An almost perfect day.

Ballot Selfies

Ballot Selfies. Big deal this year. “Are they illegal or personal expression?” What they are is another way for simple fucks to get attention. "Look, I voted." Wow, you are an adult doing the bare minimum. Here’s your trophy. I guess I’m leaving a world where everything that everyone does all the time every day for their entire lives will be recorded, filmed, posted, commented upon and filed. And then, holy shit, then there are complaints and conspiracies and concerns that we have no privacy and the stupid government is invading us and spying on us and nothing is sacred or personal, we are never safe. That’s about the time boneheads post that silly Facebook hoax: “I do not give Facebook permission to blah blah…”

On the other hand it’s a good way to keep track of who voted for what, (big smile for your picture with your ballot), and then they won’t be able to dodge their responsibility when the winner, (their fave, here it is on my page, woot), drops the big one on San Francisco or gets caught in a motel room with an underage chimpanzee.

I know a bunch of people who voted for George W. Bush right after 911 because they were afraid and believed all of his bullshit. These were not crazy conservatives; in fact, some were Democrats at the time but they got caught up in the scary moment and began defending George W and his band of liars. This year they are all pretty quiet and, once again, are committed super-Democrats.

I wish they had taken pics of that proud moment, big grin, pointing to their mistake.

I would re-post it, daily, until they snapped. Sorry, but you are what you do.

Late night knock on the door:

 “Excuse me, I’m with an Un-named Dangerous Government Unit. Did you vote for (fill in the blank)?”

“Um, no?”

“Well, stupid, here’s your picture on your Facebook page with your ballot. You look pretty happy. See? Right there under the cat video. Get dressed.”

You are not what you post but try explaining that to everyone who hates you and kicks your ass and you lose all of your credibility forever. There are photos. They might even take away your trophy. 

Clowns? Why?

Who in the actual real fuck is afraid of clowns? How did this happen, this national panic about clowns? Shakespeare used them in his comedies, they are an integral part of rodeo and the Bible; in fact all religious texts are crammed with clowns and their stupid behavior. They are generally objects of ridicule. It’s a job. In some places clowning is a respected element of classic theater. Sure, a lot of kids cry when surprised by a big scary dude with a painted face and a red nose, but in my opinion that’s good preparation for the first time you discover how screwed up your family is.

I had a creepy drunk uncle who was hot for my girlfriend and he used to sneak into our room when we were staying with them and sit on the bed and stare at her.

An off-duty cop got pissed off at something I said and pulled his gun on me.

A relation, by marriage thank Christ, chopped up a baby grand piano, with an axe, in his living room, because his daughter wouldn’t practice.

I’d been to the circus and I think it prepared me for this kind of social interaction. Way more terrifying and threatening than clowns. Shit, clowns aren’t even funny. Silly, dopey and distracting, but not funny.

“Oh, look at the clown. Look! Isn’t he funny?”

No. Can I have another hot dog?

Want to see some funny clowns? Try Bill Irwin, Giulietta Masina, Charlie Chaplin.

(Note: John Wayne Gacy was not a clown. Don’t even.)

I read in the paper today that some people in Albuquerque where dressed like clowns and they were arrested. By the police. Locked up. Wow.

A kid in a backwards Midwestern state posted a picture of a clown on his Facebook page, added a little threatening dialogue and had his own personal visit from law enforcement.

Halloween is right around the corner and there are warnings that partygoers should avoid dressing like clowns. Sexy eight-year-olds and fake gun toting toddlers in full camo, sure, terrific, so cute, but we will not tolerate baggy pants, a red nose and giant shoes.

Steven Hawking isn’t afraid of clowns.

Keith Richards isn’t afraid of clowns.

Rachel Maddow isn’t afraid of clowns.

Hillary Clinton has said she isn’t afraid of clowns, but she may change her mind.

Trump…never mind.

Which brings up another point.

There are plenty of real things to be afraid of. Watch the fucking debates, follow a political candidate, check out the way the stock market is manipulated, study class and income inequality, read about the Kardashians, see how fast bookstores are closing, be a woman in the Mideast or a young black man in America, go to an evangelical church service. Talk to a Vietnam vet, or a woman who has been sexually assaulted. That’s some scary shit, right there. The real scary.

If you are over the age of seven and are still afraid of clowns you’re either mentally impaired, have no critical skills, or you’ve never been in a truly frightening situation.

Get out more. Take a walk around the block. At night

We just got over the Zombie scare, now it's clowns.
Don’t be a moron.