I wonder all too often these days where my creative imagination has fled to. As a working writer, I’ve put words on a page most of my life and now, in my early seventies, I don’t, simple as that. Why? What happened?

My last novel, Attachment Patterns, was published in the summer of 2023. The preliminary reviews were positive, and people getting back to me on it seemed excited for me. And yet I was uncertain. From experience, I knew I had no gift for self-promotion, no sense of how to get the word out there about my work. Did anyone? I’d hired a publicist for my second novel, The Practical Navigator, and they’d done next to nothing. Would the new publishers help me with this? We’d have to wait and see. Well, they didn’t, not even a little bit, and over the next several months the book pretty much floated, dead in the water. It left me floating too.

I attempted to throw myself into other projects. I’d always had several going at once but now it proved to be difficult. I self-published a collection of personal essays I’d written, Crossing the Meadow, which was a semi-positive experience, editing the work, designing the cover, and throwing it onto Amazon but other than that I was unproductive. And then in late 2024 I had knee replacement surgery which wasn’t creative at all. It stuck me on the couch for several months, just sitting, wincing and staring into space. It was, in retrospect, a good excuse not to write and once on my feet again, I found myself unable to return to work. It felt pointless, simple as that. And it still does.

Sorry to say I’ve lost interest in the work itself.

Write for the theatre? No, sorry, the theatre is now past my bedtime. It’s also a collaborative experience and these days I’m about as collaborative as a mole in the ground. Write a screenplay again? No, movies today have become nonsensical gibberish to me. I find the conflict and violence off-putting and uncomfortable and I find the characters unrelatable. As a young man living in New York City, I must have gone to the movie theatre at least once a week. Now three minutes in front of the television screen, trying to brave Netflix is too much for me.

Write another novel? The latest news is that AI generated novels are now being submitted to publishers. Why not? If AI can make movies, they can certainly string words together on a page, probably better than I can. No, the thought of writing a new novel is comparable to pushing a boulder up a steep mountain, only to see it roll back down just before reaching the top. If nobody is going to read it, why bother?

I’ve been fortunate. I made a living as a writer. I’m now in a position where I don’t have to write to live anymore. Oh, but I miss it. At least, part of me does. Finding the inspiration to begin again, to put words on the page again… I’m searching.

***

10/23/2026

And I’m still searching.

I wonder at times if part of the problem is the world at large. It seems filled with frightened, angry people, all fueled by online stories detailing the horrors of war, economic hardship and climate change, not to mention political leaders’ intent on creating social dysfunction more than solidarity. Has it always been like this? Or am I now seeing it through the perspective of a 73-year-old man, a man with enough time on his hands to incessantly worry about things younger people don’t have time to obsess about.

And yet, and yet.

Studies show that the world has never been in a better place. Despite war, disease and natural disasters, global life expectancy has doubled in the past century. Today fewer than 1 in 10 people live in extreme poverty. In the late eighteen hundreds, almost 50% of all children died before the age of five. Today it’s less than 4%. A century and a half ago, 88% of the world’s population was illiterate. Now only 10%. They’re not reading anything I’ve written but things have and are improving.

So, I tell myself. Enough. Count your blessings, focus on the positive and be grateful. You live in a beautiful place, and have a comfortable, lovely home. Despite the aching joints you’re in pretty good physical shape. Most important of all, you have friends and family close at hand, a wife, a son and daughter and a son-in-law, not to mention a second grandchild on the way. You’re not feeling creative? Who cares, you don’t have to be. If something is not feeding you, find something else that does – hopefully something low in cholesterol. Put aside the newspaper, delete the word games and the solitaire. Engage. Participate. Love. Who knows, maybe the words and stories will come rushing back again.

Okay, I’m being silly. Truthfully, it’s not the way I look that bothers me. No, not at all, it comes with the territory. Often, I think it’s the way I feel. That guy in the mirror? His legs hurt. His lower back hurts. His arthritic hands hurt. Most of all his feeble brain hurts. No one told me when I was young that my brain was going to grow old just like the rest of my body. I was under the impression that old age meant ever burgeoning wisdom. So much for that. I’m increasingly inarticulate, totally lacking in curiosity and these days about as social as a doormat.

And yet, truth be known, I’ve been pretty darn fortunate when it comes to this silly aging process. I recently had my annual physical and much to my surprise, was told my blood work and organ functions were on par with a thirty-year-old. My teeth? I still have them all, including the wisdom teeth – maybe that’s why I’m still so incredibly smart. And those aching knees and the tight lower back? They still take me onto the tennis court and out on long beach walks. They yell at me in bed at night, yes, but I can handle it. And if I’m not up for exercise, let’s face, sometimes sitting on the couch reading or playing a card game or scribbling in a notebook can be pretty darn relaxing. Nothing to do? No, nothing I absolutely have to do.

But reflect.

And contemplate.

And hope for the best.

Still. State of mind. It can be a challenge.

A recent survey from the Center for Disease Control and Prevention found that 71.5 percent of older adults reported that at least some of the time they felt fatigued; fatigue defined as physical or mental exhaustion that does not improve with additional sleep or rest.

So. I guess I’m not alone.

Oh, but wait, what time is it? Yes, in another hour I’ll have to open a beer and after that I’ll be expected to make dinner for people. I guess it will have to be steak again, poor them, poor me. Ice cream for desert.

Still, after dinner when I go to shower, I’ll avoid looking directly into the mirror. Why? Because even when I’m being optimistic I can still take myself by surprise.

From my stage play, THE TRAGIC AGE, written in 2014. As is so often the case, I don’t think I realized the magnitude of what I was writing about. Regardless, this image has stayed with me for twenty-five years.

Night. The distant sound of thunder. Lightning flickers in the room. Dakin stands stage center, lost in thought. The sudden sound of a woman crying out-

MACY (off) — Dakin - !! Dakin - !?

Dakin - Macy!?

MACY — Dakin...!

Macy enters. She is in night clothes. She is wild eyed, half screaming, half sobbing; unable to wake from her nightmare.

MACY — Dakin!! Where are you - Dakin - !

He moves to her, takes her in his arms - she struggles for a moment, then begins to quiet as he comforts her. He leads her to the couch.

Dakin — Sshhh, I’m here, it’s all right. Everything’s all right. I’m here.

MACY — I couldn’t wake up. I wanted to but I couldn’t wake up.

She begins to softly weep again.

Dakin — Shhh, it was a bad dream. Just a dream.

She speaks now, as if numb. As if the only way she can talk about it to keep detached from it.

MACY — It was about Spencer.

Dakin — Oh, Macy.

MACY — I know.

Dakin — Do you want to talk about it? (She shakes her head) It makes you feel better when you do.

Images on the stage scrim as:

MACY — I’m with him and he’s a little boy. We’re somewhere in a park and I’m pushing him on a swing. Back and forth, out and back. And I want to hold him, Dakin, I want to hold him still.

Dakin — Of course you do.

MACY — But I can’t. I push him and I catch him, push and catch. And then I hear the sound.

(It’s very faint. The sound of a jet plane.)

MACY — I realize the plane is coming.

Dakin — Macy -

MACY — I’m trying to tell myself it’s just a dream, something I saw and heard on television but I can’t help it... I look up. And it’s overhead... and I turn with it and I watch it go in. It’s as if the tower swallows it.

(Sound gone as it crashes into the South tower of the World Trade Center.)

MACY — I look back to the swing for Spencer... and he’s gone. And I know it’s a dream, Dakin, but Spencer is gone....

Dakin — You should stop now.

MACY — Let me finish! (a moment) I’m in the tower now, above the crash floor... where Spencer’s office was... I’m looking for him, Dakin. I’m calling for him. But I can’t find him. I can’t find Spencer, Dakin, I can’t find him. And then... I have to choose. All of us do. Will we burn... or will we jump. (Then, softly:) I jump.

On the stage scrim, the falling man, hurtling towards the ground, head first.

Dakin — Macy, we don’t know if he jumped or fell or went down with the whole goddamn thing.

MACY — And that’s what’s so hard.

Dakin — Come, let me take you back to bed. I’ll stay with you.

He lifts her in his arms.

MACY — You’ll hurt your back.

Dakin — No, I’m very strong.

MACY — When will I accept it, Dakin?

Dakin — I think - never.

The lights dim as they exit.

Done in the house, are we? Let’s go outside and explore the garden. There are trees to lean on, flower petals to pluck and taste, plants to pull on, baby lemons to pick up off the ground and throw to the doggie who is following you everywhere. How fast can you go, little one? Fast enough to fall on your bottom, I bet. Ka-boomph. Time to wail. Wahhhhh! No problem, little one, your grandmother’s loving arms are waiting.

And now, it’s time to go for a stroller ride. Ah, yes, sitting back, canopy providing perfect shade, as you giggle and coo at the world passing by. Give a shout and there’s Granma Bear or Grumpy-pa, bending down to make sure all is right. And it is. Peaceful. Secure. Maybe she’ll even take a short quiet nap now. If not, she’ll be heading back to the house soon for some crushed banana and creamy peanut butter. And then - !

It will all start over again. The racing from room to room, the naming things anew, the plucking of colorful flower petals in the garden and offering them. They’re gifts, you know.

It’s all about enjoying the moment, which is a gift as well, isn’t it. Yes. Thank you for the lesson, little one. Thank you.

This is part of life.

You see, I was aware and yet I was oblivious. I was too busy living. And one of the great things about America is it always felt, at least to me, like a safe place to live. It’s not just that we were a continent protected by two oceans. It’s that we were the free world’s defender, her champion. We tried to do the right thing for all even when, in retrospect, we didn’t, not even for too many of our own. We had leaders that we didn’t always agree with but that we respected. We went about our days as best we could, with a modicum of hope in hand. Add A to B and hopefully the sum would prove to be C.

And now this. A plus B equals anything. In fact, who even knows what A and B are anymore. Social media blares a misspelled hyper-reality at us on a moment-to-moment basis. The simple fact is we are at war again, no longer the defender this time but rather the aggressor. It is a war of modern-day missiles and bombs and pilotless drones – oh, and old fashioned torpedoes fired from nuclear submarines – all being quasi-led from a safe distance by a brutal, immoral, egomaniacal excuse for a human being. Is anyone oblivious anymore? Is anyone safe? Can anyone kindly go about their days, focusing on the modest tasks at hand?

I no longer can. The world now seems to be running on incoherent noise; on the bark and rumble of engines, the cry of horns, the howl of blowers throwing fatal debris into the air. The morning paper depicts daily horror, in its headlines, in its articles and columns, in its photos. I tell myself all we can do is wait and hope but indeed, hope for what? That we finally come to our senses and care for one another? That we choose to be led by people who are dedicated to the greater good? I’m at a point where I’m no longer sure we ever have been. Call it old age.

Still -

I constantly tell myself to count the blessings I do have… family, home, friends. I tell myself to stand, speak up, be counted. I tell myself to give when I can, share when I can, help when I can. I tell myself to hope.

What else can one do?

Dakin

The tragedy of the commons. The term holds that a shared resource is inevitably ruined by uncontrolled use. A community field or “commons” is used to illustrate the tragedy. A town’s people bring cows to the commons to feed on its grass. Each demands their share. No one thinks through the consequences of so many cows eating the grass to depletion. The grass disappears and the commons is ruined for all. Once it is, the perpetrators invoke their right to have done so. They cast blame on others and they fight over the remains. It is that ongoing battle that took my son. And, I think, will eventually take us all.

(Looking out)

End of land. End of air. End of water. End of sunset. End of meadow. Of desert. Of mountain and horizon. The end of beauty. The end of hope.

The end of us.

(then:)

The commons is gone now. All that’s left, like an orgasm in a lost part of the body, is a pleasure for the memory, coupled with a profound grief for the missing limb.

(Note. And yet the play ends on a positive note. One small, final act of love and kindness changes the protagonist’s thinking and direction. He realizes that there is still hope in a threatening world.

Love. Kindness. Reasons to hold on tight.)

Ready? Set? Here we go.

A new quarter.

Meaning on January 1, 2026, the day after tomorrow, it will be the beginning of a brand-new quarter century. Another twenty-five-brand new years. I must admit, I look back at the last twenty-five, and I tremble a bit. Seemingly never-ending foreign conflicts, overwhelming advances in technology starting with cell phones and then expanding into a culturally dominant internet, and a now burgeoning Ai. The Panic of 2008, a worldwide financial crisis that was centered in the United States. MAGA, an invaded congress and Covid in no particular order. An ever-insane middle east. An ever-insane Russia. And then, in this last year, 2025, the return of the Trumpster. Tariffs, immigration obscenities, ICE agents on city streets, a torn down white house and a new look at me, look at me name on the Kennedy Center wall. Did I mention that the cost of living seems to be through the roof? Affordable? What’s that? No wonder recent data shows that nearly 20% of Americans are experiencing symptoms of depression and anxiety.

Reflecting on all this, I can’t help but wonder what the next twenty-five years will bring. The anticipation is daunting, as the world seems on the cusp of yet another transformative era.

And yet two silly phrases come to mind. Silly. A good antidote for so many things. First - It is what it is. Meaning the majority of us have all hopefully been doing the very best we can, for ourselves and for one another and for better or worse, this is where we now find ourselves, nothing we can do to change the given moment. And second - Whatever will be, will be. Meaning, we’ll all hopefully continue to do our very best for ourselves and for one other but who’s to exactly say where we’ll end up. The future’s not ours to see.

Doing our very best. For ourselves and for one another. One can only hope.

Wishing you happy holidays .

There is a lighted sign above the stage that shows the changing date. It is December 25th.

Kris Kringle enters. He wears faded, dark pants, a long-sleeve undershirt, slippers, spectacles and suspenders. He looks tired. He looks up at the date on the sign.

KRIS

Well, thank God, that’s over. I’m exhausted. Each year it gets worse. Up before dawn, all day watching the ticking clock. Everywhere, bedlam. Elves, mad with fatigue, loading the last of the presents and doing last minute adjustments to the sleigh. There’s always a harness that breaks, a bell that won’t jingle. The raindeer are nervous, they know what’s coming, they have the runs. Martha is clucking around me like an old mother hen. Are you wearing your woolen underwear? No, I’m wearing a silver string bikini. Of course, I’m wearing woolen underwear. Fat? Who’s fat? I have 27 layers of clothes on. You would too if you went flying around on a cold winter’s night in an open sleigh. Gloves - check. Hat - check. Nose like a cherry – if you insist. Schnapps - - check, check and double check. Well. Nothing to be done. Blast off.

Mrs. Claus bustles in. MARTHA looks at the date. She beams.

MARTHA

December 25th. Success! Ours is truly a partnership blessed and cherished by God, man and elves alike. As he flew out the door, I felt such a sense of accomplishment. He was well fed, well dressed, well rested. It’s been a struggle. For the last few weeks, months actually, he’s been fussing, fuming, losing his temper. He’s always had an artist’s temperament but still, every year, the closer we get to Christmas the worse it gets. If it weren’t for me, the elves would probably have been in a state of total rebellion. The minute he was gone, I broke out the homemade cookies and spiced cider. It’s a treat that we look forward to every year. A reward for a job well done. Everyone loves it so!

KRIS

As I went flying out the door, I could see Martha breaking out the cookies and spiced cider. The Elves will force it down and then make a mad break for the caves where the ale and brandy are stashed. There won’t be one of them left standing by the time I get back tomorrow. Prancer is still in the throes of pre-show diarrhea and he lets loose an ugly one – ugh! Cupid and Dancer are behind Comet who is in heat and they start crossing horns in their efforts to show her they care. I lay the whip into them and they settle down. Once we hit cruising speed, I pull back on the reins and up we go.

MARTHA

After the Elves have gone to bed, I like to curl up by the fire with a cup of tea and imagine his journey through the cold, clear night. It makes me feel so close to him. I know he’s warmed to his task by now and has fallen into a steady rhythm. I can picture him so clearly.

KRIS

It’s snowing, it’s sleeting. I can’t see a damn thing. But even when it’s clear, it’s not like the old days when the only thing you had to look out for were stray birds. There’s more rubbish in the sky now than there is on the ground. Airplanes, helicopters, satellites. Thank goodness I don’t show up on radar screens. I’d be dodging missiles in no fly zones from here to Timbuktu.

MARTHA

First stop, Iceland!

KRIS

Iceland! Why anyone would live on such a desolate, volcanic rock is beyond me but I should talk. Last time I looked no one was putting in a golf course at the North Pole.

MARTHA

Second stop, Norway. We spent a lot our youth in Norway. We still recruit a lot of our Elves there.

KRIS

On to Western Europe. Not bad. Warming up now.

MARTHA

East towards Asia where Christmas is celebrated in any number of ways.

KRIS

New Zealand. Australia.

MARTHA

In Sydney, they traditionally light candles and go caroling in their bathing suits.

KRIS

Sounds good to me.

MARTHA

And then, finally, on to the Americas. The United States!

KRIS

You might say, I like saving the worse for last. Every other house has a vicious dog or an armed response security system. At a home near Cleveland, I’m almost killed by a man in a nightshirt brandishing an automatic weapon. In San Jose I’m attacked by a drone. At a home outside of Dallas, someone had a B M W under the tree. A perfectly respectable house in New Jersey turns out to be a bordello and they’re having a party. I contemplate staying awhile but...

MARTHA

Ahem-hem.

KRIS

No - better move on. Oh, but why? In so many homes it’s already wall to wall presents, plastic Christmas trees, plastic me.

MARTHA

It’s sad, really. Those that have, have too much and think they deserve it. Those without, well…they’re the ones that need Christmas.

KRIS

It’s dawn by the time I get home. I unharness the reindeer, lead them to their stalls. I go in the house and strip off the uniform. I take a long, hot shower. As I’m drying off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror - a tired, old man with a beard. Martha is in bed asleep, dead to the world. I crawl in next to her. I try to sleep but I can’t.

MARTHA

He worries so. He imagines children waking up, running to the tree... and being disappointed. He worries that they don’t know or haven’t been taught that Christmas isn’t about what’s under the tree but rather what’s in your heart.

KRIS

I swear, this is the last year I do this. Really. It’s time to quit.

MARTHA

Funny, I don’t know where the elves are. January 3^rd! He could hardly get out of bed again this morning. It’s always like this. The lovely let down after. For the last nine months now he’s been working and working and then after one big push, it’s over. But with lots of T.L.C. from you know who, he’ll be right as rain in no time.

KRIS

January 3rd. Well, as usual, I slept right through the New Year. And why not. This time of year it’s all just more of the same. Ice as far as the eye can see, the sun a distant pea on the horizon. Frankly, we’re out of our minds to be living in a place like this. The wind, the cold, the lack of convenient emergency medical facilities. I’d move the whole operation to Mexico or the Far East but Martha won’t hear of it. She doesn’t like change. It’s gotten worse as she’s gotten older.

MARTHA

All right, I’ll admit it, I’m a cold weather person. I like the way the sun gleams on fallen snow. I love the northern lights. I love my home. The fireplaces crackle. There are candles, pillows and down comforters. Though he doesn’t like to admit it, he likes it too.

KRIS

Jesus, Mary and Jehosophat! Will someone please turn on some lights!? I’m going blind around here! (sneezing) And I’m allergic to goose feathers!

MARTHA

Oh, dear, now on top of everything, he’s caught a cold. And when he’s under the weather he complains so. Thankfully I know how to cheer him up. Ding-a-ling-a-ling!

KRIS

Oh, God, no.

MARTHA

Lunchtime!

KRIS

No!

MARTHA

Feed a cold, starve a fever! For lunch today, I made him his favorite - reindeer sausage with sauerkraut, brown bread and beer. God simple food. He loves to eat.

KRIS

God help me, the only thing we do around here when we’re not working is stuff our faces. Her food’s like lead. I keep dropping hints - how about some whole grains? How about some grilled fish and steamed vegetables for God’s sake. Let’s open a bottle of nice Chablis. It doesn’t sink in. (a sigh) I’m tired

MARTHA

January 15th. Would you believe it? Already gift lists have started to arrive. Really, it’s as if they start writing him before the torn wrapping paper had even settled. And the things they ask for these days.

KRIS

Computers, televisions, video games, cell phones.

MARTHA

He’s being asked to deliver 21st century merchandise with 16th century technology. Neither he, the elves nor the workshop are equipped for it. What do we know about televisions? What do we know about computers? We’ve never owned either one.

KRIS

Maybe it’s time. I’ll have the elves look into it. Or better yet, maybe I’ll just go back to bed.

MARTHA

You’ll do no such thing. We are starting a new regime today! Fresh air, exercise, and winter sports!

KRIS

She’s gone mad. God knows what she’ll have me doing next.

MARTHA

Cross country skiing!

KRIS

Mad!

MARTHA

January 28th. Hmph. Odin came over from Asgaard the other night for a visit. He arrived in a sleigh pulled by goats.

KRIS

Lovely animals, goats. Maybe I should can the reindeer and invest in some.

MARTHA

Odin. He’s so full of himself. All the old Norse Gods are, with their swords and their shields and silly helmets. Of course, he and Kris stayed up till all hours drinking and philosophizing. By midnight they were reeling about and screaming for sandwiches. I was not amused.

KRIS

Poor old Odin. The bugger’s more down in the dumps than I am if that’s possible. He’s always been dour - it’s hard to be cheerful when you think it’s all going to end in fire and ice - but this was different. It seems he now believes it isn’t going to end for him in any kind of big battle at all, but that he and the others are just going to fade away until they’re nothing more than drawings in a unread textbook. Fading away. It’s happening to all of us.

MARTHA

Oh, Kris. You’re not a myth! You’re a –

KRIS

- commodity.

MARTHA

Nonsense.

KRIS

It’s true. The most popular image of me in modern culture was created by a soft drink company. The elves brought some bottles of it home once. Not bad stuff. You can dissolve glue with it.

MARTHA

Stop! You’re bigger than the old boys ever were and you know it! It’s true. The most wonderful things are attributable to him. Take his origins, for instance. Some say he is a recycled pagan deity!

KRIS

Oooh, I like the sound of that.

MARTHA

Others say that he was created out of the legends of the Greek sea God, Poseidon and the Teutonic god, Hold Nickar.

KRIS

Sexy.

MARTHA

In the Christian church he was St. Nicholas, a bishop from Asia Minor who died in the middle of the fourth century.

KRIS

Ho-ho-ho. Not sexy at all.

MARTHA

When he was an infant his mother only nursed him on Wednesday and Fridays. He fasted the rest of the week.

KRIS

Sounds like child abuse to me.

MARTHA

During his lifetime he adored children and threw gifts anonymously into the windows of their homes.

KRIS

You’d get arrested for that today.

MARTHA

His father left him a fortune, which he used to help poor children.

KRIS

I wish.

MARTHA

On numerous occasions he brought back to life children who had been killed.

KRIS

Don’t I wish.

MARTHA

In much of Christian Europe, he was called Christkindlein or Kris Kringle, the Christ child, who delivered gifts in secret to children. In Germany he was Christmas man! In France – Pere Noel!

In England - Father Christmas. To the Dutch he was Sinter Klaas and in America, where the Puritans made it illegal to mention his name, he became Santa Claus.

KRIS

Oh, and in Iceland - remember Iceland? - they have 13 names for me there, the least offensive of which translate as cheese-curdler, bowl-licker and cask-sucker. I told you I didn’t like Iceland.

MARTHA

But at the end of the day, really, what’s in a name? For the truth is, at times, he’s doesn’t know who or what he is anymore.

KRIS

I don’t.

(a sigh)

But you do.

MARTHA

Yes. I do. He is the first snowfall of winter. He is the hearth and the crackling fire. He may judge and reward appropriately with gift or lump of coal, but he loves unconditionally. And anyway, he doesn’t deliver gifts as much as he does the promise of miracles.

KRIS

That I really do wish.

MARTHA

There are so many wonderful stories about him. This is my favorite. A noble man who had fallen on hard times had three daughters.

KRIS

Six. Totally irresponsible.

MARTHA

They had no chance of marriage since their father could not pay their dowry.

KRIS

He would have given them away for free.

MARTHA

One night St. Nicholas threw a sack of gold through a window of the nobleman’s house. It was enough for the eldest daughter’s marriage.

The next night, he threw another sack of gold through the open window. And so the second daughter was provided for. But on the third night, without thinking, the nobleman shut his window. And so St. Nicholas climbed up on the roof and dropped the gold down the chimney. The next morning the youngest daughter found that gold in the stockings she’d hung by the chimney to dry. I know this story to be true for I was that youngest daughter. It was me he wanted all along.

KRIS

Actually I came to the door and knocked.

MARTHA

February forth. A day that shall live in infamy.

KRIS

February the forth! Martha!? Martha!? History is made!

MARTHA

They arrived out of nowhere today. Large, ugly boxes with garish letters. Not festive at all. He tells me the big gray window thing is -

KRIS

A television! Digital! A wide screen with sensurround!

MARTHA

And that he’s going to hook it up to up the pie-plate thing called -

KRIS

A satellite dish.

MARTHA

And once he’s done that and gets the generators going, we’ll be able to watch something called -

KRIS

Programs!

MARTHA

I have no idea why we’d want to do that but -

KRIS

Television is the window to the world! Look! It says so on the box.

MARTHA

February 10th. Oh, it’s so very dreadful. Kris is bleary eyed and his head hurts. He’s apathetic and yet, stimulated to the point of aggression. Translation? He’s been doing nothing but watch this silly television nonstop.

Kris

And I’ve come to a rather remarkable conclusion! There’s absolutely nothing worth watching. And yet, the flickering images, the nonstop action, the sheer volume of it. Life, here at the North Pole, seems sadly mundane in comparison.

MARTHA

I now have an inkling as to why children are behaving so badly and why Kris’s list is seemingly filled with endless black marks. In these so called “programs” he’s been watching, youngsters are “portrayed” as smart, wise-cracking savants and in every way are wiser, more mature and more self-aware than their parents who are seen as ignorant, inattentive, oversexed buffoons. Indeed, these “programs” seem to imply that in modern society parents and children have reversed roles completely. It also seems obvious that the spirits of Christmas does not last throughout the year. Kris was watching something the other night -

KRIS

The History Channel.

MARTHA

- and I couldn’t help but overhear that in the history of the world, the absence of armed conflict between peoples can be measure in mere days. I’d like to think those days were Christmas but I doubt it.

KRIS

February 15th. I now realize that the television is the most wonderful of inventions. Like other toys, I thought it was supposed to be entertaining. Hardly. It is a self-help tool and now that I’m using it as such, I find myself enormously appreciative. I am learning all about rackets sports on the Tennis Channel, am salivating over The Food Channel and getting advice on all my grooming needs from The Home Shopping Network. I can’t wait to see what else is on!

MARTHA

I, however, am concerned. The Elves seem to have an unhealthy fascination with channels that feature reports on something called the stock market. They were particularly intrigued by a report on pension plan reform and retirement benefits. I can’t help but feel this doesn’t bode well for this year’s contract negotiations. And as for Kris, he announced this morning he wants to go on a fat free diet. He also told me he’s thinking of shaving his beard. And –

KRIS

Martha!? Do you find the hair on my back unattractive?

MARTHA

Unattractive!?

KRIS

There’s a lotion here on the Shopping Network that removes it painlessly and without scarring! Only 29 dollars a case!

MARTHA

Has he lost his mind? Doesn’t he understand that that the round little belly is a symbol of plenty, that the red cheeks and nose suggest good humor and generosity, that the white hair and beard are badges of age and wisdom? And wise men do not buy Hawaiian shirts off the Home Shopping Network!

KRIS

Floral patterns! Fifty dollars a dozen! What a deal!

MARTHA

Help.

KRIS

Ah! March 1st. A thrilling, new day.

MARTHA

March the 1st and I am not happy. The Elves have come home with a another new toy. A cell phone!

The buzz of a cell phone. Kris pulls it from his pocket.

Hello? St. Patrick! What’s shaking?

(to Martha)

It’s Paddy - he wants to know if we’ve seen his snakes.

(back to:)

Pat? What, have you lost them again? Have you tried Quetzalcoatl?

MARTHA

Oh, I hate all this modern technology. No wonder people don’t read books or write letters any more. How can it possibly get worse than this?

KRIS

Martha!? Martha!? Guess what the Elves have brought home this time? A lap top computer! Ho-ho! Can we keep it? Can we, can we?

MARTHA

Oh, it’s beyond dreadful. It’s another blank screen, only smaller than the televison. Kris says he’s going to hook up to something called -

KRIS

The Internet!

MARTHA

And that once we do this -

KRIS

The entire world will be at our fingertips! It says so on the box!

MARTHA

I don’t want the world at my fingertips! I want it comfortably at a distance the way it is. Oh, but I wish I knew where these new toys came from. I feel certain the Elves didn’t make them. It simply can’t get worse than this.

KRIS

Martha!? Martha!? Come look! You’re going to love it!

Martha

It’s now officially worse. I am now Martha-slash-Claus at Kris-Kringle-dot-org! I am now more certain than ever, that these toys were not made by Elves. Kris! The subject is elves.

KRIS

Oh, all right. A word about elves. For the most part they’re happy creatures. They like to laugh and talk and tell jokes. Above all, they take great delight in their work, which is the making of beautiful things. However. Being small in stature, they can have an attitude. A simple request, like paint the dollhouses green can bring an entire assembly line to a screeching, bloody halt. And I still say that I’m the bloody boss around here and if I want green than green it is!

MARTHA

Of course, one always has to be careful that an elf doesn’t become Goblinish.

KRIS

Oh, yes! Elves are generous creatures. Their joy is in the creating and in the giving of what they create.

MARTHA

However when an elf becomes Goblinish, greed enters the equation. All of a sudden he wants to keep what he’s created.

KRIS

We once had a goblinish elf that stashed over 1,000 toy cabooses under his bed.

MARTHA

Sometimes a goblinish elf will go off completely and become dragonish. A dragonish elf is a terrible thing indeed. Not just the physical changes, the wings and scales and so forth but rather –

KRIS

- because there is no joy in a dragon.

MARTHA

He lives in a perpetual state of fear that what he considers his own, his horde, will be taken from him.

KRIS

There are dragons in the world. We all know who they are.

MARTHA

Pity them.

KRIS

But fight them at every turn.

KRIS

Uhh.... March 5th. Notice to all Elves from head of housekeeping.

MARTHA

Ahem-ahem-ahem.

KRIS

Meaning you know who. There are to be no living things created in Santa’s workshop. As you know, we’ve been getting a lot of written requests from young boys for something called “Bionicals”. These are - and I quote from the literature - miniature cybernetic lifeforms constructed for purposes of mass destruction. Well, apparently one of the more creative Elves down in R and D took this literally and came up with the real thing. Needless to say -

MARTHA

Needless to say this so-called “toy” went on a rampage through the house before a heads up shop foreman took it out with a hockey stick. Living things do not good toys make! Their proclivity for defecation is only exceeded by their talent for reproduction. I repeat, no living toys! Violators will rue the day.

KRIS

And don’t for a moment think she’s kidding.

MARTHA

March 7th. Ah, tranquility. There’s a sense of peace in the house today. I’ve hidden the television and phone where Kris can’t find them. Without the noise, I feel things are finally getting back to normal.

KRIS

Jehosophat! Martha! Martha!? Guess what!? I’ve been doing research on the laptop! I am directly referenced in over 2,000 sites on the world wide web!

MARTHA

But I could be mistaken.

KRIS

I’m featured and/or referenced in over 800 Hollywood movies. Look! Santa Claus on Mars! We’ll have to get that one. Oh - and here, look - a man in St. Louis, Stanley K. Claus, insists that HE is the real Santa Claus. He charges 55 dollars an hour plus expenses for public appearances. You know that’s not bad. I wonder if I can get in on it. And by the way. What were my phone and television doing in the closet?

MARTHA

Help. March the 10th. Oh, this is the last straw. I came down to the workshop this morning and found some of the elves accessing -

(clearing her throat)

- a pornographic websites on the Internet. It is time to pull the plug on this computer.

KRIS

March 11th. Installed Net Nanny this morning at Martha’s insistence. Darn!

MARTHA

March 13^th. Oh, drat all things modern. He now spends hours watching television, making phone calls and surfing the Internet. I supposed it’s better than moping around but still, he keeps come up with the most disturbing and arcane information.

KRIS

Martha!? Martha!? Some psychologists now believe that my overly judgmental nature can damage a child’s self-esteem! They say that children are not rewarded according to good or bad behavior but rather, they receive Christmas gifts according to the amount of money their parents are willing or able to spend on them. A good child may receive nothing because his or her parents are poor and then, because they’ve been taught that only bad children receive no gifts from me, they assume they are bad. An ill-behaved child whose parents bury him in gifts may come to the conclusion that good behavior counts for nothing.

MARTHA

I would suggest to you that the greatest gift a parent can give a child is love. Love is a gift beyond measure and it costs next to nothing. All the shiny wrapped presents in the world can’t replace it.

KRIS

Martha!? Martha!? This just in. Now they’re saying I’m dangerous! When a child finds out there is no me, he begins to doubt other parental teachings. He may even go so far as to believe - quote-unquote! - that Jesus Christ, who is also rumored to “know when you are sleeping and know when you’re awake” is a similarly suspicious character.

MARTHA

I would suggest that there is such a thing as wonder. That all children have a right to be enchanted. That to a child, you are an easier thing to understand than God. And that once you understand the meaning of Santa Claus, it is a simple thing to turn to a just and loving God and take him into your heart.

KRIS

(a sigh)

Really, I do keep trying to tell her that I have nothing to do with God. The idea of Christmas originated around the fourth century when the Catholic Church decided to eclipse the winter festivities of the rival pagan religions. Although it wasn’t usual to celebrate birthdays and even though his actual birth was in the spring, they declared December 25th to be a celebration of the birth of Christ. Christ’s Day. Christmas.

MARTHA

But a great number of the Christmas symbols we hold dear have nothing to do with Christianity. For example, Mistletoe was long thought to have special healing powers by Druids who used it to celebrate the coming of winter. Oh – and in Scandinavia?

KRIS

It was associated with Frigga, the Norse goddess of fertility and love, thus the kiss under the mistletoe.

MARTHA

And for these reasons, the early Christian church banned the use of mistletoe in all celebrations and substituted holly.

KRIS

Though if they’d ever met Frigga, they might have reconsidered.

MARTHA

Oh, stop. You know, when we were young, you often used mistletoe as an excuse to kiss me. And now, you haven’t so much as kissed me in ages.

KRIS

Horse apples and chicken sushi, woman! How can you think of kisses when studies show that seven out of ten children prefer Halloween to Christmas. I hardly blame them. Who doesn’t like to dress up? Who doesn’t like trick or treats? I myself have been known to enjoy a good Snickers bar - and there’s a window or two in the neighborhood I’d like to toss a rotten egg at, but still.

Kris’s phone buzzes.

Oops! Phone message! Oh, dear.

MARTHA

What now?

KRIS

This just in. Santa Claus is. . . old fashioned.

MARTHA

Well, of course you are! We are! We are the embodiment of a time when children were innocent, when families didn’t move away from one another, when snow fell in great, swirling white heaps and people gathered around roaring fires and cracked nuts and engaged in the oldest recreational pastime known to man -

KRIS

Fornication?

Martha

Conversation. Entertainment was watching a baby take as first step and listening to the children play pick-up-sticks on the floor and the best part of a holiday was the opportunity to just be together.

KRIS

Mmm. Though personally I’ve often wondered if the good old days aren’t as much a figment of the imagination as - well - Santa Claus. Children are never innocent for long and for every family that’s ever moved away, one stayed and they’re the branch that didn’t like their relatives any more than they liked their neighbors who liked them even less. Snow falling in great, swirling heaps is attractive as long as you’re not out in it; people gathered around roaring fires so they wouldn’t freeze to death and being together in a big happy group is fine as long as everyone has enough to eat. We have a tendency to forget, when looking back, that in many cases, people didn’t.

MARTHA

Are you quite finished? You obviously don’t remember the early days, when you used to make your yearly rounds. Sack on your back, going from house to house, delivering small toys. You were greeted with giggles and dancing feet. And at the each house there was food and drink and soon, like a tipsy pied piper, you had laughing, skipping children, following at my heels.

KRIS

Yes. You’re right. I was as real to those people as a cherished relative. Kinder Claus! You know, Martha, I started all this because I loved the company and happiness of my fellow human beings. And now... I find myself living apart from them.

MARTHA

Oh, Kris.

KRIS

Be honest. There are no children in my life. They sit in the lap of so-called Santa’s helpers, sharing secrets and wishes with an impostor behind a fake beard and glassless spectacles. I’m not needed.

MARTHA

Kris -

KRIS

No. There’s no reason to do this anymore. There’s no reason to do anything. Those times are gone. I’m done.

MARTHA

March 20th. I am concerned. Kris has lost all interest in elves and toys. He’s not watching his television anymore or playing with his computer which normally I would consider a blessing, but... Oh! Oh, I know! I’ll play some of his favorite music on the piano and I’ll sing. That will cheer him up. It always does.

(loudly singing)

Oh, little town of Bethlehem, how still I see the rise... (voice fading to a msurmur)

KRIS

Well, Martha’s started playing and singing those god-awful carols of hers. Usually she doesn’t start blaring this nonsense till August. Honestly, how many times can you listen to “Oh, Christmas tree, oh, Christmas tree” without pitching a fit? And as for Jingle Bells, I know what it’s like, dashing through the snow in an open sleigh and it’s nothing to laugh and sing about. I do like I Saw Momma Kissing Santa Claus but as you can imagine, we don’t play that one around this house. Ah well, as long as we don’t start in on the -

MARTHA

(loud; from the Hallelujah chorus) )

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

KRIS

Martha!? The subject is Christmas Carols! Anything to get her to stop.

MARTHA

Christmas Carols. The earliest Christmas Carols were nothing more than chants or wordless hymns. It was St. Francis of Assisi who is credited with bringing carols into the church when he made them part of a midnight mass in 1223.

KRIS

Carols enjoyed further popularity when they were used in the mystery and passion plays of the middle ages. It was a play, in fact, that gave us the tradition of the Christmas tree.

MARTHA

(singing)

Oh, Christmas tree, oh, Christmas tree-- !

KRIS

(overriding her)

Excuse me? We were talking about carols!?

MARTHA

Uh-hem. Yes. They became the property of traveling minstrels and bands of waits.

KRIS

During the holiday season, they began gathering to sing carols for people and houses along the way.

MARTHA

We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmassssss...!

KRIS

Some people naturally complained.

MARTHA

And a Happy New Year!

(to Kris)

Too bad for them. March 22d. Oh, goodness. Sad to say my singing hasn’t worked at all. Kris is gloomier and grouchier than ever. I’m at my wits end and don’t know what to do for him. Oh! I know! I’ll make fruitcakes!

KRIS

Oh, bollocks and turd napkins! Fruitcakes?

MARTHA

Fruuuit caaakkeess!

KRIS

Are cakes made with vast quantities of dried fruit and have been saturated with alcoholic liquors, not so much to raise the spirits as to fight mold and bacteria.

MARTHA

They are then buried in powdered sugar and placed in tightly closed tins. Many feel that these cakes improve greatly with age and they have been known to be consumed by people as long as 25 years after baking.

KRIS

It is not known if these people then lived.

The sign changes rapidly. They now coldly ignore one another as:

March 25th. Nothing to report.

MARTHA

March 26th. Nothing to report.

KRIS

March 27th. Not a thing.

MARTHA

March 28th. No change.

KRIS

March 29th. Am feeling so much better! Not!

MARTHA

March 30th. He’s miserable and trying to make me so but I continue to sing and bake on a daily basis.

KRIS

April 1st. All day long she wails like a church cat trapped in a whorehouse. Between that and the smell of burning brown sugar, I’m going out of my mind.

MARTHA

April 2d. How long can it go on like this? I must continue to sing. Oh, little town of – “

KRIS

April 5th! Eureka! In a little under a minute on one Internet search engine alone, I found 452 websites on the subject of depression. Help is on the way at last.

MARTHA

April 12th. Success at last! He was humming to himself again today. I knew my fruitcakes and singing would eventually get through to him. Oh, why can’t everyone sing and eat fruitcake every day.

KRIS

April 15th. A setback. Upon closer investigation I now realize that many of the websites concerning depression are brokerage houses offering any number of financial services to terrified pensioners - a group for which I probably qualify as well.

MARTHA

April 17th. Oh, help. Kris told me at breakfast this morning – I made waffles! - that -

KRIS

- more people are arrested, committed to mental institutions and commit suicide at Christmas than any other time of year.

MARTHA

I have no idea what that has to with us.

KRIS

It has nothing to do with us! But it has everything to do with what we do!

MARTHA

Oh! You’re just looking for an excuse not to get to work.

KRIS

We don’t bring joy to people, Martha, we bring anxiety, credit card bills and misery.

MARTHA

And so what would you have us do about it?

KRIS

Nothing! No gifts this year! Just good wishes! It might affect the gross national product of several industrialized nations but it would do me a world of good.

MARTHA

I am no longer talking to you.

KRIS

There is a God.

MARTHA

I am making soup.

KRIS

Please, anything but that.

MARTHA

Oh, why can’t every day be Christmas? I ask this constantly.

KRIS

She’s speaking to me again, giving me cavities with her constant questions.

MARTHA

We are no longer speaking. And I mean it this time.

KRIS

Oh, really? Well, I can hold out as long as you can.

MARTHA

You think so, do you?

KRIS

Longer!

KRIS glares. MARTHA ignores him. KRIS harrumphs. MARTHA whistles to herself, not a care in the world. KRIS looks expectantly at the date. It begins to change. MARTHA ignores it and him as the date continues to change, finally stopping AT MAY 23rd.

Oh, all right, you win, give me some of your bloody soup!

MARTHA

May 25th. The days are getting longer. Every morning he goes down to the workshop with the best of intentions.

KRIS

By noon I’m glued to the television, watching CNN, unable to turn away as the parade of horror that is this modern world passes before my eyes. How did it ever come to this?

MARTHA

The letters arrive in bushels now and it makes me feel a new Christmas season is just around the corner. I don’t know how they get here, of course. It’s one of the mysteries. They are copies, written in gold plate on linen in a fine hand. The originals, I understand, fill post office basements and dead letter departments around the world. Kris, I’m sorry to say, hasn’t read a letter in years. At some point, they started to make him unhappy. Not so much the requests for toys but rather the ones that asked for things that were truly beyond him.

KRIS

Make the soldiers go away. Let there be no more bombings. Cure my mother –

MARTHA

My sister.

KRIS

My lover.

MARTHA

My son. And they’d all end with the same promise –

KRIS

Grant me this Christmas wish and I will never ask for anything, ever again.

MARTHA

Still, I take the best of the letters and pack them carefully away in a trunk. I know that someday, he’ll want to read them. I just know it. I don’t what to do. He should be working. We’re running out of time.

Lightchange. June 1

June 1st. Ah-hah! Martha! Martha!

MARTHA

Yes?

KRIS

It hit me this morning. I am under-utilizing my greatest asset!

MARTHA

Which is?

KRIS

My own broad public appeal. There are problems in the world. If I was to lend my name to a cause and show my support, I daresay people would pay attention. The question is how. A lecture tour? A series of info-mercials? Martha! I need an agent.

MARTHA

June 7th. Well, it’s finally happened. He’s been in touch with something called a talent agent. Apparently when this “agent” discovered that Kris has no formal representation he went absolutely mad with excitement. He started talking about -

KRIS

- licensing fees! Subsidiary rights! Guest appearances! Royalties!

MARTHA

Kris suddenly has dollar signs dancing in his eyes. So much for the world’s problems. I suppose I should be thankful he’s finally showing an interest in people but still, does it have to be people in Hollywood? Kris needs a good talking to.

KRIS

June 8th. Martha dragged me into the living room this morning, sat me down and gave a speech.

MARTHA

The greatest gift is the gift of giving. If there is even one person in the world who despairs, then his despair is my own and I cannot rest until I have offered him my hand.

KRIS

Oh, bollocks and blood oranges. What’s wrong with cashing in a little bit? We’re not getting any younger you know. We’ve worked hard. We deserve it. This agent wants me to come and see him. I’m doing it.

MARTHA

June 15^th. Kris informed me this morning that he’s off to Hollywood for a week. He’s going to meet people and discuss business opportunities. I’m terrified for him. The elves tell me Southern California is a den of thieves. I’d go with him but we’re no longer speaking. Perhaps I should go anyway.

KRIS

Drat! Martha’s decided to come with me.

MARTHA

I can’t go with him. Oh, I don’t know how to break the news to him.

KRIS

Martha’s decided not come. There is a God in heaven.

MARTHA

I told him I’m not feeling well but the truth is... I’m afraid. I haven’t been anywhere in over a hundred years and from what I’ve now seen on the television, I don’t think this modern world suits me at all. I told Kris, in fact, that I haven’t seen anyone our age on the television. Perhaps old people are not allowed out in public anymore. If that’s the case, no wonder the young are not holding onto any of their traditions. Kris will just have to go alone. He promises me that when he gets back, he’ll get to work. He promises.

KRIS

June 16th. I leave tomorrow. The Elves will take me down into Canada and I’ll proceed from there. The travel department has whipped me up some travel documents - a passport, a driver’s license and a credit card – oh, and almost one hundred dollars in cash! How I’ll ever spend so much hard currency in so short a time is beyond me. I knew these Hawaiian shirts would come in handy!

MARTHA

June 23rd. It’s been a week and I haven’t heard a word from him. I’m worried sick. I actually tried his cell phone. I got two wrong numbers, a very rude overseas operator and a recording that told me the user was in a nonservice area. I was so desperate, I went to down into the shop to the computer and I went on line with the hopes of finding Kris. It wasn’t easy but by accessing newspaper stories and hacking into classified FBI websites I was finally able to track him down. It turns out he was stranded all this time in a holding cell in Toronto while the authorities investigated his false passport, his fraudulent driver’s license, the stolen credit card and the one hundred dollars in counterfeit bills.

Kris

June 30th. Martha sent out an Elfen war party, they broke me out and now we’re all on their way to California. Needless to say, I’m going to give the Elves in the travel department a very good talking to when I get home.

Martha

Home. Oh, I wish he’d come home. July 1st. Kris called. He sounded on top of the world.

Kris

Martha! I’m in L.A. and the agent has put me up at – wait, I wrote it down -the Bel Air hotel. There are swans in the fountains! Nuts the size of plums are free at the bar. The elves adore the swimming pool and spend all their time there. I dare say anyone who swims with them is going to be very fertile this year and have very unusual children. Oh - and the agent took me to dinner last night. He introduced me to anyone who would listen as “the next big thing”. Ho-ho-ho!

kris exits.

I must admit, it’s lovely to hear enthusiasm in Kris’s voice again. July 1st. Disastrous news. The agency’s legal department did some research and it now appears that the name and persona of Santa Claus doesn’t belong to Kris at all, it’s part of the public domain. Unless Kris can now prove he is truly the real Santa Claus, the agency can do nothing for him and Kris will have no legal claim on any of the movies, games and enterprises that currently utilize his image and public persona. Real. How can he not be real. I’ll never forgive these people if they hurt him. Never.

KRIS enters.

Kris? Kris, you’re home. Are you all right?

KRIS

Of course I am. It was marvelous trip. Simply marvelous. Guess what? The man you’ve been living with for all these years – he’s not Santa Claus. Or rather, I am not. I look like him, I sound like him, I dress like him but I am no more Santa Claus than you are. Anyone can be Santa Claus. Anyone! You can and you can and you can! It is your right. To be a cartoon character. To be a soft drink icon. To be… a useless buffoon who time has passed standing still.

MARTHA moves to kris and starts to takes him in her arms.

No. Just leave me alone.

KRIS exits.

September 20th. It’s been terribly quiet around here for the last two months. Normally things are buzzing by this time. Not this year. We’re lost. Kris just sits now, staring into space. It’s as if a dream has been dashed and I don’t even know what the dream is anymore. He got rid of the computer and the television and the cell phones almost immediately. It’s as if he doesn’t want to know anymore that there is a world out there beyond the North Pole. There will be Christmas this year, of course. But it will be a Christmas without the spirit of Santa Claus. And I suppose if I were to be honest, I would have to say that spirit has been missing for a long, long time now. It will take a miracle to bring it back. More than anything though. . . I miss him. My husband, my life-partner, my friend. I miss him so.

MARTHA fights tears. KRIS enters. he is reading something to himself – a letter. he stops.

What, Martha, are you crying?

MARTHA

I’m sorry, it’s nothing. I’m so sorry. What have you been doing?

KRIS

Reading.

MARTHA

Really? What have you been reading?

KRIS

Letters. I found them in the trunk upstairs. You saved them.

MARTHA

Yes.

KRIS

Why.

MARTHA

Because I knew that someday they would be meaningful to you.

KRIS

They’re very good.

MARTHA

Which one is that?

KRIS hands it to her.

Oh. Yes, of course. The most famous letter of all was not written to Kris at all. It was written in 1897 by Virginia O’Hanlon and mailed to the New York Sun where it fell into the hands of one, Francis P. Church. “I am eight years old”, the letter said. “Some of my friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says if you see it in the Sun it’s so. Please tell me the truth. Is there a Santa Claus?” And indeed, it’s not so much the letter that’s famous, it was the reply.

KRIS

“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exits as surely as love and generosity and devotion exits. Alas, how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. There would be faith, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. No Santa Claus? Thank God he lives. And lives forever. A thousand years from now, nay, ten time’s ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the hearts of childhood.

(then:)

It’s a good letter.

MARTHA

And it’s true, Kris. How dreary the world would be if there were no Santa Claus. How dreary my life would be.

KRIS

Martha?

MARTHA

Yes, Kris?

KRIS

I’ve misplaced my work boots. Would you happen to know where they are?

MARTHA

Of course I do.

KRIS

And my work gloves?

MARTHA

Those too.

KRIS

And my lists, of course, I must have my lists.

MARTHA

I have them right here.

KRIS

We have work to do, don’t we.

MARTHA

Yes. Yes, we do, my darling. Yes, we do.

KRIS

But first...

MARTHA

What.

Kris takes mistletoe from his pocket and holds it over her head.

Would you kiss me?

MARTHA does a take to the audience, thrilled. They kiss. Lights to black.

December 24th. The blessed day is finally upon us. Oh, the last few months have just been the wonderful beehive of activity. Toy making, stocking weaving. And yes, fruitcakes. Kris has been an absolute dervish, everywhere at once, designing toys, reading letters, keeping everyone’s spirits up. We’ve both been dieting and doing yoga together. It’s a slimmer, healthier Santa Claus who ventures forth this year. And if I look tan, well – it’s because we’ve been away these last few weeks. In early December I went on line – yes, me – and found Kris a job at a small family run, department store in a town outside of Denver, Colorado. Kris would be, of all things, their Santa Claus. We went down together and we rented a small house - on a golf course with a heated pool and a Jacuzzi! – and Kris reported for work. And he loved it. The children sitting in his lap, whispering in his ear, pulling at his beard. The parents beaming, taking pictures. Management said he was the best Santa they ever had and they want him to return next year. I think we will. It’s good to get out in the world, to be involved, to experience new things. And I liked the way the desert sunset looked on the mountains. Kris is a changed man.

KRIS

(off)

Martha!? Martha!?

MARTHA

In here, dear! And yet the same.

Santa Claus enters. KRIS is in full regalia – not the chubby Santa of coke commercials but a regal and kingly Father Christmas, a winter warrior in long cape and brocaded vest and crown-like cap.

Well? What do you think?

MARTHA

You are so handsome. I’m almost of a mind not let you go.

KRIS

Ho-ho! Now then! December 24th. The sleigh is being loaded. It’s brash is polished, it’s leather shined. The raindeer have been curried and brushed. I’m dressed and ready to go. It’s been quite a year. It almost did me in. In this modern world of clamoring, clapping, conglomerates that view generosity of spirit as a corporate slogan and little else; in this world where commerce take precedence over charity and profit is more important than people, it has become far too easy to feel that the giving and receiving of a simple Christmas gift is pedestrian. That Christmas is a chore more than a blessing. It was not always like this. In the beginning, Christmas was a candle lit against the gathering darkness. There were monsters in the world and as the days grew shorter and colder, it was far too easy to hear their cries. The gathering together, the celebration, the sharing, the community of Christmas, was a way of reaffirming hope in the face of that darkness. A way of saying, we are all in this together and if we hold hands, the light will come again. Well, I say now to all for all to hear, that there are still monsters in this world – dragons, yes! – far greater and more powerful than any first imagined. And it is far too easy to feel resigned and helpless in the face of their fiery breath. I say the need for the spirit of Christmas has never been greater. That in a world where we know too much and believe too little, the ability to pretend that even for a day there is such a thing as Santa Claus is more important than ever before. I am Santa Claus. Now and forever. But so are you and so are you and so are you. So are you all. You must be. Each and every day of the year.

MARTHA

Kris. It’s time.

KRIS

I could never have done any of this without you.

MARTHA

I’ll wait up.

KRIS

Peace on Earth. Good will towards men.

KRIS EXITS.

It’s time now, it’s time! Can you see him? He climbs into the sleigh. Like a crimson king, he takes the reigns in hand. His beard is like snow! The doors open wide and the cold air rushes in. It’s clear tonight. I see stars. They are as beautiful as the eyes of God.

We hear the crack of a whip, then his voice:

Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer, now Vixen, now Comet, now Cupid, now Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now dash away, dash away, dash away all!

MARTHA

And I heard him exclaim ‘er he drove out of sight. Happy Christmas to all. And to all a Good night.

LIGHTS TO BLACK

It’s 7 in the morning and it’s obvious what I’m doing. I’m sitting on the living room couch, a cup of coffee on the table beside me. My tablet is open and on my lap.

“You’re not reading the newspaper, are you?”

“Uh, no, not really” I say. “Just, uhm… taking a quick glance at the headlines.”

“I thought you said you were giving that up.”

I have said that. Countless times. Because these days, even glancing at the news is like falling headfirst down a dragon hole. Headlines that read like the titles of catastrophic horror movies. Opinion columns that sternly address the problems plaguing modern society but offer no viable solutions. It’s not a positive way to start the day, but I too often do.

“I wanted to read about the tennis,” I say. An excuse.

“The what?”

“Tennis? The US Open? It’s going on in New York right now.” Yes, it is. Twenty-year-olds, most of whose names I can’t pronounce, madly galivanting around, playing a game I no longer recognize. The New York Times coverage mostly focuses on the confrontations that take place at the end of the match where players meet at the net and angrily accuse one another of bad sportsmanship. Why wouldn’t they? There are no linesmen to blame anymore. The Times referred to the U.S. Open as a fashion show.

“Anything more important than sports happening in the world?”

What a question. One only the lovely wife would seriously ask. “Oh, one or two things.”

“Like what?”

“Well… Russia, India and China all just had a happy get together in Beijing celebrating them winning the second world war together.”

“I take it we weren’t invited?”

“Either that or someone was too busy playing golf and posting on social media to attend.”

“The someone being…?”

“Yup. Apparently he threw out over 95 posts in 24 hours, mostly about his health.” I glance down at the tablet screen. “Oh, wait. No, sorry, my mistake. What he did was he shot 95 on the golf course and took 24 mulligans getting it done.”

“A mulligan being?”

The lovely wife. Not a golfer. “A do-over. You hit a bad shot, you get to take it over.”

“I think it would be very nice if America got a mulligan.” The lovely wife. Yes, occasionally she does make me laugh. “Didn’t you tell me someone just had Russia over for dinner last week?”

“Yeah. In Alaska. And now it’s Poland coming to visit this week.”

“Oh, my.” The lovely wife sighs.

“Yup. Hot dogs for lunch.”

“Anything else I should know about?

I look down at the tablet again. “Well… U.S. Space Command is being moved from Colorado to to Alabama.”

“Wait. Okay, now what exactly is US Space Command?”

“It’s the part of the military that defends U.S. national interests in space.”

“I didn’t know we had any.”

“Me either.”

“So why are they moving?”

“Because Colorado has mail in voting and someone says that means they automatically have crooked elections, and we can’t have that.”

“But… we have mail in voting.”

“Yeah, but we’re California, so we don’t count.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“Is there anything good you can tell me?”

“I can show you something.” I press several buttons and hold up the tablet. A video is playing. An enormous passenger jet is moving towards the side of a runway. “Several hundred Guatemalan children were loaded onto planes. They were about to be deported when a federal judge blocked someone from doing it.”

“You mean for the time being.”

“Yeah, probably.” I hesitate for a moment. “You know, you’re right. I shouldn’t be reading all this negative stuff. All it does is put me a bad place.”

Much to my surprise, the lovely wife shakes her head. “No, I think you should be reading it. Everyone should.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because when people realize things like this are happening, maybe they’ll get up off the couch and do something about it.”

What is there to say? Putting tablet and coffee aside, I get up off the couch.

“Time to begin the day?”

“Time for all of us to begin the day,” says the lovely wife.

And with that, we hug.

*

There it was, out of nowhere.

It was late afternoon, and I was on our lower terrace, doing some sweeping up of summer leaves and I saw something lying on the beige stone walk. I went to pick it up – and stopped. It was moving ever so slightly. I looked closer and I realized that it was a baby bird. A hummingbird. We have a lot of them around our home. They buzz around the trees and flowers, sometimes moving too fast for the eyes to follow. My son puts up a feeder for them, filled with sugared water. This one was obviously hurt. It tried to spread its tiny wings but couldn’t. It tried to move and couldn’t do that either. What had happened? Had it collided with something, been attacked by something? What to do... sweep it up with the leaves and toss it in the trash bin? There was no way it was going to live. But no, that didn’t seem right. There was only one thing to do, and I did it. I called out to the captain of the house - my wife.

A hiker, a gardener, a disciple of nature, she immediately hurried downstairs, got down on her hands and knees and looked at the bird. “Aw, poor little guy...” she murmured. Amazing. Somehow she already knew it was a male. Finding a large, green leaf, she gently shifted the “little guy” onto it and took it back upstairs. I shrugged and went back to my sweeping.

When I came up the steps ten minutes later, the wife was sitting at the outdoor table, the little bird in one hand and an eye dropper in the other. She was, of course, attempting to feed it - yes, sugar water. “Really?” I asked. “It’s hungry?” Still barely moving, it sure didn’t seem hungry.

“They need to eat every fifteen minutes,” said the wife.

No wonder they’re always buzzing around, I thought. “Do you think it’s even going to live?” I asked. I was skeptical.

“I’m not sure,” said the wife, her voice implying it certainly would if she had anything to say about it. And that’s when it hit me. What I was seeing. A tiny bird, not much more than five weeks old, resting quietly in the palm of my wife’s hand. Was the baby beak opening and closing near the tip of the eye dropper now? Was it feeding? Yes, it seemed to be. And were its eyes open? I couldn’t remember now if they’d been fully closed. The wife looked enraptured. I certainly was. Two entities nurturing one another, one giving food and protection, and one giving gratitude. Both sharing a spirit. I quietly watched for a while before going into the house.

When I came out a short time later, the bird had been transferred to a small, flat, open box. The wife had put leaves into the box, the better, she said, for the bird to feel at home and it was moving now, trying to stand, fluttering its tiny wings. The evening around us was filled with bird song and the wife was looking off into the surrounding trees. “I wonder if its mother is watching,” she said.

“Would it be?”

“Hummingbird mothers are the best moms in the bird world. Male hummingbirds don’t do anything, the mothers do it all by themselves.”

“Thankfully you’re not talking about me.”

“Oh, no, never.” Which elicited a small smile. From both of us.

Still, feeling a need to prove myself, I picked some blossoms off a nearby flower planting and dropped them in the box next to the baby bird. “Nice,” said the wife. And then, reaching for the eye dropper, “I think you’ll be making dinner tonight.”

I did. At least I got something started.

Our son came home and went to sit out at the table with his mother, as mesmerized as she was by the little bird. Our son is interested in hawks and falconry and I’m not sure he was prepared to be quite so enchanted by the smallest member of the bird kingdom. I came out and set the table around them. Knives, spoons, forks, and napkins – no eyedroppers.

“He’s trying to fly but he can’t,” said the son. “We’re hoping it’s Mom will come and help him.”

“Your mom would if it was you.”

“I know.”

“Would its mother be able to carry it?” I asked. Somehow that didn’t seem likely to me.

“I don’t think so,” said the wife, “but maybe just by being here she could give him give it the strength to fly. But she won’t come close if we’re here.”

“We should go in then,” said the son.

Nodding, the wife picked up the small, flat box and rising from the table, placed it carefully on the terrace wall between some potted plants. The little bird fluttered softly but didn’t make a sound. “You’re going to be fine, little guy,” said the wife. We all went in.

When I came out a short time later to move the utensils back in, the little bird was gone. “He’s not here!” I called and my wife and son quickly came out to join me. “Maybe it fell,” I said, and we all hurried down the steps and outside the terrace wall to look through the vegetation. No bird.

“Its mother must have come,” said my son.

“Or a crow did,” I said, ever the optimist.

“No,” said the wife, again looking at the surrounding trees. “It flew away on its own. It’s watching us now. He knows he’s safe here. He knows this is home.”

How could you doubt it wasn’t true?

Early the next morning I went out onto the terrace. A cloud-streaked blue sky, the ocean in the distance. And just like the previous evening, the air was filled with birdsong. Birds everywhere, all ecstatically singing. And as I listened, perhaps for the very first time, really listened, I was suddenly certain of something. The baby hummingbird was singing with them.

- 2022

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. If this is indeed the case, than I’m about as tough as a pancake because when the going gets tough, I’m prone to taking a seat, my brain stuck in neutral, unable to go anywhere.

The lovely wife calls it flat tire syndrome.

You’re driving along. You get a flat tire. You get out of the car and you look at the tire. Yes, you have a flat tire, all right. Cars do not move, at least not well, with flat tires. For a car to move well, the tire must be changed. The spare tire is in the trunk as are the tools – the lift, the wrench. And yet....

Maybe it would be better to take a seat by the side of the road and watch the cars whiz by. I don’t want to change the tire. I’m not good at changing tires. At this moment, I don’t even like the tire. All I want is to be where I was going. I’m not sure now where I was going but it’s got to be better than this. This flat tire is making me anxious. It’s making me worried and nervous. I don’t want to even think about the flat tire. I want the flat tire and the car to go away and leave me alone. Where's a tow truck when you need one? How much money will it take to get someone else to do this? Why can't I afford it?

At this moment, as often as not, the lovely wife will open the passenger window and shout out –

Will you stop standing there like a somnambulist and change the tire!

To which I’ll reply –

Why me? Why can’t you do it?

To which she’ll reply –

Because I’m busy keeping the motor running!

Or the equivalent there of.

And I know I should get off my ass and do the job. I know it won’t be all that hard, that I’m semi-competent, that in fact, when I put my mind to something, I’m more than competent, I’m fast and efficient and soon the tire will be changed, and we’ll all be on our way again.

But dammit, before I grit my teeth, grab the wrench and dive in, I want to go record as saying I still wish the @#$%^&*()&% flat tire would change itself!

But it won’t. It never does. The bills don’t pay themselves. Walls will not paint themselves. Floors replace themselves. The information necessary for quality everyday life will not effortlessly reveal itself. That new story idea that will renew your career – if you even want one anymore - will refuse to write itself. The world your children and grandchildren are going to inherit will continue to go to hell in a hand basket.

Unless —- you try and do something about it.

Life isn’t easy for anyone on the road. Flat tires must be changed. So. Open the trunk. Get out the wrench. Change the tire. And then go and help someone else change theirs. You know you’ll feel better if you do.

Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are and what they ought to be.

– William Hazlitt (1778-1830)

In my early seventies, I dream constantly now. They’re mad adventures that take me all over the place. To grand hotels, to seashores, to golf courses, to crowded concourses, to malls teeming with people. As often as not, I am an observer more than a participant, wandering the premises, holding it at arm’s length, not recognizing a soul. And let’s not talk about the movies that play and replay over and over in my head. Thrillers, mostly. I’m sure my subconscious has rewritten Star Wars 37 times. Sadly, I’m a supporting actor and there are no residuals.

Are these nightmares? Again, no, but there is an element of anxious confusion to them that often wakes me up. I muse and mull for a while and then finally I fall back to sleep, only to go on another odd journey through the labyrinth. The dreams stay with me when I wake up in the morning, then fade into the first cup of coffee.

It makes me wonder at times if real life is dreaming. You’re in the car, driving, and the images in the windshield in front of you keep shifting and changing. Or you’re in the market, shopping for groceries, and as if in a dream, you don’t recognize the faces or voices or products that surround you.

Muse and muddle, muddle and muse.

Quantum mechanics has suggested that the universe is split into any number of parallel universes and that we are just living in one of those universes. The idea being that there are infinite versions of each and all of us living different lives in alternate realities. Could it be that our dreams connect us to these alternate realities and that we are visualizing what happens to us in these different places? Probably not, but it’s intriguing to think about.

And finally, sometimes my dreams are filled with memories; events that actually happened, friends and people I loved and love. Those are the dreams worth going to sleep for, especially when they connect you with the people that are no longer with you. You wake up and you remember. You cherish.

Whenever I want you all I have to do is dream….

Indeed.

Time it was. And what a time it was. It was a time of innocence.

The words are from the song, Bookends, written by Paul Simon in 1968. And they lead me to wonder of late, have we, as human beings, ever truly had a time of innocence? A time when we felt free of guilt and blame and malice and fear? Simon, if I’m not mistaken, was referring to childhood as that time of innocence. A sheltered and protected time. I suppose the question then, is at what point does childhood end? These days far too early. Children, like adults, know far too much now.

The New York Times today ran a video entitled, War Through the Eyes of Gaza’s Children. “I hope the fighting stops, so we can go home,” says a five year old little boy in a dirty Superman T-shirt as he wanders a makeshift tent city of refugees. The camp houses over twenty thousand people. Over eleven thousand of them are children under twelve. “We came here because we have nothing,” says a six-year-old. “Life is bad here,” says a trembling, ten year old girl. “We fear for our lives.”

The song, Bookends, continues. Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph. Preserve your memories; They’re all that’s left you.

What photographs, what memories, will these children, will all children everywhere, take forward into their lives? Certainly not ones to be cherished. Or will they simply forget the fear and heartbreak as, in so many times past, we have forgotten? It seems to me that forgetting is both a curse and a blessing. A curse because it allows human beings to repeat the same mistake over and over again, but a blessing in that it helps us leave sad things behind and move on.

All that’s left for you are memories? No. All that’s left for you is now. For the sake of all our innocent children I pray we finally do something positive with now

Yeah, well., these days I wish I could. How is it one can be busy and focused pretty much one’s entire adult life and then suddenly hit a time where you get up, make a cup of coffee, retreat to the living room, sit down on the couch and …. pretty much stay there. And stay some more. Reading. Sending an email or text or two. Staring out at the ocean and trees in the distance.

What am I looking for, objective, action, or motivation? Probably all three. Am I complaining? No, not really. The fact that I can afford to sit on the comfortable couch says a lot. And if I were very busy, rocketing around, focusing on who knows what, would I enjoy that? I’m not so sure.

Acceptance. Enjoying the moment. I am content to be typing write now because I am typing right now. I will be happy to be sitting on the couch later because I will be sitting on the couch later.

Sometimes easier said than done.

Lots to do, lots to do, put a pillow in my shoe.

So what do we do? All of us, that is.

From what I’ve read, we can start by putting the phone and computer aside whenever possible and make a point of reconnecting with the “real” world. Go for a walk or a hike or have dinner with friends. Get some exercise. Play some tennis, some golf. Go to the theatre or a music club. Do things that involve people. Join a book club – one that specializes in hard cover editions. When you have a moment of respite don’t race immediately to podcasts or news sites or the online social diaspora. Breathe. Connect with the light. And remember.

Unless sit’s making you a ton of money, an online audience is irrelevant.

A little background

I was never any kind of standout at team sports. Couple a lack of athletic ability with an unrelenting fear of making a mistake and letting teammates down and you have the recipe for a tennis player. Having said that, during high school I did play on the baseball team. Why, I’ll never know. Perhaps because we didn’t have a tennis team, perhaps because I had friends who played baseball, perhaps because I’d suffered my way through little league and didn’t know any better – regardless, there I was. Stuck at first base, I played with a third baseman who would hurl the ball across the diamond, always on two or three bounces, and then became apoplectic when I didn’t block his errant throws with my body. Apparently that’s what first basemen are supposed to do. They’re certainly not supposed to get in the way of the runner on a bunt and get knocked unconscious, only to wake up in the dugout, not knowing what town they’re in. Maybe that’s why they moved me to right field and then, when the rare lefty came up to bat, moved me to left. Of course, there was the time our catcher got injured during a game and because I occasionally caught batting practice, they brought me in and stuck me behind the plate. The first guy up was, yes, the rare lefty, and because I wasn’t used to a batter being on the right side of the plate, I beaned him with my first throwback to the pitcher. Two pitches later he paid me back by fouling a ball into the ground that bounced up and hit me in the groin. Sad to say, I wasn’t knocked unconscious.

Shall we talk about what an incredible batter I was? Sixty feet, six inches seemed like a foot and a half to me and the only way I wasn’t going to strike out was if the pitcher inadvertently hit me. I was an amazing baserunner as well. I remember being on first one time and the next guy up to bat drilled one down the right field line. I rounded second and was on my way to third when he caught up with me. It was obvious I wasn’t going to make it home and so, with no other option, he ran back to second base where he was tagged out on a throw from the outfield. I’m sure he was overcome with joy when my baseball career ended in the middle of my senior year. The coaches benched all the seniors and began playing underclassmen. Or was it just me they benched… hmmm.

Oh, but we’re talking about going to games, not playing them, aren’t we.

I have a dear friend, you see, the actor, Dave Florek, who loves baseball. He watches it on TV. Living in LA, he still roots for his home team, The Detroit Tigers. He follows the stats, he knows who the All-Stars are, he can’t wait for the pennant races and the world series. And as fate would have it, another certain, local friend has season tickets and every now and then out of sheer spite, he dumps two of them on me, leaving me no choice but to call baseball loving Dave in LA and invite him to come on down and go to the game. I do this because Dave is an old New York City friend, from my quote-unquote struggling young adulthood, a friend I went to a game or two with back in the 80’s. You’d jump on the subway, take it up to Yankee Stadium or out to Shea Stadium, you’d buy a seat in the nosebleed section where vendors paced the isles selling beer and hotdogs. It wasn’t a family affair, at least not night games. You’d watch the fights that erupted in the grandstands as much as the game itself. Someone would have a radio going and if it was Yankee stadium, they’d be tuned to Phil Rizzuto announcing the game. “Now there’s another lucky fan!” he’d crow when a batter fouled a head seeking, laser beam of a line drive into the first five rows. Maybe you made it to the end of the game, maybe you didn’t. Regardless, you jumped back on the subway and returned to the Upper West side for beer at The Dublin House on 79^th Street and hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya on 72d and Broadway. The person who was working did the buying. Ah, youth.

It’s a little different now or at least it seems so having not been to a game for at least three years. In San Diego, you now start by passing homeless encampments as you get off the Interstate and approach the ballpark; dilapidated, makeshift tents, tarps on the sidewalk, people sitting, and lying on the tarps mindlessly staring into space. Somehow it makes you question whether the fifty-dollar parking voucher that came with the free tickets couldn’t be used for something else. The voucher allows you to park in Tailgate Park which means that three blocks from the stadium, you can throw a social event around the open tailgate of a vehicle. Yes, driving and drinking is illegal, but parking and drinking is not. It’s a day game and there are families and coolers and tables and chairs and picnic baskets, there are people of all ages in different uniform tops and team hats. I don’t remember if Yankee Stadium even had a parking lot. I do remember you risked dismemberment from the grandstand boys if you wore another teams’ colors.

On to the stadium. Did I use the word “ticket”? A ticket these days is a QR code on your phone that is computer scanned at the gate to let you in. Just another way to limit your fan base to people under forty. You enter the amusement park. Oops, did I say that? Okay, words like chaos and cacophony come to mind. Petco Park seats forty thousand people. The US Census Bureau defines a midsize city as five to ten thousand people. I would suggest four to five mid-size cities in an area of around 7500 square feet qualifies as an amusement park, but no one’s complaining. It is wall to wall people of all ages, milling, walking, laughing, talking. Because this is summer in San Diego and we’re in the middle of a heat wave, it is shorts and T-shirts and sneakers unless it’s very short-shorts, sheer tank tops and cowboy boots. It is stores and cafes and embarcaderos lined with food stalls, beer stalls, drink stalls and souvenir stalls. Somewhere music is blasting at a deafening Mach 90 and it sure ain’t take me out to the ball game. After purchasing our first fifteen-dollar beer – the fifteen-dollar hot dog will come later – and showing our QR code to any number of ushers, Dave and I finally find our seats. In this case, eighth row, left of Homeplate, which is – whoa! - not bad. Not as good as the seven rows in front of us, where waiters offer a menu and food and drinks are included in the price of a ticket but as Dave indignantly says, “Steve? That ain’t baseball!” Besides, those tickets go for around five hundred a piece.

Regardless, one still feels they are sitting in an amusement park. That blasting music? It’s coming from loudspeakers and the only thing that’s louder is the announcer’s voice which is blaring unintelligibly over it. There are players warming up on the field but it’s hard to focus on them as the entire field is overhung with enormous screens and visuals are exploding on them – cartoon characters, superhero players making double plays, celebrities and stats and graphics and fans, fans and more fans sitting in the stands, hooting, and howling and toasting and waving and dancing, especially when they realize the camera is on them. Talk about your National Pastime! How much does it cost to bring an entire family to a baseball game? One must assume that between tickets, parking, food, and beverages, we’re talking the equivalent of a monthly mortgage. And there aren’t even Ferris wheels!

The players on the field get the hell out of the way when half a dozen Navy Seals come flying in on oblong parachutes trailing banners and hit the ground running. A military band now circles the bases playing the Stars and Stripes. Does this happen at every game these days, I wonder? No, the announcer now tells us that it’s military appreciation day and he calls our attention to the squadrons of uniformed Marines sitting shoulder to shoulder high in the right field upper decks. A camera pans them – stolid, stoic young men, not a smile or a beer in sight and maybe the lack of beer is why they’re not smiling. Time for the National Anthem and we all stand as a man in a Naval officer’s uniform steps to home plate. The mike is already there. One expects a military rendition. One is not prepared for a voice that could be singing opera at The Met. Oer’ the land of the freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And the hommmmmee of the bravvvvvvvvvveeeeeeee! Cheers! Applause! Stamping of feet! Let the game begin!!! Who is ready for another fifteen-dollar beer? Apparently everybody. They go down fast in the summer heat!

It goes without saying I do not know one player – not a one – on either team’s roster. Dave now tells me that the Padres have recently signed a new right fielder for 450 million dollars, this to complement their two hundred- and fifty-million-dollar shortstop, their two hundred-million-dollar third baseman and their hundred- and fifty-million-dollar relief pitcher.

How, uhm… can they afford that? Television, says Dave. Television? Television, he says. And fifteen-dollar beers and eighteen-dollar hot dogs. Gee, and to think the homeless encampment is just three blocks away. Do they get the leftovers?

The game begins. Throw the ball, attempt to hit the ball. Should the ball hit the ground or the plate, pull the ball out of play and bring a new scuff free ball into play. One easily forgets that baseball is a game played at two speeds. Fast motion and stop motion, mostly the latter. It seems like it’s at least half a minute between pitches. Strike, ball, foul, foul. Step away from the plate, adjust your jock, adjust your gloves, step up again. Foul, strike, ball, foul. Even the Padres mascot, some guy in a friar’s robe wearing a large, bald cartoon head looks bored. Hit, catch, miss, strike out, ground out. Run to first base, run to second base. The screens change. The blaring music changes. Pitchers come and pitchers go and when they do it’s like a bathroom break. They jog in from the outfield, consult with the manager and the gathered infield and then throw warm-up pitches for ten minutes. Modern statistics tell us that on average in an 8 ½-inning game, fans will see 32 balls put in play, or one every 6 ½ minutes. They will see more pitchers (12) than they will hits (10). They will see 27 batters strike out, which is around 42% of all plate appearances. More to the point, two and a half hours later it’s only the sixth inning, I have no idea what the score is, and I can’t be bothered to look. Thankfully, Dave is having a wonderful time. He’s been talking baseball with other fans sitting near us. He’s been following the Tigers’ game on his cell phone. We’ve taken selfies – two bleary geezers with wrinkles and grey stubble. No wonder the attractive, young waitresses working the first seven rows in front of us have been paying no attention. Excusing myself, I get up and go for a walk. I’m not the only one. The embarcaderos are full of standing, strolling people all seemingly on game break. There are party sized crowds milling near the restaurants and concession stands and there are long lines to the bathrooms. Is anyone watching the game? To quote another friend – “It’s like a very over-priced, loud, restaurant with awful service and terrible food and they let nine uniformed waiters stumble around on a field in the middle.” And to think season ticket holders do this on a regular basis. Not just baseball games. Football games, basketball games, soccer games, hockey games. Opportunities all, to hoot, holler, and cheer, buy fifteen-dollar beers and wait in long lines for the lavatory.

I get back to my seat just in time for the seventh inning stretch. Yes, they still play “take me out to the ball game” and they encourage you to stand and sing along. The screens are filled with people doing just that, singing, dancing. Parents are waving their babies like puppets. On the field, groups of young women dressed like cheerleaders are now catapulting T-shirts into the stands. Oh – and the score? It’s 12 to 4. The Padres, with their billion-dollar line-up, are having an “off-night”. What constitutes an “up” one?

Forty-five minutes later it’s the bottom of the ninth and Dave – is it possible he’s bored? - suggests we consider “beating the crowd” to the gates. Why, what a good idea. I mean, the Padres, or someone will be playing again tomorrow afternoon, won’t they? We can read about it in the newspaper after doing Wordle. We’re off! Up and out. Down the escalator. Race to the parking lot. In the car. Home, home! Run home to where there’s shade to sit in and the beers only cost a buck! Now if I can only find a way to convince my local friend to donate his season tickets next year to a homeless shelter.

- 2019

Bombing mission.

I found myself asking a question. Does a pilot or a plane crew on a military aircraft ever think about the results of a "successful" bombing mission? Do they contemplate the fact that the bombs they dropped undoubtably destroyed lives, both literally and figuratively? Is it hard to rationalize? Do they take responsibility for it? Or is it just obeying orders, meaning the blame gets passed back to the top. You put it aside, you don’t think about it.

Perhaps until later.

In WWII, the crew of the Enola Gay dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima. One hundred and forty thousand people died. Some years later, Colonel Paul W. Tibbets Jr., the pilot and commander of the Enola Gay said this. “You're gonna kill innocent people but we've never fought a damn war anywhere in the world where they didn't kill innocent people. If the newspapers would just cut out the s--- 'You've killed so many civilians.' That's their tough luck for being there."

Remorse? It sounds like anything but. It sounds like man being challenged for his actions and he doesn’t like it, it fills him with anger. And then there was Capt. Theodore Van Kirk, the plane’s navigator. He said this in 2004.

"I pray no man will have to witness that sight again. Such a terrible waste, such a loss of life. We unleashed the first atomic bomb, and I hope there will never be another. I pray that we have learned a lesson for all time. But I'm not sure that we have."

When I see photos of war-torn Gaza I feel lessons have not been learned. Sometimes it seems as if war and violence are part of the human condition. “Thou shalt not kill” is the sixth of the Ten Commandments, a fundamental law emphasizing the sanctity of life. However the wording in the Bible specifically refers to unlawful killing, distinguishing it from killing in war. Meaning it’s just fine to go up in that airplane and drop those bombs and not think about the lives that have just gone up in flames. Fine to give the orders, fine to obey them.

Isn’t it?

This immediate and heartfelt reply from a friend, the Reverend Blayney Colmore. May I also say that I unequivocally support the brave people who protect our nation. Thank you, Blayney.

It’s a subject we mostly steer clear of, because it can seem unpatriotic, like not supporting those who fight. But, are we finally paying attention to what we have learned about those we send to create carnage, supposedly for our “freedom?” PTSD is by now a well known phenomenon. The reality is, no matter the brave talk, it’s impossible for all but a sociopath to inflict harm on another person without reciprocal trauma. As Dr. King said, “Violence only begets violence.” His nonviolent protests were intended to protect protestors from becoming like those they were protesting against.

And this from another friend, former service member, Walter Crumpler.

It is man's inhumanity to man being repeated throughout history. It seems we as a human race have evolved in certain technological ways, but yet we seem doomed to repeated acts of violence against one another. Most of the major conflicts are political, ideological or religious based acts of aggression. It is not the common daily citizen committing these horrendous acts of mass destruction, but twisted ideological brainwashed or insane individuals, politicians or government regimes with individuals hell bent on making a point or example to become a martyr or bring¹ world attention to their cause. This human behavior of revenge or to avenge wrongful acts is as old as an eye for an eye. The current media onslaught of violence coverage and political tit for tat propaganda we are bombarded with daily only feeds the basic human instinct of fear and retribution. The world is the same as it was hundreds or thousands of years ago. It is man and his socio- technogical changes that have occurred. Now with modern technology, a shot is heard around the world in a live stream. It is then picked up by media outlets as it gains more and more media momentum. The thought of this instant media coverage is what fuels much of the world violence. Religious or political zealots take advantage of this technological advance to spread their agenda. Governments then react with more counter violence. Media plants it one way or another, feeding the frenzy. What happened to man's brotherhood to man? It's still there but it's not a news worthy item as the larger more violent stories are forefront. This cycle will never end but only get worse. Eventually a terrorist group or radical government with create a nuclear act and it will all go downhill very quickly. God help us for we do not know what we are doing… The acts of terrorism and war retribution by both sides is predictable. The terrorists use tactics to create terror by using the cover of normally innocuous facilities or structures not usually associated with normal targets of war, IE schools, hospitals, apartment buildings. The tactic of tunneling under Is not new. The idea of killing and kidnapping innocent civilians is not new. The war retribution is of biblical event fashion. And here is where it gets interesting. It is all already written in the book of Revelations in the Bible. These catastrophic world events are foretold to us and being played out like a script. It is as if the ending act has already been written and the entire world is just a stage. We seem powerless to stop this madness No matter what we do. This once great Nation is so divided now thanks to the same political, ideological and religious impetus driving the world mad. We cannot agree or come to a concensus because we are being driven to hate one another because it is PC. America has been dumbed down and everyone is too busy just trying to chase the devaluating dollar to survive. We are being driven like cattle to slaughter by the in vogue marketing media to drive this vehicle or buy that product. The propaganda agenda by all sides too sounds in every waking moment to repeatedly remind us what was said or done by opposing politicians that are only trying to push their agendas. What does all that political rhetoric gain us as regular citizens? Nothing positive but it stirs anger, resentment and frustration over situations that we as individuals have control over, but are affected by the negative fallout of the political wars at play. Your example of Dr Martin Luther King is a prime example of what has happened to everyone of the individuals in human history that have a message of peace and harmony. They all come to a violent end at the hands of fellow man because their message is so powerful that governments and political zealots fear these peace preaching individuals more than terrorists. A message of peace, tranquility and brotherhood amongst humanity would put an end to their world driven by power, money, marketing, political/religious agendas and wars.

I blinked. I blinked twice.

The alien looked at me. Seventy-two-year-old, clean shaven, grey haired me. He smiled. “Hey, how are ya today?” Yes, it would seem the alien spoke English.

“”Fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

I watched as he began to uber-efficiently run my purchases across the register screen. I looked around. Was it my imagination or were there now aliens everywhere? I saw purple hair and pink hair and blue streaked hair floating above yoga leotards. I saw nose rings hanging from the middle of nostrils. I saw beards that looked like avalanches. I saw tattoos, tattoos and more tattoos of different sizes, different shapes, different colors. I saw layered clothes and loose clothes and tight clothes and mismatched clothes – or maybe they were space suits – on skinny bodies, fat bodies, short bodies, old bodies. Was that Albert Einstein standing over there waiting in line? Was that a female Andre the Giant standing behind him? I tried to assure myself this was all completely normal and I was still on planet Earth. It wasn’t easy.

Maybe it’s me who’s an alien from another planet.