All those years ago

Bring us to this sacred space

Walking together

I did the Trump dance today.

No music.

Just me doing the Trump dance all by myself.

With my feet planted firmly on the tile, pumping my arms back and forth in that nonlinear, contorted, non-rhythmic manner Trump invented and exhibits to celebrate himself, I shimmied and I shook.

No, I was not celebrating Trump’s election and swearing in as president. I was rejoicing in my publishing team’s decision to re-issue my 2020 novel Paddy’s Day in Trump Town. Expect Paddy’s Day in Trump Town Revisited around the Fourth of July, a truly fine date to blast off an updated version of my ticking car bomb of an Irish American novel.

COVID-19 robbed us of the 2020 book launch and tour we had planned for Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, where the novel is set as well as a Republic of Ireland promotional barnstormer. Now, with Trump back in the Oval Office, we need to help make America great again.

Trump lovers and Trump haters need me. Unhinged, gonzo, delusional and deranged, my new release will be even better than the Trump dance. With a prologue and five new up-to-date chapters and what I’m calling an “Apocalogue,” Paddy’s Day in Trump Town Revisited will offer something disturbing for everybody.

For better or worse, persistence is an Irish American trait. People like me believe in the unbelievable. And Donald Trump is truly unbelievable. The next four years, should democracy as we know it last that long, will prove to be even more unbelievable.

The Wilkes-Bare Irish Guys in the book are big-feeling boastful bigots and proud of it, not at all ashamed of hating the people they hate. Wilkes-Barre Mayor and Irish Guys President Spuds McAnus once jumped in the face of an LGBTQ community leader at a campaign rally protest and sneered, “What’s so gay about being a queer?”

Illegals, drag queens, Feminazis, woke libtards and any other enemies of the people outside the volatile Irish Guy tribe need not apply for membership in the private mostly men’s club freedom lovers like them call their own.

By the way, Mayor McAnus won re-election in a landslide and joined Trump’s admirers at today’s inauguration where Trump in his speech called today Liberation Day.

You know what that means, don’t you?

Everybody Trump dance!

While we’re at it, how about a nice Irish jig to get us in the mood for Paddy’s Day in Trump Town Revisited?

With one sinister stroke of his expensive presidential pen, Joe Biden betrayed the decent people who live in his Scranton birthplace.

Biden recently commuted convicted child slave trader Michael J. Conahan’s 17 ½- year federal prison conviction for racketeering, freeing him from serving the rest of his prison sentence. The 72-year-old degenerate former Luzerne County judge made big money selling children into institutional slavery — ordering boys and girls as young as eight into for-profit juvenile prisons in exchange for more than $2 million in cash he shared with another depraved county judge.

With one demonic stroke of treachery, Biden destroyed his own legacy.

For this evil act America’s 46^th president must never be forgiven.

Nor should Conahan be absolved of his vicious crime. But there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about this shameless ex-convict living large in the Florida sun except forever shun him and anyone who has anything to do with him.

The doddering hustler who campaigned for president in 2020 as Scranton Joe is another story. We law-abiding coal crackers must make him pay. We owe swift retribution to ourselves and to the promise of a moral nation built upon the notion of liberty and justice for all.

No discussion about building Biden’s presidential library in Scranton should ever be considered. Instead, a hometown developer with a clear conscience should buy Biden’s former home on North Washington Avenue where he lived until he was 10, tear down the house and build a safe space playground for at-risk children, a memorial park that symbolizes our solemn vow to protect future generations.

America needs to forever remember the despicable hardship wrought by anile Scranton Joe Biden.

While we’re at it, Pope Francis should excommunicate Biden from the Roman Catholic Church where Biden hides in his faithlessness without begging forgiveness or confessing his most grievous mortal sins both public and private.

Most immediately, though, the downtown street and expressway fawning elected Democratic government officials named in Biden’s “honor” must be renamed Spruce Street and the Scranton Expressway respectively rather than the now shameful Biden Street and the President Biden Expressway.

Both roadways now reflect nothing but dark highways to Hell.

One child in the “Kids for Cash” horror story later shot himself though the heart and died. Another child died of a drug overdose. Countless youngsters among the thousands Conahan condemned to endless suffering live in life’s shadows fighting the demons trauma and hopelessness inflict on them. Yet Biden willingly wielded his presidential pen like a slave master’s bullwhip, gifting renewed power to Conahan and opening raw, fresh wounds that never heal on the psyches of countless damaged children and the people who love them.

Now linked forever these two reprehensible and always dangerous fools care nothing about improving the lives of others as long as they get what they want. If Biden possessed any honor whatsoever, he would admit he was wrong for releasing a public menace back into civilized society. If he were able, Biden would do something to remedy his own recklessness.

If Biden asks bootlicking Democratic state, Lackawanna County and city elected officials to remove and replace the road signs, these lackeys will no doubt quickly do whatever they can to comply with his wishes. Otherwise, Gov. Josh Shapiro, County Commissioner Bill Gaughan, Scranton Mayor Paige Gebhardt Cognetti and other professional Biden flunkies will refuse to budge, continuing to defend Biden the way they have done from the start of Biden’s delusional tenure in the White House.

A recent wishy-washy editorial in the Scranton Times-Tribune waffled on whether to remove the road signs. As expected, the newspaper’s timid feature-writing columnist Chris Kelly has shied away from supporting the community he serves, people who deserve better than the double-dealing consequences of Biden’s sellout. More lap dog than watchdog, Kelly’s snark is always worse than his fight. So don’t expect homespun print and/or broadcast media to lead the charge to promote brave Scranton values rather than the phony scripted scruples Biden claims to uphold.

We the people must accomplish this mission by ourselves.

Until now only well-known regional Republicans, including bigots, reprobates and other clods, have led rallies to publicly support renaming the Biden roads. I grudgingly voted for Biden in 2020, yet now find common cause with even these vile dimwits who oppose Biden’s commutation for Conahan.

Getting even with Biden is not a partisan political fight. Our crusade requires Democrats, Republicans, independents and even nonvoters who crave moral strength. Decency makes trustworthy people who we are. I’ll stand with anyone willing to question authority and fight America’s corrupt system that sells out hard-working, vulnerable people who struggle yet help make this country work.

So should you.

Scranton is not and never will be Biden’s hometown no matter how many times he claims our proud city as his own. By disrespecting ethical people everywhere, Biden has smeared Scranton’s stellar place in history.

Scranton belongs to those of us who live here, who value our immigrant story and the role our tough town still plays in fulfilling the American Dream for people the Democratic Party long ago abandoned.

Biden owes us.

We owe him nothing.

1

one crinkled leaf fell

into infinity’s void

wintertime magic

2

enso holds ensnow

ice cold stillness enlightens

awareness feels crisp

3

white stormy platform

sits outside in zazen chill

warm ki nourishes

Raking leaves is cathartic.

Solitary.

Meditative.

Monk-like and focused I pulled crisp fallen leaves from the tree lawn into the gutter with all the energy of an aging samurai sweeping an empty dojo floor. Workers had already picked up most of our autumn leaves, but after the recent snowfall more dropped on East Gibson Street.

When I moved close to our baby tree that got slammed during last week’s snow storm I spoke softly, gently encouraging her to heal and return to us stronger than before the attack of wet, heavy snow that broke her limbs but not her spirit.

“You’re the most beautiful tree in Scranton,” I said, giving a spray of leaves a little peck.

I complimented her appearance without being “treeist,” a word I made up that defines the opposite of my increasing regard for nonhuman nature and the vulnerable fast-disappearing species that make up our planet. Earth exists as an endangered species all by herself. Without Mother Earth no human would remain or appear ever again.

If only for a few seconds, at least try to think about that somber fact.

Like human sexists who mostly harm women, human treeists disrespect the spirit of life that courses though the living, breathing veins of their victims. Like us, trees and leaves have veins. Leafy tubes carry water, nutrients, glucose and oxygen, transporting invisible building blocks of existence throughout the leaves and the rest of the tree. Like human veins that carry vital life energy into the hearts of our species, tree veins carry power and vitality throughout their trunks, branches and leaves that make up their bodies.

Standing back to inspect the natural beauty of our baby tree I noticed how since her accident she has expanded her reach into the sky, standing evermore firmly planted beside her big sister tree who reaches beyond the telephone wires as if she’s hugging the heavens, kissing the sky the way Jimi Hendrix smooched the azure outskirts of his mind. Our baby tree reflects the psychedelic, trippy and magical essence of the universe. Baby tree’s a hippie tree dancing amid societal breakdown, reflecting a wild natural rhythm of existence to which more people should pay attention.

Stephanie and I pay attention.

After I raked the leaves and piled them on the corner for city workers to collect, I entered our Zen garden through the high cedar gate at the back of the house. On my way in I reached down to greet two different kinds of bushes that line each side of the garden path. Weighty snow had pounded both plants and I spent time a few days ago carefully lifting and sweeping snow from their bowed branches. Now they responded like grateful pet dogs thankful for the attention.

A fat squirrel standing on the meditation platform where we sit zazen on warmer days watched my entrance. Resting both little paws on its belly the creature resembled an enlightened beastie Buddha, sitting back on its haunches, calmly observing life in all forms.

A week earlier I found a dead squirrel stretched out nearby beside the hard coal Buddha, three chunks of anthracite set one atop the other sculpted into what reminds me of a black dragon guarding the temple. I want to believe the squirrel died of natural causes but realize how predators prowl even peaceful land. Survival of the fittest dictates such stark reality.

Our primary failing as human predators lies in believing we have the right to conquer life. War, pollution and other toxic invasions might one day doom us all. Despite living atop the food chain, perhaps our species is a devolving freak of nature, mutant monsters too smart for our own good, anatomically modern Homo sapiens, yet quirks of nature after only about 200,000 years headed for future self-destruction. If so, the 4.5 billion-year-old planet will get along just fine without us.

Meanwhile I’ll do my best to live in peace among the intruders, practicing harmony as my main martial art of societal self-defense that requires helping to protect the environment. Peace of mind magnifies the will to persevere. Peace of mind unites the commitment to save a little piece of our world with the hopeful growth of our baby tree.

Stephanie and I look forward to watching our baby tree grow.

Together we’ll kiss the sky.

From our upstairs bedroom window she looks seriously injured. One branch covered in wet thick snow lies frozen on the ground. Other branches droop from watery weight, hanging low as if bowed in mourning.

We call her our baby tree.

She’s a survivor who stands where her predecessors failed to grow. Over the years we’ve planted three trees near the corner where our 100-year-old house has stood through the ages. Each tree died. For a long time our baby tree looked like she wouldn’t survive, either, but she persevered.

We trimmed the top at the center branch about two years ago, giving her one last chance to succeed like a crew-cut Marine recruit giving a boot camp obstacle course everything she has. But even Tony the wise city tree expert pronounced our baby tree dead.

Stephanie said we should wait. Patience can invigorate baby trees as well as seasoned humans like us. So we waited. And one day the living tip of a tiny green bud appeared on our baby tree. More buds appeared in the following weeks. The smallest green leaves opened and turned wide as a child’s palm when she reaches to shake hands.

That first year made history. When Tony drove by and saw her dancing in the breeze he stopped to marvel. In his many years as an arborist planting, pruning, fertilizing and nurturing trees, he had never seen such a comeback.

“She’s a miracle tree,” he said.

“That’s our baby tree,” I said.

Sometimes I gently caressed her leaves and said, “You’re the most beautiful tree in Scranton.”

Sensing shyness and strength I spoke respectfully, not wanting to embarrass her or exert any more pressure than she already endured through tumultuous seasons and whatever evil lurked underground near the sewer grate that poisoned her forebears.

Our baby tree stood her ground.

The next year, and the year after that, she displayed powerful determination. Whatever power she carried in her genes convinced me she would thrive. Like people, she only lived so long. Like all life she, too, would one day succumb to nature and return to the universal mysteries that control life and death in all forms.

This fall our baby tree shined. Warm bright weather generated vivid fresh color dancing in golden sunlight among a beautiful buff coat of greenish-yellow leaves.

“She looks like a lemon lime popsicle,” I said one day not long ago as Stephanie and I walked down the hill on North Irving Avenue toward our sturdy old house. Our baby tree’s big sister stood beside her. Towering over her sibling in her own matching flourish of radiance, she stood swaying in a gentle breeze as testament to time and wonder.

Big sister came to us years earlier when a violent storm sent a massive tree crashing into the middle of East Gibson Street that could have destroyed our house had it fallen through the ancient wood. We have no control over which way the wind blows.

Or how hard the snow falls.

Later today I’ll lace up my trusty steel-toed boots, zip my worn black fatigue jacket to the neck and pull my watch cap over my head to go outside. I’ll use both hands and the broom to gently brush heavy snow from her limbs. I’ll talk quietly and tenderly, reminding her we’re here to do whatever we can to help.

Then we’ll hope for the best. Most people hope for the best at times like these. But we need to prepare for the worst. Nothing lives forever. Nothing is permanent. Still, we’re all connected — you, me, Stephanie and our baby tree.

Our roots will always run deep.

Psst.

Wanna get high?

My new novel Weed Wine Magic will light your fire.

So will real weed wine.

I can’t wait to see the movie.

One night in late October my editor Stephanie to whom I am married and I settled into our cliffside room at the Inn at the Cove in Pismo Beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean, each holding half a glass of what California Central Coast winemaking guru Bob Lindquist calls his 2023 Grenache Rosé “Especial.” What makes Bob’s “Especial” wine particularly special is the hand-planted, hand-picked cannabis infused into the wine.

“We provide the juice and a friend provides the bud and makes the wine in his temperature controlled garage,” Bob said. “The 2023 weed wine is … from organic grapes and organic bud.”

“So clean and pure!” sayeth the weed wine guru.

“If the Feds legalize cannabis, then someday we might be able to make it legally and actually sell some,” Bob said with a glow in his voice as vivid as a black light “Keep on Trucking” poster.

Cannabis-infused wine is illegal to sell anywhere in the United States. Whenever you see weed wine for sale it’s not weed wine at all. The product is alcohol-free THC and CBD-infused grape juice. In California, though, state law permits people to make bona fide weed wine for their own personal use and to share with friends.

Since weed is still illegal where I live in Pennsylvania and I have abstained from all illegal drugs for more than 40 years, standing in the parking lot when Bob gifted me with two bottles of weed wine in a boutique brown paper bag I felt like singing back-up with the Eagles on “Desperado” or auditioning as Don Johnson’s co-star in a new “Miami Vice” movie. But Bob’s bounty registered on the Hoocha Weed Scale as 100-percent-high-CBD-low-THC-legal, the sacred consequence of organic farming philosophy that respects the planet, the cosmos and nature in general.

My high wasn’t so much a mental experience but a physically-centered and subtle liberation of spirit. Honed, not stoned, like a polished piece of green Big Sur jade that glistens in moonbeams. We finished the bottle the next night with similar peace of mind. Stephanie sensed lavender in a fresh bouquet of violets. Weird as it might sound, I caught a hint of crisp celery just cut from a Santa Maria field.

“Not real psychoactive,” said Bob.

“That’s OK,” I said, “I’m psychoactive enough as it is.”

Still, the weed wine offered a simple natural sacrament from which adherents can take an easy climb up the stairway to heaven. I imagine a greater THC concentration will take you higher, like Sly Stone sang at Woodstock, but Bob’s Buzzy Brand produced plant-based enlightenment that enraptured my endorphins and delighted my dopamine.

Before we flew home we took our second bottled pot potion to Mama Osa, our friend and inspiration for one of the Weed Wine Magic characters who lives in Halcyon, a cooperative Central Coast community based on theosophical philosophy and universal principles of goodness. Halcyon was hip long before the hippies. Mama Osa promised to keep our weed wine cool until we return next year.

We also expect to make the scene when Hollywood films the movie.

Weed Wine Magic is a unique story unlike any far-out flick moviemakers have produced in recent years. When I think about my book I think about writers Ken Kesey, Richard Brautigan and Hunter Thompson. When I think about a movie I think about easy-riding Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, director Quentin Tarantino and Mexican director/actor Diego Luna.

My 2024 West Coast launch and readings from Blood Red Syrah, A Gruesome California Wine Country Thriller and the sequel Weed Wine Magic, A Freaky California Cannabis Country Chiller at Bob’s Arroyo Grande tasting room could not have gone better. Some of my best friends on the Central Coast showed up to raise a glass and cheer. Wine club members laughed at all the right times, asked smart questions and enjoyed drinking Bob and Louisa Lindquist’s fine family wines that once motivated editors at a prestigious magazine to name Bob one of the 50 best winemakers in the world.

We all agree a movie based on my novels would blast off.

We open with a drone shot of the contemporary raw western edge of America, rocky cliffs hovering over a wide expanse of deep blue sea. I hear psychedelic music, bongos and surf guitar. I see bountiful Hoocha Weed growing tall in tan sand mountains, the most potent cannabis on the planet. Mexican mysticism fills our souls.

Cheech and Chong might even ask for walk-on roles.

Lights.

Camera.

Action.

My big screen psychedelic dream is why I’m sending queries to film industry executives. If Hollywood producers are willing to tune in and turn on to Weed Wine Magic we’ll get the green light, step on the gas and take the ride. American moviegoers are long overdue for better high times. Truly creative people can take only so many superheroes. The diverse characters in my books reflect deeply held power of the people, untapped consciousness and wisdom daring producers can bring to a boil like homemade weed wine aged in the ancient Oceano dunes.

A young, bold audience is ready to take our trip through the open doors of perception, a journey to the center of their minds as well as the minds of my protagonists and antagonists both human and otherwise. The Weed Wine Magic movie will energize us to escape our craven new world, exchanging chaos for peace and love.

Paz y amor will prevail in our new age of Aquarius. Like the song says, “peace will guide our planets” and “love will steer the stars.”

See you at the premier.