Taxes!

I pay taxes.  I don’t “do” my taxes.  I “pay” them.  Or more accurately, I adjust them after paying my taxes quarterly throughout the year.  For the record, the State of Ohio’s estimates are almost always wrong….really wrong…which sticks me with a big chunk of “owed” at the end of the process.  Then they “recommend” next year’s payments which, inevitably, will be wrong.  My point is that this brings into question our current governors  (and supposedly presidential candidate) administrative chops.  I get that he sometimes has trouble with how much things are going to cost.  But you would think he could get the “owed” part accurate.  I NEVER miss a chance to bill a publisher…quickly if possible.

I digress, which is easy when it is tax season.  What I mean by “paying” rather than “doing” is that I am self employed and therefore get the exciting task of feeling taxes in an intimate way this time of year. There is no line item off my paycheck.  No fiddling with my deductions to get something called a “refund”.  When I am done with the paperwork associated with my taxes it always comes down to this:  5 checks.  Two federal, two state, one city.  

Actually, we don’t much write checks anymore.  We just file electronically. Money simply disappears into the aether like villains in a Steampunk novel.  Somehow that money gets to paying for things like the military, homeland security, roads, schools, health care for the poor, and a host of other government services that, at least according to some presidential candidates, are the root of all societal corruption.

And there is the essential problem with tax season.  It is shockingly easy to get self righteous, self important, and a host of other “self” hyphenated words (like self involved) that are not good for me or anyone else. I fall victim to it every year:

“You would think with all the taxes I pay we could do something about these roads….” (Yes, like fix one half of one pothole, Watson…you don’t pay that much)

“I really have to go ALL the way to the BMV if I want to get a multi year registration?!? You would think with all the taxes I pay (not to mention registration fees) they would update their online systems…”  (Yes, what an inconvenience.  The BMV is less than 2 miles from my townhouse.  I could run there, register, run back and wolf down an unhealthy breakfast in a couple of hours.  That would kill car registration and daily exercise with one stone.)

“Can we please do something about student loans?  I mean, I don’t have any and I really don’t care but I sure am tired of the whining.  With all the taxes I pay….”  (I pay enough taxes to, maybe, buy one student her books….and a latte while she reads them…)

“You would think with all the taxes I pay congress would vote on something…ANYTHING.” (OK, that one is legitimate.  The last couple of congresses have made it their mission to whine about welfare while, essentially, accepting welfare.  Of course, they call it “salary” but you say potato and I say….)

The bottom line is that tax season is over.  I have done my civic duty and have spent a week indulging in how much I pay.  It is time to move on to something more productive than retrospectively micromanaging my minute contribution to the federal, state, and municipal budgets.

So what is next to occupy my drive time?  The primaries are STILL going on?  And they matter?!?  Well, let me tell you what I think we should do….

Chris Watson

Paid in Full; Toledo, OH

Easter, Eggs, and Excitment

Someone once accused me of liking the “off” holidays. Not Christmas or Fourth of July or even Halloween. I like Thanksgiving and Easter. And, if that is all I get accused of this week then guilty as charged. It is absolutely true that I could go through life content never again worrying about the debate between Holiday and Christmas or eating a burnt hot dog. Don’t get me wrong, we can keep grilled hot dogs and ice cream. I don’t think we need special celebrations to enjoy those. And decorated cookies. Or any cookies. We can keep all the “holiday” cookies….year round preferably.

There are several reasons to like Easter, regardless of your religious affiliation. As a well grounded United Methodist boy I do like the celebrations, the preaching, and of course the music. I was always heavily involved in music growing up and all of the anthems and hymns associated with Easter are glorious. The saying “pull out all the stops” comes from playing the organ and “Up from the Grave He Arose!” may be the definition of that cliche. Methodist hymns always feel like a cross between a drinking song and a war march. Come to think about it that is exactly what they are so when the organist really gets to wail…you know…bonus. Plus the end of Lent which is, I think by design, a downer. And even the worst, most monotone preacher in the world has one good sermon hidden in the recesses of their repertoire and they will pull it out on Easter.

But it is the food that, as always, I love. And we start with that often maligned, amazingly versatile, protein packed, powerhouse of any meal: the EGG. Forget its cooking properties, including its ability to provide leavening to baking, richness to sauces, body to soups, and binding to noodles and meat loafs. Forget it as a condiment or topping. Forget about all the “meals” you can make like omelets or my personal favorite, frittatas. How about an egg at a diner? I count, AT LEAST, ten different ways you can order an egg (not including the two “boils”). Here is the short list: Hard scrambled, soft scrambled, poached, basted, sunny side up (or just “up”), over light, over easy, over medium, over well, over hard (one is “broken yoke”, one is not, ask your short order cook which is which). Even the most libertarian, no one is going to tell me what to do, picky eaters should be able to find at least ONE way to eat an egg with those choices.

And then there are deviled eggs. It is ironic, I think, that almost everyone serves something deviled on Easter. Supposedly this is to “use up” the colored eggs but I know the real reason: deviled eggs are as addictive as chocolate or nicotine. Most of us get to seven and begin to realize we are well on our way to eating a dozen…but hey, they are only “half” eggs so that isn’t so bad…right? RIGHT?!?

Ham. I love ham. Being a Kansas boy we didn’t ham often. I still love it off the bone. And then I moved to the South and discovered southern ham. Then I had Canadian bacon (which is ham with a deceptive name…sneaky Canadians….), and here in Toledo I discovered something called “polish” ham and the now pretty ubiquitous Honeybaked ham. Obviously I have spent some time discovering ham.

However, one of the glorious things we do here in the Glass City is kielbasa. It is a very Slavic tradition and there is a lot of Easter kielbasa sold around town. Every market has their own “brand” but the best…and by best I mean there is no other to even consider…is Stanley’s. Recently they have gone up scale and sell their sausage at places like Kroger. I say, in a Christmas tradition, ba hum bug. You have to go to the original Stanley’s and get it from their meat counter. Granted, Stanley’s isn’t’ on the best end of town. You want to go to Stanley’s Market when it is light out. If you have a large friend who looks dangerous take him. But that is OK. Any sausage is, inherently, risky.

Then there are jello salads, fruit concoctions, regular salads, and anything that denotes spring.

And there it is. What I love most about Easter is what comes next. This time of year I always get the anxious, almost giddish feeling of “beginning.” For me this is truly the start of every year. Even though here in Ohio it is not uncommon for there to be snow or ice on the ground I still know…or rather feel, that the night is over. Morning will soon arrive and we can get started again. Not started on something new but started on something energetic, outdoors, and communal. No longer content to hibernate in our dens, it is time to get out and face the world as it tilts on its axis and brings warmth and light back into our lives.

I have no idea what all that has to do with Easter or religion or the coming of spring. I just know that it gets me excited.

Happy Easter,

Chris Watson
Toledo, OH

A Profound Mystery Solved

There are mysteries in the universe.  Ones that seem beyond our mere human comprehension.  Like why, for instance, we as a species crave chocolate and peanut butter in combination but think chocolate and mustard is disgusting.  Or why wearing anything white will, unfailingly, cause a coffee spill.  Or why Duck Dynasty, The Kardashians, or Honey Boo Boo ever got popular.  But the deepest mystery of all is bagpipes.

I am a musician.  I play several instruments.  I read music (in several clefs including another mystery, tenor clef) and have what I believe is an inherent sense of how things musical work.  I can hear scales and chords when other people here “noise”  and when I hum the national anthem I hum the cello part.  Bagpipes, however, have eluded me for decades.

It is not like I haven’t tried.  I am a regular attendee of renaissance fairs and anyone who has ever been to one of those knows you can’t throw a roasted turkey leg without hitting a piper.  And each and every time I am munching on my turkey leg I sit, watch and try to figure out what makes bagpipes tick.  

Imagine my surprise when, at my weekly Toastmasters meeting (Club 3159, Westgate Club, the best Toastmaster club in the country and if you don’t think the same about your club what are you doing to change it) in walked a bagpiper.  Then, in a speech from an advanced training manual about learning how to give technical presentations, preceded to solve one of the great mysteries left in the universe.  I was so excited I almost spilled coffee on my white shirt.

Our club member Cathy told us over a year ago that she was going to learn how to play bagpipes.  For some reason I didn’t believe her.  I was like those people who think the moon landings were staged somewhere in Arizona, thinking that her talk of bagpipes was a hypothetical.  She would mention it on occasion but I just didn’t buy it.  I realize, of course, that pipers exist but I figured they were just born that way. I couldn’t imagine that anyone actually undertook the task of learning bagpipes…at least in Toledo Ohio.

But there she stood in all her pipe glory, bellowing out a diddy in a mixolydian scale (with a flattened 7th at the top and bottom) and explained how they worked…including telling us the scale.  For those of you even remotely interested the mixolydian scale was first introduced in Greek music theory, carried through in medieval church music and most recently has been used in jazz and funk.

But who cares about all of that.  She showed us the mystery.  She revealed the reeds and bellows, the chanter and the filter, the tenor and bass drones.  Then, afterward, like a patient musical virtuoso with a 5 year old, she let me TRY them.  Right there, in the middle of a conference room, I played a bagpipe.  And like all musicians my first thought was:  I want one.  When I looked up the price my desire was…well…diminished.

So, one universal mystery solved.  Now when I see a piper I get why they don’t breath in time to the music.  I understand why there are three pipes and what they do.  And yes, I even understand that they have to “tune” the bagpipes, although there is some kind of inside joke about that that I still don’t get.

So what’s next?  What is the next mystery that needs to be revealed?  

I am thinking juggling.

Chris Watson

Toledo, OH

The Real Cookie Monster

Oh he is adorable, in that shaggy dog, nondescript, unapologetically devoted to a single cause sort of way. You always know what he wants and likes. He tells you so, in clear and concise terms: ME WANT COOKIES! And he gets them. And he stays thin.

Well, I want cookies too. All the time. And I am blessed with the financial means to get them. However, (and this is the real crux), I don’t stay thin and, in general, am not adorable. Finally, when I don’t get cookies, like when I am trying to eat “clean” after a holiday of delicious, delightful, wildly and tantalizingly different, and above all abundant cookies, I get cranky. I get tired of fruit, sold to little kids everywhere as “Nature’s candy.” I become…well not to put too fine of a point on it…a monster.

Rumor has it that on Sesame Street they have been trying to help the Cookie Monster make healthy choices. Are they out of their mind? He is a monster! He will turn on them like the dragons in Game of Thrones. Sure, those dragons adore the exiled queen in waiting now but one day they will be hungry and slurp that princess up like a sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mints.

Speaking of Girl Scouts…they are everywhere. Promising cookies. They don’t have the cookies yet. They are just promising them…like a certain presidential candidate who, if elected, will get all of your student loans forgiven. There is no evidence of the cookies or the forgiveness but the promise is so wonderful. Snorting down a sleeve of the delicious Trefoils while driving the new car you will buy with the payment money from your forgiven student loan. What a beautiful fantasy for deep dark nights in February. Actually I don’t have a student loan. I just like the idea of eating cookies in a new car.

Now I know what you are thinking; if you give a monster a cookie he is going to want a glass of milk. The Cookie Monster has never once, to my knowledge, wanted milk. Maybe a coffee during down time but never milk. What he wants is more COOKIES. Period. Why? Because cookies are delicious and satisfying. He wants the coffee because the crumbs at the bottom the cookie bag are easier to swallow with a rich dark roast. Just saying.

So there. I have confessed my love and laid open the dark recesses of my soul. Me want cookies. I will eat high protein and high fiber flat bread with 98% fat free turkey and mustard, not mayo, no cheese. But I want cookies.

And when the weather turns we can have a discussion about ice cream…

Chris Watson
Toledo Ohio

Death Doesn’t Take a Holiday

My sister lost a friend and parishioner this week. I could tell she was grieving…and I grieved with her. Our nation lost a Supreme Court Justice this week. Before they could even pick out a casket the congressional majority party, acting in their usual role as the put upon minority, was already announcing proudly what they WOULDN’T do. All I could think about was the man’s family who, regardless of the ridiculous posturing of the senate majority, were missing a father, an uncle, a cousin, a brother, and a friend.

Then it happened in my life. A friend, a brother, and as silly as this sounds, an ex cousin in law, passed away very unexpectedly. Fortunately and gratefully my family by previous marriage still thought of me and I was able to add my meager prayers and thoughts to the mighty chorus that is already singing and celebrating brightly 80 miles south of Toledo. The man was my age. He was a kind, understanding, strong, supportive man who never…not once…treated me with anything other than respect and genuine fraternity. I still can not believe that, in a flash of a Facebook message, I am saying goodbye.

I am angry too. I am, naturally, angry at the “ex” part of my life. I am frustrated with the waters that I will navigate in the days to come. I am angry that instead of times like this going along in the usual way, there is a previous relationship dimension that I have to consider. And I am angry at myself for being so myopic, so self involved, and so fearful that I am even worrying about the “ex” part of this moment and not focused solely, completely, and unapologetically on a family that is grieving. Suddenly I begin to see how easy it is for the senate majority leader to loose track of what is important.

We live in times where words like “family” and “brotherhood” and “friendship” often come with disclaimers and caveats. We add what we believe are necessary descriptions like “ex” and “blended” and “step” and “in law.” These prefixes may add clarity, but they cheapen the significance of their root words.

I have in the past, and still do, think of my “ex cousin in law” as my brother (by marriage if we must), his wife as a sister, and his sons as nephews. I hold all of them in my heart as family and feel this sudden loss in a deep and acute way. I grieve with them.

For a couple of hours I forgot about all of that. I let the prefixes of the moment get ahead of the root words of my life. In the spirit of confession, that is just not right. I should, and want to be, better than that.

Death doesn’t take holidays. When it comes to family, either should I.

Chris Watson
Toledo, OH

The Almighty Dot Com

I like church signs.  I think it is a wonderful invention.  Churches have an opportunity to be clever, cute, uplifting, or in some cases, ominous in a way that no other lighted block letter marquee can.  Things like “God would like to hear from you more than once a week!”  Or “Got God?  And drink your milk!” Or, “Lost faith?  We have your back!” and “Don’t believe in God?  He believes in YOU!”

Stuff like that.  So imagine my surprise when, driving this week, I saw the following church sign:

Searching?

Need Prayer?

Email us!

First, I did not take a picture of the sign because, well, I didn’t really want any flak about the denomination, the sign, the sentiment, or any of the rest of this essay.  Suffice it to say that, given what that sign says, I couldn’t have made it up.

Back to email and God.  What, exactly, is God’s email address?  For starters I want to know what spam filter he uses because I suspect he needs a good one.  And who is his service provider?  Does he get lots of storage?  How easy is it to share pictures, MP3’s and videos? Does the service easily handle joint documents? As a writer my mind just couldn’t stop thinking about what His email address would be. Let’s start with the obvious:

God@God.com

Jesus316@aol.com

ContactUs@heaven.org

Or the more obscure but playful:

IamwhoIam@google.com

theCreator@theuniverse.net

thetruth@wisdom.edu

But why stop there? God has a pretty big, one might even say, universal footprint therefore I imagine his web presence must be…well…sort of omniscient.  He was, after all, the original inspiration for Twitter.  Don’t believe me?  Read Proverbs. Most of them can easily be summed up in 140 characters.  And imagine the Instagram posts.  Just a quick picture of a supernova with the caption:  “Look what I did this morning!”

No Facebook though.  The Bible forecasted God’s aversion to Facebook in Exodus.  The Almighty states it clearly, right in 33rd chapter:  “You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live!”

Now before you come after me with pitchforks or bundles of wood for burning let me state clearly that I am not anti religious, anti God, anti internet, anti Church or their signs.  I am just pondering the efficacy of using email as a communication tool with God.

So as Lent kicks into high gear I will offer this small bit of spiritual insight.  God doesn’t need an iPhone to communicate.  He doesn’t really need church signs either.  All he needs is the people he places around me and my shutting up long enough to listen.

Still searching and in need of prayer in Toledo,

Chris Watson

 

Super Bowl Monday

I admit, I am not much of a football fan.  It is ironic that I don’t really care about football but will listen to and watch baseball.  Football fits my gnat like attention span much better than slow paced and sedate baseball.  Plays in football last seconds and change constantly (unless you are the Cleveland Browns.  Then you have only four plays, three of which are guaranteed to lose yardage).  In fact I don’t even watch baseball on TV.  Actually I don’t really watch much TV.  I don’t have cable, just Netflix and Amazon.  I do like binge watching.  And by binge watching I mean one show a night and then it had better be only 22 minutes because I really don’t like sitting around much longer than that.  Do you think Netflix likes me the way a buffet place likes a light eater?  Did I mention my attention span issues?

So back to the Super Bowl.  I do like Super Bowl Parties.  Well, to be specific, I like Super Bowl food.  I like everything about that.  It is the only time…and I do mean only time…when anything healthy has been universally banned.  Any person who shows up during the Super Bowl with a whole grain, preservative free, vegan pizza is almost immediately tarred in liquid nacho cheese and feathered with Fritos.  I am pretty sure that in most states it is even legal to do so…at least during the three hours of the Super Bowl proper.  Even in trendy, clean food states like California and Oregon the food police just throw their hands up in despair during the Super Bowl.

Not even Thanksgiving has escaped the food police. During the build up to that orgy of eating the stores are filled with “healthy” alternatives to our Thanksgiving favorites and the internet is alive with tofu turkey recipes. Not so during Super Week.  Only the Super Bowl remains a lawless, old west like food landscape.  Nothing healthy here.  No “alternatives” to potato chips or jalapeno poppers.  If you can’t indulge in chemical packed carbohydrates and artificial sugars then stay home.  The authorities just can’t be responsible for what will happen if you choose to venture out.

Above all our devotion to the Super Bowl has become legendary both here at home and internationally.  This country effectively halts on Super Sunday.  And not much gets done on the Monday after the Super Bowl either. As a country we just stop for this event.  According to a study conducted in 2015 by The Workforce Institute, an estimated 1.5 million Americans skipped work and an additional 4.4 million came in late the Monday after The Super Bowl.

This leads me to believe it is time…time for us to acknowledge the national holiday that is the Super Bowl.  Oh, I realize that it fails to meet the gravitas test.  As a national holiday the Super Bowl can’t hold a candle to Memorial Day or Labor day.  However, to be honest, those holidays could effectively be renamed “Summer Starts” and “Summer Ends” and very few people would notice or, if they did, care.

So, let’s just do it.  Let’s just make the Monday after the Super Bowl a national holiday.  We are six million workers into the process already.  Super Bowl Monday will be a total holiday.  No banks, no mail, and no school.  Just a quiet day of acknowledge recuperation.  The only thing that will be required to be open on Super Bowl Monday is gyms.  By national law these places will be open in the same way that hospitals are.  After all, after what I intend to eat during the game I will need my gym more than ever.

Chris Watson

Toledo, Ohio

Polling my Life

In this time of political debate and fact checking we are inundated with polling data. Most of these polls are junk, however, perpetrated on unsuspecting (or incredibly willing) victims with questions that are “push” or point making.

“Do think President Obama is either, A) a secret worshiper of Islam or B) hates America?”
“Do you think obvious signs of global warming are either, A) a man made disaster or B) a man made crisis?”

You know, those kind of polls.

So, imagine my surprise when, while getting my coffee at Starbucks prior to my weekly Toastmasters meeting [insert plug for Toastmasters International, “Where Leaders are Made!] I received a push poll after signing on to the Starbucks Network.

“Do you prefer your scones A) Sweet or B) Savory?”

If ever there was a push poll designed to make me take an unwanted position this is it. I mean, honestly, you want me to CHOOSE between sweet and savory?!? Right now? I could write a book in defense of either and you want me to boil it down to a selection box choice from a website plug-in? I have trouble deciding between Cranberry-Orange and sweet delicious Blueberry. But you want me to try and decide between those and Cheddar Bacon or Herb Parmesan? Impossible!

And this is why pollsters don’t ask me questions. I think they must possess a secret internal radar like Spiderman’s Spidey Sense and just know to avoid people like me. Something in their brains say, “DO NOT ask that guy anything! DANGER! He is an informed yet opinionated undecided!”

Here is how a question would go at a coffee house:

“Sir? Do you support Hillary Clinton or Bernie Sanders?”
“Well now, that depends…First what is it exactly that you mean by support? It seems a bit early to go so far as to say support. I would call my current positions more of a warming up period. Yes that is it. I am starting to warm up to both of them…for different reasons actually. Wouldn’t it be cool if we could just morph the two of them together like a bad SciFi experiment? Anyway, I can’t exactly say that I support either one…just yet. Are you thirsty? I was going to get a refill? Would you like something? A grande dark roast perhaps? Anyway, Hillary or Bernie, well…”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Do you carry a weapon of any kind?”

“Of course not! Why do you ask?”

“Because I was hoping you would pull it out and put me out of my misery.”

And that is why pollsters hate me. And why I hate polls.

My life is not a poll. My life is not yes or no, true or false, or even multiple choice. My life is not even short answer. My life is an essay and I am proud of it.

I have thought a lot about this. First and foremost it comes from my genetic makeup. My siblings and I can take an hour to debate which Mexican restaurant to go to. This is after the previous hour long debate getting to “Mexican” as our food choice. Actually, we may have to discuss the plight of undocumented immigrants in this country prior to deciding whether or not we can go out for “Mexican” in the first place. This might add another 45 minutes.

Secondly, I do not now nor have I ever liked being defined as part of something euphemistically called a “demographic.” The only bumper sticker I have ever had on any vehicle I have owned said “Question Authority.” This bumper sticker was on the first vehicle I drove while enlisted in the Navy. I drove it on base every single day. I may have obeyed authority but gosh darn it I questioned that authority every step of the way.

So no, I will not choose between “sweet” and “savory”. I will not be defined by your silly push poll. And by the way, define for me sweet or savory. In many cultures the two are quite effectively combined. Let’s start with the obvious, sweet and sour chicken…

Chris Watson
Rebelling in Toledo Ohio

12 Marines, 10 Sailors, 1 Veteran

I rarely speak out and identify myself as a “veteran.”  Most of the time that just leads to a bunch of attention, good or bad, that I don’t want.  I think that is true for most of us who are veterans.  We served, we survived…blessing enough.

This week 10 sailors spent some time in Iran…not as guests.  The whole thing was a grandstanding stupidity and ultimately resulted in…well…nothing. Thank God.

Twelve marines, on the other hand, were not so lucky.  Although the search goes on most of us fear the worst.  God Bless.

My single biggest fear as a submarine sailor was realized this week.  Either that I would be “caught” while in a foreign port as some pawn in a geopolitical game of Stratego or that I would simply be “lost.”  Either way I wasn’t really worried about myself.  I was worried about my family.  There may not be a more pointed and poignant example of “helpless” than being the family of a military woman or man. This week there were 22 families who felt the full weight of Lincoln’s famous words:  “last full measure of devotion.”

I realize, of course, that this is the nature of “service.” That those who serve our country do so with the full understanding that they are “targets” and that the equipment they serve on and the job they do is, inherently and irrevocably, dangerous. I have a bunch of ribbons and medals that tell people I understand. I have a box to put those bobbles in because I survived. And, I have a house to put the box in because others continue to do the job I survived in the first place.

THAT is patriotism. THAT is service. THAT is what it means to love your country. Not posturing and asking for snacks out west somewhere while unbalanced government conspiracy theorists (on and off political debate stages I might add) cheer you on.

But I digress. This is about marines, sailors and their families. I feel for them. I am scared for them. And I remember… I remember what it was like to stare at a hatch and think that I was one leak away from the fury of the entire Atlantic Ocean. And I remember thinking about my family and wondering if they worried too (they did).

Thank God those sailors came home. God be with those marines who are still missing. God bless all the families who wait or waited in silent hopeful vigil.

And God bless the United States of America.

Chris Watson

 

 

He’s Back!

I am afraid it is all over Bernie.  It was a good run and you forced Hillary appropriately to the left but you are toast.  And to whoever that other Democrat guy is it was mostly over for you from the beginning.

That isn’t all.  Republicans, you are dead meat.  You do not have a single candidate…not one…not the overweight guy from Jersey, certainly not the brother, not the slick guy from Texas nor the creepy one from Kentucky and yes, not even you Trump with your bombastic “speeches” (or as we like to call them angry, privileged, white boy rants), will be able to stand up to this political master.  He’s back, he’s campaigning for the White House, and now that he is on the field the rest of the combatants have as much as lost.  CNN reported last week that William Jefferson Clinton will be returning to the campaign trail.

Who doesn’t love Bill Clinton?  If you supported him he was the best; a flawed French fry eating hero who was tempted…all the time…by the world around him.  If you hated him he was the perfect enemy.  The stench of scandal and conspiracy filled the Oval Office like Axe in a High School locker room.  Actually, if Axe had been around during his presidency Bill Clinton would have worn it.

I love every Bill Clinton.  I love the young, idealistic, college grad with his arm around Hillary (and his eyes about everywhere else).  I love the buddy governor who was more like an opinionated next door neighbor than a politico. I love the contrite, sad but not defeated Clinton who had to admit that he may, actually, depending on how you define the word “is”, had some carnal doings with a staffer.  I love the heavy set, fried chicken eating, presidential candidate who took (up to that time) more unsubstantiated crap about his entire life than any other candidate in the modern era. I admit that he just opened the door to unsubstantiated crap.  Republicans, after all, are still concerned about the current president’s birth certificate so Bill will have to take a back seat to that….

Or so I thought. Thanks to my favorite candidate in thirty plus years of voting (which includes Ross Perot, by the way) The Donald has decided to attack Bill Clinton’s personal life.  Really?!?  Mr. Trump you are comfortable with that?  A Republican lead house impeached the guy over an unmentionable act in the Oval Office and somehow this master managed to tap dance his way into finishing his term.  You think YOU are going to make hay out of his personal life?  The ENTIRE US Senate couldn’t do it.  But please, go ahead and try.  My main man Clinton will just slice through that argument with the scimitar of emphasis he calls reading glasses and make you look…well pretty much like you always look…childish.

It does not matter whether you agree with him.  It does not matter what you think about him, his life, his presidency, or his post presidential activities; you have to love him on the campaign trail.  He will turn out crowds both booing and cheering like WWE’s Wrestlemania (and they will be dressed about the same).  More importantly, he will provide us with the one thing we all need during what will likely be the most pedantic presidential election in decades:  distraction.

Hail to the Chief.

Chris Watson

Toledo Ohio