Finger laryngitis aka writer’s block
I need to digress and talk about Steven. First, he was only 70. Three score and ten might work in a Biblical portion, but it’s way short today. Yes, many of us recall the “don’t trust anyone over 30” formulation, but life marches on and 70 is the new 30. (Jack Weinberg gets credit for the phrase, and he’s 76.) Seventy is way too soon, especially when you are Steven Phillips.
Steven’s obituary captures his life far better than I ever could. So I’ll be simple: He was an amazingly talented person. Knowledgeable, wise, practical, generous, and interested / interesting.
Kind, too! Steven was one of my landlords. When I got Max I planned to have him with me at work every day. Alas, Max came before I talked with Steven. Bad form. (Leigh—G-d bless her generous heart—said Max could hang out with the Corgi cousins if I had a landlord problem.) And Steven? He couldn’t understand why I was concerned. “Of course Max can come in every day.”
I’m a tough guy. An attorney. (I was a lawyer for years. Then Mr. R got ahold of me. “Attorney,” he said. “OK boss.” Now and forever.) Used to dealing with hard stuff. But, damn! Losing three people who mattered in less than five weeks?
I’ve been blocked. Laryngitis of the fingers, so to speak. I’ve managed to write one piece—a book review—in the past three weeks. (Will the seven people who read it raise their hands?) Time it is to bring you all, gentle readers, up to speed, and start the process of writing again.
The election devastated me. Its aftermath worsens every day. And if I hear “give the man a chance” once more, I might find myself in need of legal assistance. We learn much about our presidents from their campaigns. And even more from their transitions. No reason exists to think Donald Trump will govern in any coherent or competent way. (I won’t even mention the cooperation level President Obama got from the “give the man a chance” crowd.)
We’re watching end times for America as we know it (and no, not because it will be “great again.”) The Id rules, and in a world fraught with danger at every turn, “I feel; ergo, I will do” represents stupid of the highest order. These people are truly not ready for prime time! (Another digression: The Rs tell us they need a few years to figure out what to do with health care after they repeal the Affordable Care Act aka Obamacare on Day One. Forgive my French, please, but Ce Qu’ils faisaient depuis six ans?*)
A few days ago, Garrison Keillor wrote What will be Trump’s legacy? Who cares. He focuses not on the harm on the horizon, but on “go local” as a coping mechanism. Many will suffer in the coming years, for sure, and in our lifetimes we will all be on sh*t patrol at the end of the parade, cleaning up after the elephants. Still, our two billion-plus acres will exist, and 330,000,000 people will wake up every day, go to sleep every night, and slog along in between. Mr. Keillor—aw, hell, Garrison, even though we’ve never been in one another’s physical space—provides a useful reminder that life will go on.
In a leap of faith, I’m house hunting. My lease is up in two months, and I’m ready to own another piece of the rock. (Real estate people: sell, for if I’m buying bad times are upon us.)
I’m also working through some modest professional changes. First, I expect to operate my fiduciary practice through a separate entity shortly. Details soon. Second, I’m working on a seminar schedule for the spring. Watch this space. Finally, Mark Rubin Law got a remake around Labor Day. And within 30 days My Hellacious Fall started. The beautiful, spanking new site suffers from severe neglect, and that will change in the next few weeks.
I may or may not be posting again before the end of the year. I’m still a bit “hoarse” but I’m intending to be back on what passes for a regular schedule by the beginning of 2017. In the meantime, Happy Holidays to all, and best wishes for a healthy and happy New Year.
*What the f*ck have they been doing for the past six years?