Transcript of the President’s call today with Punxsutawney Phil:
Phil: Good morning, Mr. President.
President: Good morning, Phil. How are you?
Phil: Very well. A little jittery but well. How are you?
President: Tremendous. Listen, Phil, I hear you’ve decided on six more weeks of winter.
Phil: Well, it’s not a decision. I just utilize a series of indicators to predict …
President: Okay, well look. The problem is the people of this country would prefer spring over winter. More »
Illustration courtesy of Chris Piascik
The evening before Election Day, the house was full of welcomed quiet. The TVs were off. And after a glass of wine, Steph was on her way to bed.
But as she walked past Ben’s room, she heard sniffling. She cracked the door and understood he was still awake.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she whispered.
He rolled over to look at her, and Steph saw he’d been crying.
“Everyone is so angry,” he said. “I’m afraid what might happen tomorrow. I’m scared, and I don’t understand why this is happening.”
The presidential election, she thought. If it was a scary time for adults, it could be a terrifying time for children. She’d never thought how it might be for a 9-year-old who’d never really paid attention to a national election until this year.
She entered the room and sat on Ben’s bed.
“I think you’re old enough to hear the tale of the Trumpusnacht,” she said, caressing his forehead.
“The what?” he answered.
“More commonly called Trumpus,” she began. “It all started with Uncle Sam …”
He wouldn’t call it “manifest destiny,” but Michael Boss said his name destined him for a position of power. He was born to be a leader.
Leaders, he said, author rules.
We would not refer to him as “Mr. Boss” but call him just “Boss.” With only one syllable, we would communicate name and title. His directives were efficient.
And our logo’s colors would be, without exception, white and alizarin crimson. Our logo would an eagle gripping the sun, and the image’s outlines were alizarin crimson.
Boss had approved a team for the Cancer Walk. He had budgeted a donation, as well as dollars to purchase t-shirts, not only for the five walkers but for all of us. We would wear them the Friday before. We would fight cancer and build morale.
I was in charge of ordering the shirts. More »
You can talk all you want about the virtues of wings, but I’m a burger guy. I believe in beef. I like burgers medium-rare with swiss, guacamole and a tomato.
Steve, though – he loves wings. I’ve seen him eat wings many times, and I understand his willingness to explore, with all kinds of flavors and heat levels. But he’s more often than not going to order chipotle barbeque, and the new sports bar, Recovery, has great chipotle barbeque, at least according to Steve.
Again, I wouldn’t know, because when I’m in a place like Recovery, I’m going with a burger. And on this particular day, I’m adding on sweet potato fries.
“God, the wings here,” Steve says, predictably adding, “And the chipotle barbeque! God!”
“Is it too early for beer?” I ask.
“Noon? Probably,” Barry answers. I’ve never had lunch with Barry. I’ve had lots to drinks with Barry. But I notice he’s reading the menu intently.
“What you goin’ with?” Steve asks Barry. I’m fairly certain, even though I met Barry through Steve, Steve’s never been around him for a meal either.
“I’m not sure,” Barry says. “Just reading through my options here.”
I see an opening. I’m competitive, even when it comes to something as unimportant as which unhealthy lunch option to sell.
“Want my suggestion?” I say to Barry. “Try the burger.”
“Big mistake,” Steve says immediately. “You gotta try the wings. You can get a burger anywhere.”
“Yeah, and wings are rare,” I say. We’re arguing for Barry’s sake.
Barry is tipping his head back and forth, still reading, still concentrating. “Wings, burger. Wings, burger.” He’s going back and forth. More »
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