I had a dream, after I turned the alarm off this morning, that has me pretty much convinced I’m still dealing with a pesky, unresolved issue in my life.

I was involved in a worship service somewhere, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt while the pastor was decked out in full alb, chasuble, and stole, in a large room packed to the gills with people. I was given the nod to start the service by leading the congregation in some piece of liturgy, moving to the middle of the room, and realizing as I walked that I couldn’t find—and had actually forgotten—the piece I was supposed to be leading. It was in another notebook somewhere else.

So I just kept walking around, flipping pages, hoping I’d find it, trying to make light of my predicament and talking to people as I went.

The pastor, having sensed that I was stalling and something wasn’t right, had the entire congregation stand and greet one another while I fumbled and searched. I never found what I needed– knowing I wouldn’t but hoping I would– and then I woke up, relieved.

The dreams have never lasted long enough for me to experience the consequences of my lack of preparation– there’s never resolution one way or another. But I got to thinking maybe this is all a commentary on my struggles with faith itself, with commitment, with making a decision and charting a course once and for all. Or maybe the same dynamic still exists in retirement—no sense of purpose, no clear path, just lackadaisical, aimless wandering.

I don’t know, but I wasn’t expecting to still be haunted by this. It makes me wonder what needs to happen, what needs to change.

Sometimes I feel like an impostor in my own life.

The Weather Channel is over-the-top. I know it’s a channel dedicated to weather, but… it’s weather. Don’t need the dramatic, scary music when the Local on the 8s comes on, don’t need the polished production or the gravitas.

OK, it makes sense to be tuned into the emotions of reporting a devastating storm, but these folks go for the production value, like it’s the most interesting stuff in the world, like it needs to be reported the same way as 9/11 or walking on the moon. I guess that’s what geeks do, though. I guess we should be thankful that they’re into it, and they seem to love what they do.

By now, it’s probably a pretty nice gig for Cantore and Abrams and the rest.

Driving back from Maine on I-95, we had a close encounter with some hothead in a Jeep pick-up, or whatever those over-priced vehicles are supposed to be, who rode our bumper and laid on his horn.

We noticed, as he passed us and cut back in within a few inches of our front bumper, a sign that read, “I don’t give a fuck what you think,” and another with just an image of an assault rifle. For some reason, we pissed him off, I guess because we weren’t doing 85 or 90 in a 70 zone. There were others who were driving like maniacs, too—there usually are.

I was once again reminded that there are people barely controlling multi-ton missiles at excessive speed who should be sidelined until they have a better handle on their mental and emotional states.

They clearly don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else on the road.

There’s something about Maine. I don’t know as I’d say it feels like coming home, but when we get up to Mid-coast and beyond, it feels like an invitation, like it would embrace us, like we could live here and enjoy it and thrive. It’s good to be back in the neck of the woods where I can wear my Red Sox hat proudly, not defiantly.

When we’re driving north on U.S. 1 and we catch the first glimpse of marine marshlands and evidence of tidal activity, I get excited. It means the ocean isn’t that far away, and neither are the ambience, the weathered cedar-sided homes and the genuine seafood platters and crabmeat rolls and picturesque harbors and our kin who live twenty minutes from the Big Pond’s edge.

There’s something about Maine that’s not exactly easy to describe. It just feels good being here. We always head back to reality and more southerly climes with a bit of an ache, and a desire to stay longer. Much longer.

Cat fights in the House, a steady parade of sycophants creating a side show at the Trump trial, and Executive Privilege ruffles feathers in the aftermath of Pres. Biden’s interview with Robert Hur.

I guess these are all threads in the same bolt of cloth, since we’re 6 months out from a big election and Republicans in particular are looking for any sort of distraction and advantage in their quest for relevance and power.

Forget about governance. For Republicans, it’s all about smear campaigns and loudness and misdirection— the usual playbook. No thought of working on legislation, unless it involves taking someone’s rights away or making it more difficult to immigrate or paving the way for the next Christian Nationalist to emerge and try to “take the country back.”

Does it bother anyone else? Are there millions of people out there who daily find themselves pondering the absurdity or maybe even shaking a fist at… somebody?

Here we are, nine years after Trump descended from on high, almost four years after he was soundly beaten in the last election (and the one before that, too), a few years removed from two impeachment trials, and almost daily evidence of incompetence and delusional thinking, not to mention 4 indictments and 91 felony counts. And he’s still standing, still in our faces being loud and pathetic.

And he still has supporters who love him.

In a way, it reminds me of our kids’ first experience playing soccer. Wherever the ball was was where the entire team went. There was no position play. The same thing has been happening with Trump—wherever he is, whatever he says, the media trip over themselves to cover it, unwittingly or maybe knowingly feeding the beast.

History may rhyme, but I bet in the annals of our 248-year existence, we haven’t seen anyone quite like this guy. He deserves to be thrown out on his ear, but instead people still worship the ground he walks on.

Same old story, I guess.

The debate scenario is already taking on the character of a WWF match.

Just stop it already.

We really are a country full of drama queens, aching for a no-holds-barred shouting match between old white men, which, on the face of it, sounds ridiculous, the poster child for irrelevance. Biden’s camp is trying to set boundaries. Trump, even though he shouldn’t be anywhere near a debate stage by now, most likely will take exception to these. So we’ll see what we end up witnessing.

Call me old fashioned, but a one-on-one without an audience, only a moderator, and the threat of turning mics off if things get too loud and off-topic—this all sounds good to me. See if Trump can handle 90 minutes, or whatever the time frame will be, of an honest back and forth, a helpful and hopefully clarifying debate of real issues that will demand preparation and knowledge and a certain amount of restraint.

Yes, that’ll happen about the same time as reports of porcine flight.

First one in June, I guess, and the second one in September. Imagine the media build-up, the pre-debates debate. November 5 can’t come fast enough.

If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck…

Senator Bob Menendez, in some alternate universe, might be squeaky clean and the victim of misplaced accusation and scorn. But Jon Stewart probably wasn’t blowing smoke on Monday night when he methodically took Menendez—and others in Congress—to task over insider trading and many a Congress person’s exposure to temptation and perks unavailable to the rest of us.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars just sitting in his house, gold bars just sitting in his house, and the suspect excuse that he needed to have that much cash hanging around because of the tenuous immigration status of his wife—who, by the way, might get thrown under the bus by her loving husband and take the heat for his being accused of being a foreign agent?

Bob should probably step down, if for no other reason than he gives the appearance of one who has been caught red-handed yet has the chilling ability to stay calm in front of the cameras and speak as if it’s all a mere misunderstanding.

I think this is what incenses me more than anything—that people like Menendez are so used to the power, perks and privileges that they start manifesting various levels of delusion, like they can’t be touched, can’t envision the possibility that they are the ones who have been getting away with worst practices and illegalities.

Double down and deny, deny, deny. A page straight out of the Trump playbook.

Take a hike, Bob. Rough and tumble New Jersey politics aside, your name keeps popping up as someone whose nose is pretty filthy.

It was a real Who’s Who at the Trump trial yesterday. Eric showed up, along with JD Vance and Tommy Tuberville and a couple of local Republicans who wanted to be seen with Donald-the-not-so-Great.

Wow. Such shameless deceit, not to mention pathetic opportunism. One report suggested that these ass-kissers were the surrogates brought in to say what Trump can’t say because of his gag order, which seems plausible.

Anything for the Donald, who’s hopefully grasping at straws at this point. Not that it matters much.

Oh no. Kamala Harris has dropped the f-bomb.

Stop the presses, we have our lead. The world as we know it will now come to an end, because no one on earth ever has dropped an f-bomb. So many were offended that this just can’t stand.

I suppose it is news, but it’s like no one in their own lives and conversations has ever sworn before? It might be unbecoming of a such a high-ranking official to use such language, but is it, really? If it happened all the time, that would be one thing. But most of us know that there is no word quite like the cathartic f-word that comes with a certain built-in impact and gets peoples’ attention. Ask Joe Biden, or Bill Clinton, or Lyndon Johnson, or Harry Truman, and probably a few Republicans as well.

Settle down, everyone.

I blame Trump, anyway. He’s paved the way for the use of all things coarse and juvenile, and he raises peoples’ BP enough to get eloquent people who normally choose their words carefully to throw caution to the wind and release the pent-up frustration of having to put up with such an empty-headed dolt. I’m gonna blame it on him.