My visits to the doctor, lately more frequent than I’d like, are nonetheless enlightening for various reasons. He spends time with his patients, doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, which is a gift in itself—even if it means you sit and wait your turn.

On occasion, we’re liable to end up chatting about other things, often tangentially related to the reason for the visit. This morning, he talked about the state of medicine in America, and the gist of it is that it’s a rather sorry state. Disconcerting, even. No money, mismanagement, unwieldy mergers and acquistions, disinterested and disconnected ownership, incompetence, greed, a dwindling pool of dedicated people who want to wear the mantle of caregiver in all its varied manifestations, from front desk greeters to scheduling to PCAs to RNs to surgeons and mental health experts, and all the other jobs and specialties that keep a healthcare establishment running and providing its much-needed services.

The doctor mentioned that there used to be a time, a while back, when the endoscopic ultrasound that I have scheduled for the middle of April would have been scheduled for much closer in—maybe even next week. But not anymore. I asked him about solutions, about what needs to happen to turn things around, and he was not at all optimistic that a turnaround—a reimagining, a reboot—is even possible. He made it sound like that train is too far down the track to do anything about.

I suppose I could talk to a different doctor and get a rosier outlook, but I read and listen and look around and know that healthcare in the U.S. is an out-of-control beast.

And it’s not just healthcare that’s teetering on the edge. There seems to be a general “brain drain,” a nagging futility and fatigue leading to a not-so-gradual ebbing of talented, qualified people. Education—teachers—comes to mind. The critical personnel, the critical infrastructure, the glue that we assume holds society together, seems to be letting go.

Blame it on Covid, blame it on burnout, blame it on the state of the world that appears to be ticking closer to midnight. Blame it on a certain softness that comes from indulging ourselves in the distraction du jour, spending time doing whatever the hell one feels like doing in search of some good life that we feel we deserve. If everyone is on that mission, then it’s no surprise we appear to be heading for a cliff.

Finding Your Roots is a really interesting show. Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and his team are bulldogs, scouring records, finding connections the guests may have only dreamed of finding. The revelations, the discoveries, the wrestling with slavery often times, the emotions and appreciation the guests often express for what their forebears went through, the surprise connections with other guests through DNA—it all adds up to an engaging hour of television.

I think Dr. Gates could lend an air of intrigue and excitement to just about any person’s story. The research in and of itself travels in so many directions and opens more doors than it closes, with the exception of the Black experience and the sometimes early encounter with what Gates calls the Brick Wall, where the sleuthing hits a dead end.

Slaves were often tallied with a hash mark, no name, maybe an age and gender, which is a recurring theme in the research. Gates and the team find ways to fill in some of the blanks, though, find other threads to pull.

Their efforts are a blessing to these guests, who often express thanks and deep appreciation for having their stories filled out. They’ve been given a whole new way of thinking about their families and themselves. It’s a remarkable journey every week.

Tyrants operating in plain sight. We’ve always had to deal with one or five throughout human history. The current batch includes Vladimir Putin, who the world can see with its own eyes but can’t seem to do anything about.

Recent comments have various constituencies talking in alarmed, fearful tones, stunned by Putin’s “history” lesson regarding Poland, regurgitated for Tucker Carlson and an American audience. This in parallel with Donald Trump’s wildly irresponsible retelling of an apparently fabricated encounter with some president or head of state in which he threatens to encourage Russia to invade if this NATO member doesn’t pay its dues.

Always transactional, that Donald. Not to mention dangerously, ignorantly tone deaf. Or perhaps not as clueless as we often think. In any case, Trump’s most recent foray into playing to the crowd and just saying shit sent shivers down many a spine.

One thing’s for sure: there is no ceiling—or basement—when it comes to the heights or depths to which Trump can rise or sink regarding the messages he’s capable of conveying, whether unwittingly or intentionally. The old excuse– it’s just Donald being Donald– can’t fly anymore.

He is actually a dangerous, loose cannon, whether or not that’s the look he’s going for.  He sees the reaction he gets when he says something outlandish, he likes it, so he keeps doing it. Regardless of effect or consequence.

He’s a damaged child, folks, a punch-drunk actor on autopilot. Don’t encourage him. Don’t vote for him. He’s not gonna do anything for you. He’s incapable of such effort. His only motivation is self-preservation.

As for Putin? Time will tell, I guess. Maybe, somehow, the Russian people, the people he treats as materiel, will somehow gain the upper hand and send him packing. People like him– and Trump– are nothing more than scourges on humanity. They’re not here to save anything or anybody other than tired, oppressive, even contrived principles. And their own hides.

Phew. The weekend provided courtesy of junk food and alcohol and hype and American excess is over, encapsulated in the different reactions to Post Malone’s rending of America the Beautiful, and Reba’s spirited version of the national anthem.

Everything about the Super Bowl is high octane, manufactured drama, over-the-top patriotism and pornographic commercialism. I’m glad we’re done with it for another year. For me, it’s basically an excuse to gather with friends and family and strap on the feedbag. I barely made it to the end of the first half.

Anyway, the pundits and sportscasters and opinionated loudmouths can now feast, eviscerate the carcass, evaluate and critique and get loud and unduly emotional over who sucked and who played out of their minds– on the field or in the broadcast booth, during the halftime show, or in the $7 million-per-half-minute advertisements.

It’s nice to have the Phoenix Open and this master class in Sports As Religion over and done in the same weekend.

Super Bowl 58 recap… I’m glad SF gave KC a game, but Mahomes and company are the team right now. Ho hum.

Maybe Travis will retire and sail off into the sunset with Tay-Tay, and the Chiefs will come back to earth. Then folks can start looking ahead to next year and a battle between the Lions and Dolphins. Or maybe the Chiefs and Niners.

Who knows? Maybe we’ll have more pressing things to think about.

The Waste Management tournament in Scottsdale, AZ certainly is a spectacle, if that’s the look directors are going for. Perfectly pruned and tended greenery in the desert, allegedly developed with water conservation in mind, clear mid-winter air, mountains in the distance, a slate of top players.

And plenty of buzz, mostly alcohol fueled.

The announcers can’t stop talking about crowd size and the electricity in the air, especially at the 16^th hole, the par-3 Stadium Hole, where yesterday some patron fell from the stands and hurt herself, don’t know how badly. Where fans by the thousands, in various stages of inebriation, yell and throw beer cups and whole beers onto the fairway when someone hits a hole-in-one or a player sinks a long birdie and gives the crowd the “raise the roof” sign. Behavior pretty much laughed off and condoned as fans just being fans…

It’s ridiculous, but apparently what the PGA is looking for, in light of LIV’s emergence as the edgy tour with shorts and fan/player interaction and the general air of rebellion and wildness.

It’s overplayed and a bit sad, this desire to be relevant and cool. It says a lot about the fans themselves, if this is the bait that brings them out in droves. No sport is immune from the need to behave badly, get loud, go crazy, let the hair down. Like that’s always a good thing.

It’s tired and contrived, and lends a certain dissonance to a sport like golf.

Politics is too dirty. It can’t be all calculation and “let’s see how low you can go.”

There always seems to be so many takers for such a challenge, but Trump is the best at it, hands down. He’s a damaged, angry old man who’s ripe for a terminal rebuke.

The Trump train is belching black smoke, careening down the track with no engineer besides Stephen Miller and a few other hangers-on.

It’s the same dullness and darkness as eight years ago, only this time around it’s all a known quantity. And with the added knowledge of having a candidate who only wants to be President because he needs a place to hide. He needs the power of the office—to avenge, to nullify, to pardon, to run roughshod over democratic norms, and quite possibly to stay in power for the rest of his life.

The never-fading question is and would be, “How could we let him get this far—in the first place, and again?!” Apart from a few one-percenters being thrilled, there is no upside to a Trump win. None whatsoever. His faithful followers are mind-numbingly delusional, if only because they see what he is and still want him. AI Paul Harvey aside, surely they cannot believe that he is some prophet, or even a savior sent by God…

If their only reason for sticking with him is to stick it to the Libs, well, that’s all we need to know. A revenge vote, a stick-it-to-the-lousy-Communist-liberal-Democrats—without, apparently, any thought given to the implications of such nearsighted lunacy.

It’s the sheer fatigue, you know? It’s the ugly persona, the relentless drumbeat of mindless rhetoric and illogical statements and empty promises. And the intentional gullibility—either his supporters are supremely deceived, or they know exactly what they’re doing, and they just don’t care.

“A republic, if you can keep it.” Indeed, Mr. Franklin. Indeed.

November 5 is still almost nine months away. Yup.

Who knows what the ballot is going to look like? Sounds like Joe Biden is no slam dunk, after some special counsel opinion that there’s something off with his mind and memory. And Trump has so many potential roadblocks that one might dare envision something wild and unforeseen yet unfolding in terms of who we end up being able to vote for.

And yet, my money is on Trump still standing, and Joe Biden still limping. It’s difficult to envision any other slate of candidates emerging in time. Short of Trump’s passage from this mortal coil, the mere threat of a supporter uprising will keep him on the ballot. And Biden will weather this latest political assault on his viability.

It seems at this point that there is no way to make Trump go away. This long, excruciating, unnecessary slog will have to run its course, all the way to 11/5, when the sane majority sends Trump the message he should have heeded long ago: go the fuck away, and shut the hell up.

Trump could be massacred by 8 or 10 million votes this time (in my dreams), and he will still claim foul. So, then what? Is he just a scourge we have to live with until he dies?

CNN projects Trump will win Nevada.

Wow, that must have been a tough call.

It’s pretty nice when you can finagle a whole separate mechanism that gives you delegates without having to face any opposition. How does he do it?

And then, of course, we have a Supreme Court who has almost complete unanimity regarding the call on Trump’s being dumped in Colorado. No can do, says Chief Justice Roberts, allegedly concerned that one state could make the call for the other 49, but also mindful of the same thing various state officials are worried about—removing a popular candidate from ballots and facing the prospect of his supporters becoming angry and violent.

No consideration of Trump’s actions and involvement on January 6, I’m assuming because no verdict has been reached yet in the case being prosecuted by Jack Smith. So all the punditry and prognostication exuding confidence that the 14^th Amendment provision is a slam dunk in terms of plain language and clarity is out the window.

And the highest court in the land looks to be reluctant to handle the moment, splitting hairs over what constitutes insurrection and involvement in it, and refusing to make the hard decision. Looks like it will be left in the hands of voters in November, unless there is a verdict in the Smith case. But even with a guilty verdict, Trump will just appeal and drag things out.

So, may we have a robust, trustworthy election apparatus still in place by November.

We should all get some rest.