As I wrote a while ago, Ripfort Tubbs (former president of the formerly-great nation, the United States of America) is dangerously bigoted, and, if not an outright Nazi, then, at least, Skinhead-adjacent. My warning at the time was that everyone in the majority should be extremely concerned, because social cannibalism never ends with the Vandals going home after deciding sacking Rome once was enough. No, murderous impulses tend to increase, and, eventually, consume everyone in society. 400,000 Americans and their families got a taste of that, which undoubtedly tipped the polls in Biden’s favor. …

Father-and-son Bondage Time

In the Western denial of harsh, unpleasant realities, we tend to greet crisis with moronic platitudes ("The Chinese word for 'crisis is ' opportunity") that allows us to offer unhelpful offers of help that don’t really solve anything (offers to go to a farmer’s market or bring a bunch of strangers over to "clean" the house without knowing what diseases they’ve been exposed to should be avoided). Which is a shame, because helping someone in crisis can be a form of intimacy.

I’m not going to claim that serious illness is the new sex, or who you are in a crisis is some form of defining moment for all involved - who you are in the middle of a terrifying problem is usually a response to that problem, and, although you can definitely make the case that such situations offer a glimpse into a person’s innermost core; they are only glimpses, from a certain angle, at a certain time. …

I remember reading, a few weeks ago, that, although the words “envy” and “jealousy” are used mostly-interchangeably in English, they’re two distinctly different psychological concepts — “jealousy” is fear of losing something or someone you love; “envy” is the resentment you feel about something you don’t have but want. The difference between the two was brought to the fore of my mind this week, because a friend referred me to another newly-diagnosed glioblastoma survivor. I’m now slightly-past three years post-diagnosis (the average life expectancy is two years, max), and I recall when I got down to the nuts-and-bolts business of survival and started looking into other survivors and their stories. I was acutely aware, in those days, as I interacted with long-term survivors (before I got that title, then turned 34), of a sense of loss of who I was, who I wanted to be, and what I wanted to be, and the life I wanted — I don’t know if “jealousy” translates into a sense of growing resentment as you realize what you’re in the process of losing, but I know I was envious of all the long-term survivors I met. …

I remember… let’s say a few years ago, when I was 14 or 15, and a history teacher mentioned in class that Wagner inspired the Nazis. Even though I’ve never read Wagner, at that time, I was familiar enough with various European legends to know that, in the legend of Fafnir and other Norse mythologies from which Wagner stole, “Goose-stepping and death camps” had relatively few, if any, mentions. My teacher told me, “Billie, I think Hitler read a little too much into those stories.” Which was confusing for a whole host of reasons, not least of which is that my name isn’t William. …

In every chronic illness/traumatic event survivor’s story where we know the exact moment we’re going to make it. The journey will be terrible, and there will be more pain and strife, but we will see it through: We wake up and our pain is not the first sensation we feel. The grief and anger and fear are all still very much there, but it’s now in the background, not the foreground.

We’ve turned a corner. We can focus on something else. In America’s case, we can have a debate about having coherent domestic policy and universal insurance, universal voter registration, and paid maternal leave — all things they don’t have to worry about in Norway, which might be why we’re 30 years behind most other industrialized countries. But, my point is, we get to have that debate! It’s not a great one; but, in chronic illness terms, the discussion has shifted from, “Can I offer you a glass of water,” to, “I have some interesting treatment options.” …

First of all, let me assure you all that I have no special insight that’s unavailable elsewhere, but, like all white men, that’s not going to stop me from attempting to gratuitously explain the whole thing to anyone who might be confused as to the current, mind-boggling state of affairs in America.

Q: So, what the hell just happened in your country?
A: To make a long story short, we had a general election back in early November for a variety of offices ranging from “county comptroller” all the way to “President,” and, because our democracy offers a range of ways and times to cast your ballot (these are all legal, vote early, vote by mail, or vote in-person (the traditional method)(all of these different voting methods lead to the sort-of chaos the news channels are delightfully describing, because the in-person voters tended to vote for different folks than the mail-in voters, and the lag-time in processing those votes confused us)), we weren’t totally certain of the outcome on voting day, but now, we’re reasonably certain who won and who lost various offices. …

My apologies for not including photos in this essay, but I don’t know who owns photographs of the White House Christmas decorations, and, given the litigation-happy nature of this administration, I’d really prefer not to invite Rudy Giuliani’s wrath (or even his presence).

That’s right, children, gather ‘round, for the annual unveiling of the White House holiday decorations, for First Lady/Krampus Melania Knauss’s last “fucking Christmas*” in the White House!

For the past 400 years (it feels like that, anyway), the First Lady of the United States (and possibly undercover Krampus) Melania Trump has insisted on decorating the White House. And, like her, the results have been austere, stark, off-putting, and a little horrifying. One recalls the Tolkien line, “great and terrible to behold.”

There was a forest of blood trees. The creepiest wreath of all time. The horrifically, starkly white and alien-looking recreation of US landmarks. The underlying theme, one must assume, of all previous Christmas decorating-attempts at the White House was, “Christmas in the Uncanny Valley.” Which is a really weird phenomenon, in retrospect; as an alleged New York model would, presumably, have the phone number of someone who could discretely come down and literally spruce the place up tastefully for Christmas. Instead, we’ve gotten visual reminders of who we sort-of voted for in 2016 (in light of America’s political about-face, I’ve been asking my British friends if they can’t just nationally demand another vote on Brexit, now that they’ve sobered up and seen BoJo in the light of day). Again, I have to wonder if Donald’s reelection chances would have improved if he could have gone a week or two without reminding everyone that he was in charge, HIM! Donald J. Trump! Father of Beavis, Butt-head, Javanka, Barron, and Tiffany! Bitter ex-husband of Ivana and Marla! But I digress. …

Occasionally, on life’s journey, one encounters these freaks that simply can not bear the thought of being out of the spotlight (to paraphrase Wodehouse). We’ve all encountered them, usually at the larval stage of development — the tattle-tale, the show-off, the braggart, the bully — there’s always someone out there who demands your constant, full attention at all times. Then, most of us go on to higher education or start careers, and learn that when grown-ups pay close attention to you, it’s not a good thing; it usually comes with lectures, demotions, and penalties. Quick show of hands, who reading this piece has ever seen a squad car behind them and felt, “Oh, good?” Not very many, I’d imagine. The inevitable signifier of maturity and a mental transition to adulthood is that most of us start putting qualifiers and conditions on the sort of attention we like. We all want our lovers to gaze at us as we enter the room. …