The sweet spot

What with the ‘rona and all this year, everyone I know seems to have grown more than a little tired of not just learning to bake all the sourdough and banana bread the world can bear, but actually baking it. If I never see a group of squishy, brown bananas again—don’t get me started.

Needless to say, this frame of mind doesn’t bode well for all the baked goods you promised yourself and your pudgy little cousins you’d be making over the holidays.

So I'm thinking maybe the first gift you ought to give yourself is letting the exceptional Detroit Baker handle all your holiday baking needs.

Full disclosure: the Detroit Baker happens to be my good friend Claire. And, I say this objectively, everything about her is exceptional. She's talented, smart, funny, beautiful and an awesome individual. The world could definitely use more people like her.

But the good news is you can have someone just like her baking all the sweet treats for you and yours this holiday season.

Claire and I used to work together at an agency, and I used to enjoy all her baking for free. Whenever there was a birthday, work anniversary or special occasion, all of us looked forward to her bringing in some incredible, imaginative, original baked treats. They’d be in the coffee room, and throughout the day I’d just casually and (so I thought) inconspicuously keep sauntering in to have another bite.

I’m sure my co-workers would’ve loved some, but he who hesitates and all that.

I once told Claire about the fact that I'm allergic to chocolate. She looked startled and said, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Anyway, visit her site at DetroitBaker.com, and order some of the many sweet treats she has to offer. Or if you have something specific in mind, she'll make it one-of-a-kind custom just for you.

And while you’re there, do me a favor and remind her about my chocolate allergy, and let her know I'm still waiting for the oatmeal raisin cookies.

Tracks Of My Tears: The Sequel

A little over nine years ago, I did this post about a classic song I love: Tracks Of My Tears by Smokey Robinson. It was part of a series I'd do occasionally where I'd post different takes on the same song by various artists (I also did it for another favorite, Stand By Me).

The reason for that original TOMT post was fairly straighforward: I couldn't think of anything to write about and it was easy to slap up some videos.

But today the subject is TOMT.

There are only a few songs that are genuinely timeless. Songs like Stand By Me. Yesterday. And Tracks Of My Tears. Generation after generation, they continue to strike a chord (sorry) with listeners, and stir their souls in unique ways. Those experiences are both heightened and personalized even more depending which version you're listening to and how it hits you in the moment.

But the one thing they all have in common is they hit you every time.

TOMT is one of the most covered songs in history, a testimony to its endurance, power and emotion. So with tonight's post, I'm happy to add even more versions for you to enjoy and compare.

If you don't recognize the name Paul Stanley, you probably know the rock group he cofounded—KISS. Knowing that, the last thing I expected was a version of TOMT as beautiful as it is true to the original. Also grateful he decided to ditch the makeup for this performance.

Speaking of true to the original, this version by Boyz ll Men is as satiny smooth as it gets, with choreography that pays homage to the original Smokey Robinson & The Miracles live performances.

Lara Kincanon is a singer I've never heard of, but she does a more intimate acoustic version. And I'm not saying she's staring into my soul when she sings it, but I'm also not saying she isn't.

I know what you're thinking: if only we could give this classic a little blue-eyed soul. Have a seat, and try this one by Daryl Hall and Eric Hutchinson (after a little chat, the song starts at the 1:20 mark).

Last but not least is the Chris Blue version he sang when he auditioned for The Voice. Besides being a sweet and soulful take, it also happens to be my wife's favorite version. And apparently it made Alicia Keyes pretty happy too. So this version gives me marriage points and great music. How many songs can you say that about?

The Mooch

I'll just say it. I love the Mooch. But that wasn't always the case.

At first glance, Anthony Scaramucci would seem to be the perfect swamp creature, cut of the same $1000-a-yard cloth as the rest of the scumsuckers who were employed in Cadet Bone Spurs administration. He got his bona fides working for years at Goldman Sachs, who coincidentally issued my Apple credit card. I get 2-3% cash back on every purchase so I have mixed feelings. Plus I grew up with a kid named Steve Goldman. No relation.

I may be getting off track here.

Anyway, Anthony was, as the kids say, money. Just the kind of person the daughter-lovin' traitor-in-chief likes to surround himself with. So for eleven days, Scaramucci was breathing rarified government air at taxpayer's expense as White House Director of Communications.

For all eleven days, I pretty much hated him like I hated anyone who'd support and associate themselves with the unstable genius and his unhinged, self-serving, racist democracy-destroying policies. But the tide started to turn for me on his last day, when he was fired for leveling some choice, well-deserved obscenities at Trump's live-in Secretary of Nazi and human fleshlump Steve Bannon.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Like everyone who's made a quick departure, the Mooch started hitting the talk/news show circuit. Big ships turn slowly, but with each appearance, over time, I began to see his changing opinion about his former boss. It was like watching a flower bloom. It was just that beautiful.

At first, he left the White House but still supported the president.

Then he supported the president, but wished he'd listen to his more experienced advisors.

Let's just skip ahead: now he thinks Trump is a scum-sucking, insane, sex-offending, enemy of all that's good in the world, a gigantic loser and festering piece of shit that needs to go to a Shawshank-like hole cell as soon as humanly possible.

That's an opinion I can get behind. The Mooch has come around, and it's not because it's in vogue. You can tell by watching and listening to him he's seen the light and means what he says. I always try to catch him on Bill Maher or Stephen Colbert. I listen to his podcast. And I imagine with each appearance how pissed his old boss must be.

Plus the man's name is now a universal unit of measure, as in "I have to be out of this apartment in three Scaramucci's!"

So yes, despite the fact he was briefly employed by the worst president in history, his casual dress is Armani and his hair is slicker than an Exxon oil spill, I like the Mooch.

In fact, there's really only one thing that bothers me. Does anyone else see it, or is it just me?

The deep end

It’s always worse when it happens to someone you know.

As if 70 million fellow Americans who still think a nazi-lovin’, race-baitin’, woman-hatin’, name-callin’, orange face-paintin’, con-runnin’, daughter-lustin’, rumor-spreadin', handicapped-mockin’, TV-watchin’, conspiracy theory-spoutin’, covid-ignorin’, dictator-lovin’, baby-handed traitor should be the leader of the free world weren’t enough, come to find out one of them happens to be a friend of mine.

Someone I’ve worked with.

Someone I’ve worked for.

Someone I respect. Strike that. Respected.

I’ve known him almost nine years and in that time we’ve had meals together, fought for great work together and had My Dinner With Andre-esque conversations about things that matter. Although we didn’t get together often, when we did we’d enjoy each other’s company immensely.

One of the things I always liked about him was he never took anything at face value. He always made it a point to take the deep dive, looking into the rest of the story to find out where the truth lived. But going by his Facebook feed the last few months, the truth is just a distant memory. And his deep-diving, fact-finding days are long gone.

The only diving he’s doing now is off the deep end into the cold, cruel, dirty water on the edge of town in Trumpland. I don’t’ even recognize him.

His FB feed is filled with conspiracy theories about the virus (It’s a hoax! The death rate is less than the flu!) and memes about how awful Democrats are, that of course are blatant projections of all the corruption and criminal activity going on in the GOP from the top down. There's no shortage of ramblings about how they're taking away our freedom asking us to wear masks, and a lot of "Mommy I don't wanna! I don't wanna!". And of course, the obligatory "alternative facts" charts showing the crisis isn't as bad as it's being made out to be.

Most surprising are the undisguised racial slur memes against the Vice-President elect. It would all be worth serious discussion if the posts, as crass and ugly as some of them are, were from reliable sources. The ones I've seen are from Breibart, Fox state news, OAN and other extreme right outlets. Apparently serious discussion isn't what he's looking for.

I'll be the first to admit I post quotes, memes and articles that are anti-Trump and anti-Republican. But they're based in fact, sourced reliably, factually accurate and often quite hystically funny, even when they're snarky—which they often are. You're welcome.

He's also posted responses to the many comments he gets about how off base and crazy he is, and his replies usually boil down to "..if we're really friends we can disagree like adults." Well, maybe on some subjects, but not when things like racism and cruelty aren't dealbreakers for him.

So I'm grieving. I'm sad for who he's become, and the friend I've lost. I've never engaged with him on Facebook because he's clearly too far dug in. And by dug in I mean gone. Besides, I've never liked FB fights.

I'll always be a friend to the person he was. I just can't be one to the person he is.

Post haste

Because I yam who I yam (Popeye joke and Thanksgiving joke in the same line - BAM!), I spent more than a little time playing around with—I mean thoughtfully crafting—different catchy names for this post: Stamp Of Approval. Pushing The Envelope. Going Postal. The Postman Cometh. Special Delivery. But then I decided that, like so many things, I should just trust my Jedi instincts and probably go with the first one I thought of. You're welcome.

We're all aware that one of the ways Cadet Bone Spurs tried to rig the election in his orange-faced favor—along with his billionaire friend and hired thug Postmaster General Louis DeJoy (who will soon be DeGone)—was to cripple the capacity of the postal service to deliver mail-in ballots on time by removing mailboxes and letter-sorting machines.

Like everything else he comes up with in that puny brain and touches with those tiny hands, it failed miserably.

But damage has been done. Morale is lower than ever. Postal employees, already overworked and risking their lives during a pandemic, are working even harder and later. The USPS is now over 9 billion dollars in debt and rising fast. Besides thanking our mailman/woman everyday, there isn't much I can do about the first two. But I am doing something about the third.

I went online last week and decided to buy a bazillion sheets of Forever stamps. There's a much bigger selection on the site than at the post office, so I stocked up: plenty of jolly old St. Nick stamps for the mountain of Christmas cards we'll hopefully be sending out. Some smaller denominations to make up the difference between former postage rates and current ones. And a whole lot just for the fun of it.

All to the tune of about $400.

If you know anything about me, and if you don't by now I don't know what else I can do except bring you to my therapy sessions with me, you know I'm a dog person.

Especially if the dog is a German Shepherd.

So it comes as no surprise to anyone that when I saw the sheet of dog stamps that included my favorite breed, I had to fetch them (sorry). What I meant to say was pony up for them. Does that make these stamps a dog and pony show? Discuss.

Of course, I alway like to go for the funny. So any chance I get I try to add a little humor to my envelopes and bring some well-needed joy (what can I say, I'm a giver) whenever possible. I don't waste them paying bills or answering mail surveys or any mailing I'm sure will be opened by machine. But on those occasions when I know my correspondence will be opened and read by a friend or at least delivered by a human, the Sesame Street stamps above and these wascally wabbit Bugs Bunny stamps fit the bill.

The Count is my favorite character on the Street, but sadly there isn't even vone! sheet of stamps dedicated solely to him. So I got the ones with all the characters. I figured what the hell, at least I don't have to hear Elmo laugh.

And since I grew up on Warner Bros. cartoons—my favorites were the Rabbitt season!/Duck season! battles between Bugs and Daffy Duck, I'd have to be looney tunes not to have bought them. See what I did there?

For my more serious scribblings, and because I love almost everything having to do with space travel, I also ordered the insipiring First Moon Landing stamps. And when serious words cross over to somber, the envelopes get the JFK-in-thoughtful-repose treatment.

I don't collect stamps, but I do enjoy them. Always have. In fact I've written about them on here before.

Anyway, I'd like to encourage you, all nine readers, to remember the joy and surprise of getting a letter from a friend or loved one. A postcard from a foreign land (for the last eight months that'd be anyplace outside your house). Put yourself on an email diet, and start writing actual letters again. They'll be more meaningful, plus you'll have time to think about what you're writing before you hit send. And by hitting send I mean dropping it in the mailbox. If your mailbox wasn't removed by DeJoy.

While you're at it be sure to buy lots of stamps at USPS.com to support the postal service. After all, they're the fine people (not on both sides) who played a huge, instrumental part in saving democracy and delivering the millions of ballots that made sure the Traitor-In-Chief didn't get a second term.

And in my book, that alone makes them a first-class operation.

Elephant in the room

This will come as a shock, but even in the halcyon days before Covid, going to the dentist was never on my short list of favorite things. It ranked slightly above getting a colonoscopy and just below hearing the Facts Of Life theme song.

But ask anyone who knows me, and right after they stop laughing they’ll tell you I’m nothing if not an overachiever. And because I am, unlike mere mortals I need to have my teeth cleaned three times a year instead of the usual two.

One of those appointments came up back in May. My dentist’s office called to ask if I was going to be comfortable coming in, and I assumed she was asking because of Covid and not my usual bad attitude towards having a strangers hands messing around in my mouth.

I told her, for both reasons, I was not.

So we postponed the appointment a few months, even though I knew full well because I was missing it the next cleaning was going to involve x-rays, extra scraping, maybe a transfusion and definitely smelling salts.

When it came time to face the music last month, I was still apprehensive because of Covid, but I also didn’t want my teeth to wind up looking like Austin Powers’.

As I arrived I was relieved to see my dentist was following strict Covid protocols. I couldn’t just walk in, I had to call from outside and let him know I was there.

Once inside, I had to answer a short questionnaire, using a clean pen, and then had my temperature taken. I was walked back to the hygienist’s area and directed to the chair. That’s when I saw it: the elephant in the room.

The rather unattractive piece of technology you see up top here is referred to as The Elephant. It’s an industrial grade air filter that sucks the air down the tube before any particles of anything have a chance to go anywhere—like into your nose or mouth.

They placed it literally a quarter inch from my mouth. It was extremely loud but strangely reassuring (just like my high school girlfriend).

My hygienist was wearing two masks, gloves and a face shield. She also pointed out that of the two of us, she was the one more in danger of being exposed to something since my yap was wide open the whole time.

Anyway, the Elephant did a swell job, and I left the office without catching anything except a case of pearly whites. My next daring deed will be masking up and returning to my acupuncturist.

For a long list of reasons, I’m hoping there are no needles called The Elephant in his office.

He has my vote

Like many of you, and by many I mean the nine people that read this blog on a semi-regular basis, and by semi-regular basis I mean you forgot to empty the cache and it came up again accidentally, I thought this day would never get here.

Election day. It's the one we've been waiting four extremely unpleasant years for.

But it's here now, and it's our last chance to replace the racist, lying, misogynistic, name-calling, Big Mac-grazing, nazi-loving, pussy-grabbing, Covid-spreading, division-stoking, dictator-fawning, deficit-raising, veteran-hating, democracy-killing, adderall-fueled, festering piece of shit occupying the White House with someone who deserves to be there.

Someone with a moral compass and an innate sense of right and wrong.

Someone with intelligence that rises to the job and being leader of the free world.

Someone who in times of severe hardship and sacrifice—say a war or a pandemic—we can trust will have our best interests at heart and will act accordingly.

Someone who won't be laughed at every time they're on the world stage.

Someone who will surround themself with a cabinet of intelligent, non-yes men and women (no-men?) instead of swamp-residing, just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock grifters looking to line their pockets on the taxpayer's dime.

Someone whose kids don't kill wild, endangered species for sport and aren't second-generation festering pieces of shit.

Someone we can respect.

That's why I'd like more than anything to cast my vote for Josiah Bartlet. I'd like to, but I can't.

On the off chance you don't know, Barlet is the fictional president played by Martin Sheen on The West Wing, which it so happens the wife and I have been bingeing for a while now (we're on season 4, episode 17). He possesses all the above mentioned positive qualities, as well as a wicked sense of humor, laser-focus and a keen analytical mind. It sounds great, amIrite?

And while I'm sad I can't vote for Josiah Bartlet, I'm happy I've already cast my vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.

During primary season, Biden wasn't my first choice, he was my fifth. I imagine that's true for a lot of people. My dream ticket was Harris/Buttigieg. Or Warren/Buttigieg. Or Sanders/Buttigieg. Or Buttigieg/Yang. But Biden brings with him the experience, the leadership, the compassion and the decency we've lost as a country. It will take decades to undo the damage the unstable genius has done, but Biden has a roadmap to get there.

Plus instead of a simpering suck-up who looks at him with moony-moon eyes and a schoolgirl crush, in Kamala Harris Biden has a Vice President more than qualified for the job, a trusted advisor and someone who won't be afraid to speak up when she disagrees with policy.

So today I'm going to try as hard as I can to stay away from all the election news—it'll go on for days and months, I'm sure I'll hear about it. Instead I'll be spending my spare time watching more episodes of The West Wing. Because while Aaron Sorkin's stellar, rapid-fire dialogue and precision writing gives me a benchmark to aspire to (you know I can hear you laughing, right?), in each and every episode, and on this day especially, it also gives me something else I've missed terribly and need desperately.

Hope.