Get Cozy

There was a time in my formative years where I envisioned myself as a writer. It started with short stories, then mixed in some poetry – each garnering compliments and encouragement from those that cared about me. As I entered young adulthood, and found love for the first time, one may have even thought I was a romantic. Each gift occasion included a verse that was rewarded with an emotional response. Maybe, I thought, “this is my calling”.

Having failed miserably at my first attempt at university studying Commerce, I enrolled at a smaller college with a Journalism program. I was active with the college paper, and eagerly volunteered humor columns to the editorial staff – most of which were published. I believed this was going to be my career, and I took an internship at one of the local city papers. I still remember wandering the halls of that office, and seeing the columnists at the coffee station, smoking cigarettes, chatting up their colleagues.

Two weeks into that gig, I actually was credited with a byline covering a Platinum Blonde concert the previous night. This not to say I wrote the piece. But I did submit a draft of what would have been my story to the beat writer, who then inserted it into his daily events column. It was the start of something amazing.

But not really.

Soon thereafter I had a bleak conversation with another writer at the paper who laid out expectations on work hours, salary, and general lifestyle of a newspaper journalist. This became my reality when I was offered a position that summer as a junior beat writer, for $13,000 per year. Canadian dollars.

I don’t know what the poverty line was in Calgary back in 1985, but I’m pretty sure it was well above that. My love of writing took a back seat to earning money. Some might lament that choice, and I understand that. However, money held a special place in my heart, and boy howdy did I like to spend it. Nope, writing was not going to support my destined lifestyle, so I went into the Sales side of the media business and never looked back.

This is a long way of saying I’m not a writer. I have no idea who is going to read these articles, other than my loved ones, most of whom rely on my financial support, and are required to at least pretend they take this project seriously. Actual writers will notice my complete lack of specificity on dates and locations for this post. All valid, but if you’ve made it this far, I’m pretty sure the informality of my approach isn’t a deal killer?

I’m now 58 years old, and my writing to date has been confined to the miracle of social media platforms, where everyone is a writer, everyone an expert. My participation in the great social media experiment began on Facebook in 2008, which I only bumped into because my 25th high school reunion was being planned in my hometown of Calgary, using Facebook for invites and updates. Living in Connecticut, the chances of me ever hearing about this reunion were pretty remote – so, yay Facebook? I barely remember those halcyon days where FB posts were 99% about children, vacations, fundraisers, and the inevitable lamenting of whatever sports team ruined your weekend.

I used my presence on Facebook to reconnect with old friends and family, and perhaps try and make people laugh with stories of airline travel, drunken nights out, and exaggerated recollections normally shared around a kitchen table or backyard campfire. But then… Obama happened and I turned into a self-appointed political operative, responsible for responding to what I perceived as bigotry, and in some cases, straight up illogical hate for the man.

I have started this blog as a vehicle to clear my head of what ails me. Social media rants during the Obama years, and subsequently Trump’s first term, caused rifts in my personal life that I now regret. The price I paid for “winning” an argument was hardly worth it. Did I feel better after belittling those I disagreed with? Sometimes, honestly. But those debates were mostly with online trolls who in reality were not worth a moment of my thoughts. Usually, I would go to bed angry.

When the 2020 election was won by Joe Biden, I honestly thought that was the end of it. Even after January 6th – a truly dark day in our history – I was comforted by the fact Trump was gone, and the MAGA cultists lost.

What we learned during the Biden years, however, was that America had changed. MAGA didn’t die, they reloaded as the official opposition, and somehow managed to convince millions of voters that their eyes and ears had deceived them – for years. Young men, Latinos, Black men, union workers, decided that Trump’s foibles no longer mattered. January 6th wasn’t a big deal. Trump’s two impeachments (including one bipartisan conviction), were meaningless. Trump’s FELONY conviction for fraud – no big deal. His being found liable for sexual assault, and then being ordered to pay the victim millions of dollars for defamation – yawn. His disturbing infatuation with Vladimir Putin, his constant demeaning of veterans, intelligence officials, the FBI, HIS OWN CABINET officials – just a regular weekday morning. Then, there’s the lying. Friends and acquaintances who voted for Trump do seem to agree that the man has a loose association with truth. Big or small, the lies are repeated over and over again, exhausting people who care about integrity in the leader of the free world – but MAGA simply don’t care, and too many of them believe them outright. For if the words came from Donald Trump, they simply don’t need any other justification for their beliefs. I personally find those people sad and pathetic.

So, having laid it all out there, I’m feeling pretty excited about documenting my thoughts more formally – and in time, perhaps I won’t feel so much rage with each headline incredulously asking, “did you see what this guy did yesterday?” Yes, I did see it. I see it all. But I’m working on not letting this chaos define my day or affect my relationships negatively, by venting in a healthier way. Perhaps like a writer might do.