It isn’t Winter till it’s white, nor Summer till it’s warm at night, nor Fall till sweaters are the thing, nor Spring until the Cardinals sing. I've yet to hear the Cardinals sing. I’ve heard, this year, there’ll be no Spring, no Summer, too, just Fall, and that Trump, to move some sweaters, is the force behind it all. This seemed to me a tad extreme, a nutsy, twisted point of view, till Trump declared it wasn’t so, confirming it was true.

I was with my friend, Coby.

“If you could do it again,” he said, “what would you change?”

“I’ve thought about that and, for one thing, I’d be a lot more interesting.”

He laughed. “How, exactly? How would you pull it off?”

“I’d say ‘yes’ a lot of the times I said ‘no’, and ‘no’ a lot of the times I said ‘yes’. I’d say what was on my mind. And I’d be more openly ignorant. I’d no longer let pass what I didn’t understand. I’d ask a lot more questions, be a lot more engaged, more interested.”


“Becoming less ignorant in the process.”

“Exactly. And a much-improved conversationalist. And, thereby, more interesting. You get what you give—to be more interesting, be more interested. Right? Works most of the time, anyway. So that’s what I’d change. How about you? What would you change?”



Not long after listening to Melania Trump explain away those ill-chosen words on the back of her coat, I was strolling along Yonge Street, my mind adrift, and stepping suddenly into my path, this big guy in a red MAGA cap pointed at my “FUCK TRUMP” t-shirt and said, “I don’t like your message.”

I was prepared. “There’s no message,” I said, “simply nine letters artistically arranged on a black t-shirt. The words they form are of no importance—it’s the relationship of each letter to each other letter and of each to the whole that matters.”

He looked ready to punch me in the mouth, so I told him I was only joking, that, in fact, for visual impact, all punctuation had been dropped and that “FUCK TRUMP” was meant to be read as “FUCK! TRUMP!” as in response, for instance, to who gets the biggest crowds, or has the best words, or the hugest brain. “There are a multitude of choices,” I said.

He brightened immediately and we bumped fists. Then, after feeling the sleeve of my shirt to gauge its quality, he asked where he could get one just like it. I told him and said he wouldn’t be sorry, that it was a very comfortable, well-made shirt. Plus, it would really set off his hat. He agreed and said he might order a bunch for his friends, too. I gave him a thumbs up.

2020—it pleases both the eye and the ear and prompts thoughts of perfect vision, which those in the vision business will no doubt be capitalizing on in the coming months, any day now, rolling out their 2020-vision ad campaigns. They may already have begun petitioning to have 2020 declared "the year of perfect vision". It’s a perfect fit.

Others will capitalize, too. I’m imagining Trump, a month or so from now, blathering away to a grinning assemblage of bobbleheads in red MAGA caps, claiming there’s never been an American President in the entire history of mankind with vision like his.

"Abe Lincoln, George Washington, Thomas Edison—none of them had vision like mine," he boasts.

The bobbleheads are clapping and cheering and waving their arms.

"Twenty/twenty? No big deal, people. My vision is eighty/eighty—four times twenty/twenty! Four times! How many people can say that? One in a billion? One in a trillion? Who knows. Probably one in a trillion. And you know what? It gets better every day. You wouldn't believe what I can see!"

He makes binoculars with his fists and scans back and forth across the crowd. They’re laughing.




DAY ONE, 2020