Living at a leisurely pace.

I’m more likely to let things slide when living alone.  Than when I’m living with my Italian true love.  Thing is, when we are together, we tend to motivate each other. To do things. Projects around the house. And travel. Though sometimes it’s best to be lazy. To slow down. To do less.  Without feeling guilty. Life was meant to proceed at a leisurely pace.  –Jim Broede

Something to think and write about.

I love being a journalist. Because it gives me the opportunity to learn. About things I know little or nothing about. By being inquisitive. Asking questions. And then writing about it. In laymen’s terms.  I force/persuade the experts to talk to me. In words and explanations that I understand.  So that maybe other novices like me can read what I write.  And get it. Now I specialize in talking to strangers. To find out what they are all about. I want to know something significant.  In the first 10 minutes. Gives me something to think and write about. –Jim Broede

Being a mere tax-paying patriot.

I pay my taxes willingly. No cussing. No protest. It’s the patriotic thing to do. And I wouldn’t object to a tax increase for a jobs program geared to expand and repair the nation’s infrastructure.  Don’t like every way that my government spends money. Too much goes to war and defense. But I recognize that it’s right and proper for the government to levy taxes. Especially for programs that serve the common good. I’d eliminate tax code loopholes that allow some rich individuals and corporations to pay little or no taxes. That’s grossly unfair.  I’m willing to sacrifice a portion of my income for my country. But not my life. I’ll leave that contribution to the super patriots. My preference: Being a mere tax-paying patriot. –Jim Broede

The best pleasure of being.

No doubt, it’s risky business living into one’s 80s and 90s. Because that greatly increases the risk of dying from Alzheimer’s disease.  Not a pleasant way to go. But consider the trade-off. I would  gladly accept living to a ripe old age and dying ultimately of Alzheimer’s. Sure beats dying before one's time -- of anything.  Give me a long, long and healthy life so I have more opportunity to savor true love. The best pleasure of being.  –Jim Broede

Without feeling guilty.

I know someone with an abundance of blessings. Actually, too many blessings. So that she doesn’t know how to deal with it all. She feels overwhelmed. Trying to manage all the blessings. She has a wonderful husband. A wonderful marriage.  She has economic security. A good job. She has a nice home. On a lake. She has a grown son, who visits often. Both of her parents are still living. They’re in their 80s. But that’s proving to be both a blessing and a curse. Because they have dementia.  But she’s a devoted daughter. And brought the parents into her own home. For four years now. She feels obligated and responsible for caring for the parents.  She’s devoted. But too devoted. To the point that she’s become physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. As a result, she’s faced with having to put the parents into assisted living. In order for her to survive. So that she can get respite and enjoy her many, many blessings. But she feels overwhelming guilt. And sounds like she wants to become a saint. To care for the parents until she dies doing it. That would make her a martyr. A true masochistic saint. I keep telling her, she’s not a saint. But a fool if she proceeds  along this line. She’s blessed with long-lived parents. Appreciate that blessing. Appreciate the fact that they have lived long enough to ultimately die of Alzheimer’s. A disease of the aged. And know that they are decent parents. That don’t want her to become a saintly fool. Rather she put them into assisted living. Without feeling guilty.  –Jim Broede

Indeed, she's a 'Lovebud'

I’m walking my neighbor’s dog. As a favor to the busy neighbor.  And I’ve taken the liberty of renaming the dog. I call her ‘Lovebud.’  Don’t like her given name, Sasha. If the neighbor wants to keep that name, fine. But I hardly ever hear the neighbor call her anything. Anyway, Sasha seems like a dumb and unnatural name for a dog. I tried calling her ‘Sasha’ a couple times. But that sounded phony.  She reacts favorably when I address her as ‘Lovebud.’  Sensing a doggy smile.  Every dog should have a unique name.  One reflecting the dog’s personality. Indeed, she’s a ‘Lovebud’. –Jim Broede

A thought.

It ain’t blasphemy. To think of one’s self as a god. Or at least as a potential god. Able to achieve the ultimate.  If only given the time. And opportunity. Let’s speculate. That the grand creator had in mind creating his equals. Gods. Instead of mere mortal people. But he wanted them to earn their way to the top of the pyramid.  Not to achieve such status automatically. That would be too easy. Anyway, I have a desire to talk directly to the grand creator. To ask him about his intentions. For me. For everyone. If he’s a fair and just sort of being, he’d have to give consideration to power-sharing. Or maybe not. It’s just a thought. –Jim Broede

Ending the curse.

For the fun of it, I’d temporarily change the name of the Chicago Cubs to the Chicago Snakebites. Because that’s what they are. A snake-bitten baseball team. A team characterized by bad luck. Maybe that’s why the Cubs/Snakebites have a full-time team psychologist. The players are head cases. Feeling cursed. Snake-bitten. Of course, the real problem may be incompetent/inept baseball players. But I suspect it’s mostly negative thinking. I can fix that. Fire the psychologist. Hire me. I’ll cultivate positive thinking baseball players. Ending the curse. And making  the Cubs the Cubs again. Real winners.  For the first time since 1908. –Jim Broede

Amazing stuff...in the afterlife.

I imagine all sorts of afterlife. Many, many possible scenarios. And if life is an illusion, maybe I’m allowed to pick and choose. And live whichever illusion suits me. That would be nice. I'd live as a spirit. In another dimension. I'd leave Mother Earth. And explore the cosmos. And have a chit-chat with the creator. Of course, the spirit world could be an illusion, too. A dream. But that's all right.  Because the illusion of life feels so real. Enough to fool me. Into thinking that I'm really alive and conscious. That's good enough for me.  I'd rather not be an alone spirit. Preferring to mingle with other spirits. Maybe Mozart. I want to know if he's making spiritual music. And what it sounds like. I'd like to converse with Einstein's spirit. About his theory of relativity. And how it applies to the spirit world. Can we spirits travel faster than the speed of light? I suspect we can. That we can even walk on water. And do other amazing stuff...in the afterlife.--Jim Broede

My idyllic life.

The idyllic life. Very little stress. I bide my time. Reflecting. About the past.  Young  again. Starting over. Not writing for newspapers anymore. Instead, just writing. By impulse. Things more creative.  More meaningful.   Hey, that’s what I’m doing. Living my dream. Savoring the idyllic way.  –Jim Broede

By savoring the simple life.

There’s my world. And the rest of the world. But for me, it’s really only one world.  My world.  The one I’m exposed to. That I live in. My immediate environs.  And the people I’m linked to. Friends. Acquaintances. Strangers. I hear about happenings around the world. Not everything, of course. Very little, in fact. Stuff over which I have virtually no control. Much of it goes ignored. Totally. Makes living easier. Simpler. I exist and live in my domain. My little niche. My exclusive world.  Where I find my reality. I accept it.  The only world I’ve got. Gotta try to make the best of it. Centuries ago, I would have known very little of the outside world. Maybe now I know too much. It can be upsetting and frightening. Makes me wonder why I’m so very happy. Maybe it’s that I don't make life too complicated. By savoring the simple life. In my world.   –Jim Broede

The art of losing.

The Chicago Cubs have perfected the art of losing. Baseball games. In artful ways. They can snatch defeat. From almost certain victory. Oh, some Cubs fans call this stuff heartbreaking. But I know better.  It’s no longer a mere craft. It’s pure art. Every day. Every night. The Cubs come up with new ways to lose. Creative ways. Beyond human imagination.  I give the Cubs players credit. They have perfected losing. Into an art form. –Jim Broede

For the right reason.

Wagner. The great composer. Born 200 years ago this week. I’m no big fan of his music. Preferring Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn. But I give Wagner credit. And honor. For being a romantic. Imagine a guy that secretly composes ‘Siegfried’s Idle,’ so that he can debut it for his wife, Cosima. On her birthday. Sneaks in 13 musicians. Outside his wife’s bedroom door. To wake her. With beautiful live music. Come to think of it. Maybe I should pay more heed to Wagner’s music. He composed for the right reason. –Jim Broede

A celebration of our sickness.

A holiday in America. The Memorial Day weekend. To honor the war dead. A pity. A shame. That we Americans have had so very many wars. We have all sorts of wars. A war on drugs. A war on terrorism.  We have bitter, hateful wars in Congress. Between Republicans and Democrats. We’ve had wars on black people. And red people, too. We have wars on ourselves. We celebrate war. We think of the war dead as heroes. Patriots. Sacrificing one’s self for country. We Americans think of ourselves as the good guys. And the rest of the world as the bad hombres. But I guess that goes for every country. In Germany the superior ones are Germans. In Russia, the Russians. In China, the Chinese. War has become a game. All over the world. An international pastime. Often revered.  Made to seem glamorous. Reason for a holiday. A celebration of our sickness. –Jim Broede

Learning to take better care.

Many Alzheimer care-givers are killing themselves. Oh, it won’t be called suicide. But they’ll die. From overwhelming stress.  Exhaustion. Physical. Mental. Emotional. That especially goes for the 24/7 care-givers. The ones that hardly ever get a moment of respite. I personally know some of ‘em. And it’s sad to watch them deteriorate. Really, it’s a form of suicide.  They have options. Such as putting loved ones into assisted living. But they don’t. For a variety of reasons. But mostly out of a sense of obligation/responsibility. They don’t stop to think that others will have to take over. After they are gone. It’d be far better if they stuck around. By learning to take better care of themselves. –Jim Broede

The Obama way.

Obama. If I ever become his chief of staff, he’ll be limited to making one fine speech a week. Carefully crafted. And directed to the American people. Not Congress. He’ll tell, in very articulate and understandable and succinct ways, just what’s to be done. The speeches will be so convincing that Americans will put pressure on Congress. To get things done. The Obama way. –Jim Broede

True love: A blending of two souls.

Can’t complain. Because I have a true love.  An Italian. Going on six years now.  Maybe that’s the primary reason for my happiness. But then, I’m really happy for multiple reasons.  Because if I didn’t have a true love, I’d still be in love. With life.  Basically, it’s easy being happy. If one is alive and conscious. And healthy. Anyway, I’m fortunate. Because I’ve had two true loves in my lifetime. Some people don’t have any. I wonder how one gets a true love. Does it just happen? Could be. Just a matter of fate. Destiny. But I’m a romantic idealist. And in both instances, I cultivated true love. The opportunities were there. And I took advantage. Of course, true love has to come on a two-way street, too. True love can’t just be foisted. It’s reciprocated. In all kinds of ways. But it comes down to a blending of two souls. Nothing in life is more meaningful and more dynamic than true love. –Jim Broede

Fine-tuning may not be near enough.

I don’t want the responsibility of being the boss. The grand creator. God.  Though it’s nice to flirt with the idea of filling such a role. Maybe on stage. In a play. How would I handle the job?  Don’t know where I’d begin. My guess is that the real creator – if there is one – realized from the start that he was mistake-prone. That he wasn’t all-knowing. That he was creating a mess. Oh, some beautiful and magnificent stuff, too. Maybe by accident. And that the rights offset the wrongs. But I’d be inclined to wipe the slate clean. And start all over. Learning from my mistakes. But then, maybe all it takes is some fine-tuning.  Maybe that’s what we are in the midst of now. Fine-tuning. But I suspect that won’t be near enough. –Jim Broede

The ultimate freedom.

My imagination. That’s my biggest asset.  A blessing. The nicest part of my consciousness. Puts me on the same level as the grand creator. I can create anything imaginable. Sure, it’s only a figment of my imagination. But that’s good enough for me. Imagining  that one is alive is still being alive.  I can imagine all sorts of things. Not least, walking on water. I imagine what it feels like. I can create from within me a world in which such feats are accomplished. No limits to life. That’s what I imagine. And it’s fascinating and thrilling and perplexing. A little bit of everything. Gives me a sense of being free. Best of all is imagining  that I am spirit. The ultimate freedom. –Jim Broede

An idiot could do better.

I’d fire the manager of the Chicago Cubs. Dale Sveum. For managing the Cubs stupidly. For using the wrong relief pitchers at the wrong times.  He puts far too much faith in inept pitchers. When there are better ones available. On the current roster. I’d sit the bad ones. And gamble with overworking the good ones. Apparently, Sveum wants to spread the workload. The Cubs could have a decent record. If only Sveum knew how to manage the relief corps.  The Cubs have blown 10 of 20 save opportunities.  Mostly because of Sveum’s inept decisions. I could do better. And I’m an idiot. What does that make Sveum? –Jim Broede

Bodies to match their spirits.

I drive old cars. A 1997 Olds Cutlass. And a 1991 Mercury Cougar. Chances are, I’ll never own a new car again. Because I like old. Even when I had new cars, I guided them into old age.  My last new car was purchased in 1984. A Ford Escort.  Lasted for 222,000 miles. A stick shift. Same clutch. From beginning to end. Sad time when the Escort finally died. Of old, rusted age.  Became a danger to itself. On the verge of breaking in half. Anyway, my Cutlass and Cougar may last longer than me. Which is all right. Wouldn’t surprise me if they go another 20 years. I’m bringing both of ‘em in for facelifts. Their engines/hearts are still good. It’s more a case of body repairs. Better looking facades. To match their spirits. –Jim Broede

Stepping naked into the world.

I take pride in being able to write unbiased news stories. Even though I am biased. I am able to set aside my biases. For the sake of being fair. I used to write opinion columns. And news stories at the same time. Editors generally discouraged me from touting my opinions. Because many readers automatically assumed I’d be biased in news stories, too. Even if I wasn’t. Thing is, virtually every writer has biases. Political, economic, social. About the subjects they write about. Any writer that tells you they aren’t biased probably is lying. I’m forthright enough to let people know where I’m coming from. And that I’m fully capable of being fair and balanced in a news story. That’s part of my training as a journalist. Doesn’t necessarily mean that I succeed 100 percent of the time. But I come pretty close. I can write a political story. About an election. And tell readers who I voted for. And still write a fair and objective story on the election. Some political writers brag that they have disenfranchised themselves. They don’t vote. Because they claim that’s the only way to remain unbiased. But believe me, they know who they would have voted for. They have opinions. Which they chose not to share. I prefer  full disclosure. Stepping naked into the world. –Jim Broede

My pursuit of the good life.

I don’t work. I’m retired. But both statements could be construed as lies. I never stopped being active. I kept working, so to speak. Mostly in pleasurable ways. As a care-giver to my dear wife Jeanne. During her siege with Alzheimer’s. Until she died in 2007. And I’ve never quit writing. Not for newspapers any more. But I sit down and write. Virtually every day. Stuff that I want to write. My blog. And love letters. I write more now than I did when employed by newspapers. So in actual practice, maybe I haven’t retired. Except there’s a big difference. I’m my own boss. Days are relaxing. More or less stress-free. I have no deadlines. And I write what I want to write.  Without having to please an editor. Of course, the pay isn’t as good. But that’s all right. I have enough to live on. Comfortably.  And I even have a business card. Which lists me as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer, That’s in addition to being a writer. And I’m able to split my time living in America and Italy. Add it all up. And it comes to my pursuit of the good life. –Jim Broede

I tell each thought, 'Be nice.'

Doesn’t bother me to have nothing on my mind. Because then I start with a clean slate. I ask myself, ‘What should I put on my mind?’ Instead of grappling for a topic, I decide to just let it happen. Naturally. Allowing the next thought to surface. On its own. Invariably, it’s a thought that’s been hidden in my sub-conscious. Maybe for a long time.  And the thought appreciates being set free. Into my consciousness. Gives me a hearty thank you. A kiss on the forehead. Turns out that some of my thoughts are very independent. They disassociate themselves with me.  Preferring to exist on their own. But I tell them they really don’t exist. Unless I open the door. To my consciousness. Otherwise, they wouldn’t see the light of day. They might remain imprisoned in my subconscious. I’m the boss. The warden. I tell each thought: ‘Be nice. Or I’ll throw away the key. And keep you locked up forever.’ –Jim Broede

I'm overruling Mother Nature.

I allow intermittent rain to dictate the style of my life today. But only to a limited extent. When it ain’t raining, I ride my bicycle. When it’s raining, I come indoors. And write.  About such subjects as the intermittent rain. And how to cope with it. Happily. Now it’s raining hard. A downpour. Buffeted by the wind. But if the rain doesn’t let up by day’s end, I’ll challenge Mother Nature. And bike 40 miles. Even if I get soaking wet.  I’m determined. To take control of the situation. And not let the rain/Mother Nature dictate the ultimate outcome of my endeavor. I’m the boss. Not Mother Nature. –Jim Broede

I want to be different.

I don’t know how to fight inequality. Or if I even want to. Maybe people were never meant to be equal. I, for one, don’t want to be like everyone else. I want to be different. That pulls me betwixt and between. Because I also advocate a narrowing of the gap between the rich and the poor. Yes, I want more equality when it comes to monetary wealth. And more equality of opportunity, too. The right for everyone to acquire a decent education. And I’m for universal health care. For rich and poor alike. But more than anything, I want to be different. A unique human being. Free to be a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. –Jim Broede

Martyrdom: The too easy way.

Being selfish can be an attribute. The smart thing. Especially for care-givers. Unfortunately, I see care-givers who don’t adequately care for themselves. They become exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. I know one in particular.  She’s on the road to burn out. Caring for her dementia-ridden parents. She gets help. From her husband. And hired care-givers, too. But she doesn’t get near enough respite. Care-giving and life have become an endless and deploring  grind. Not the way life was meant to be. For four years now, and counting. I fear that it may end tragically. Another case of a care-giver succumbing before the recipients. That’s sad. But it happens every day. I encourage Alzheimer care-givers to find ways to avoid 24/7 care-giving. Ain’t good for anyone. Downright self-defeating. Better not to be a saint. Doing more harm than good. Many saints shouldn’t be revered. They should have known better. Found  ways to survive. In order to become better and long-lasting care-givers. By being a little bit selfish. Caring for themselves. Instead of  choosing the too easy way. Martyrdom. –Jim Broede

The burden of wishful thinking.

When tragedies occur around the world, I try not to get too upset. Because they are events over which I have absolutely no control. No sense in becoming distraught. Or grief-stricken. Stuff happens. Like madmen that go on killing rampages. I can’t do anything about it. So I get on with the rest of my life. The best I can. And pretty much put those things out of my mind. Of course, if there are outcomes that I can effect in positive ways – and I don’t – that’s something else. Might leave me with misgivings. Yes, qualms of conscience. I draw lines. Allow some things to bother me. But not others. Used to be that I spent far too much time lamenting events over which I had no control. Some mighty serious stuff. But trivialities, too. Such as the outcome of a ball game.  I was burdening myself with wishful thinking. Oh, I still wish. For many, many things.  But hey, it’s all right if the wish-provider denies most everything. I can still manage. And more or less live happily ever after. –Jim Broede

Blaming all but themselves.

The New York Times did it right. They sent writers to the Internal Revenue Service office in Cincinnati. To determine what went wrong. And just how it happened.  Yes, right to the scene of the fiasco. Congress, however, remained in Washington. And continues to hold hearings. At a distance. Rather than getting to the heart of the matter. The real causes.  An understaffed and underfunded bureau. A lack of management direction. Much of it the result of benign neglect by finger-pointing congressmen. Ready to blame everyone but themselves. –Jim Broede

On becoming colorblind.

I like it that America is becoming less and less white. A blending of many races and ethnic groups. We Americans are darker-skinned than we used to be.  I’m whiter than most. Blue-eyed, too. But I’m very comfortable with the darker hues. Doesn’t bother me a bit if I’m perceived as a minority.  Because color should never have been a big thing. I like all kinds of color. Contrasting colors.  Really, shouldn’t make an iota of difference. Whether I’m black or white. Or purple, for that matter. Guess I’ve become more or less colorblind. –Jim Broede

The defenders of America.

Many conservatives – individuals and organizations – seem to be at war with government. Accusing government of being too intrusive in their lives. Instead, many conservatives would prefer having free rein. Doing as they please. Even if it’s contrary to the common good. They don’t hesitate to bad-mouth Barack Obama. And so-called liberals/progressives. Many of ‘em hate Obama. Because he’s black. Some talk about open rebellion. And seceding from the USA. They insist on arming themselves. With lethal weapons. They’d like to foist their ways on all of us.  They think the rest of us are ignorant. And subversive. That we’re the problem. And so they have more or less declared war. On government. And those of us who prefer government that serves the common good.  With decent social programs. Such as social security and the Affordable (Medical) Care Act. Well, if it’s war that the conservatives want – let’s give ‘em war. Let’s start looking at them as enemy combatants. As the subversives. As the ones out to overthrow our legitimate  government. We liberals/progressives/socialists have to start looking at ourselves as the true patriots.  The defenders of America. –Jim Broede

My biased opinion.

Nothing wrong with singling out politically conservative organizations for special scrutiny when it comes to suspected tax evasion. That’s my biased/subjective opinion. Because conservatives tend to hate taxes. Of virtually any kind. Therefore, it’s probably the inclination of conservatives to cheat.  And to search for loopholes in the tax codes. Of course, there may be honest conservatives. But that’s like saying there are honest crooks. It’s highly unlikely. I have no qualms about being biased when dealing with lunatic fringe Republicans. Because they are biased. And overly judgmental. Thus, I treat them as they would treat others. That is, when I choose to. Sometimes I treat them fairly, anyway.  Unbiased. Objectively.  To try to teach them the fine art of fairness. But usually they are far too stupid to absorb the lesson. Once again, that’s my biased opinion. –Jim Broede

A thought...as in a love letter.

I am able to create. Written words. And thoughts. That is a blessing.  Maybe that. More than anything. Makes me feel alive. Of course, I can think. Without writing. But for me, the written word is absolute confirmation. Of a thought. Because I can see it.  I can speak a thought, too. And even record my voice. So that I can hear it. Audibly. But there is nothing as magnificent as the written word. Especially a blending of words.  A sentence. A paragraph. The forming of a thought…as in a love letter. –Jim Broede

A wonderful carry-over effect.

My neighbor Julie asked me today how I manage to stay even keel. In temperament. She observed that I’m relatively easy going. Nothing seems to rile me. But that isn’t true. I do get upset. But usually not about things over which I have virtually no control. We were talking about the weather. And Julie complained about the unpredictability -- hot one day, cold the next, and even snow in May. But I said it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll take whatever weather we get, and make the best of it. Because I have no control over the weather. I can’t do anything about it. Same thing goes for most everything going on in the world. Therefore, I have no choice. Stuff happens. And I accept it. Meanwhile, I try to get on with my own life. In a happy and delightful manner. By controlling what I can control. Including my attitude toward life. I count my blessings. And that’s where I put my focus. Julie could do the same. But it’s far more difficult for Julie.  Because she lives under considerable stress. Daily.  Caring for her dementia-ridden parents. In her home. I relate to Julie. Having been the care-giver for my dear sweet Jeanne on a 13-year sojourn with Alzheimer’s.  Until she died in 2007. Took me a while to properly manage the stress of care-giving. But I learned. By getting adequate respite, especially in the last three or four years of Jeanne's life. Made me a far better care-giver. By putting in 8 to 10 hours a day, instead of 24 hours.  I took control. And accepted the stuff over which I had no control. The fact that Jeanne had Alzheimer’s. For which there’s no cure. Anyway, I accepted the responsibility of dealing with it. In the right manner. Lovingly. Without anger. Without remorse. Without upset. And the experience brought a rich reward. A wonderful carry-over effect. Made me aware that I am truly in love. With life. –Jim Broede

All I want out of life.

Making money has never been my thing. But I do understand that it’s the prime motivator with many, many people. That it’s a seductive thing. Gives one a sense of security. And the ability to do almost anything. To travel. To own multiple homes. And to indulge in all sorts of luxuries. Thing is, I wouldn’t know what to do with a monetary fortune. Maybe I’d give it away. And disappear. Into a wilderness.  With my true love.  Really, that’s all I need. In that sense, I’m easily satisfied. Don’t need to live in a mansion. Or to have servants. I’d make a lousy king. Because I don’t want political power.  Instead, give me a cocoon. Away from the masses. I don’t want public adulation either. Or fame. I might cultivate a handful of likeable people. Maybe philosophers and poets. For the sake of good conversation.  And I would continue to write. About life. And love. That’s enough to make me happy. Come to think of it. That’s all I want out of life. Happiness. –Jim Broede

A politics of hate.

When living in Italy, I don’t miss America. Because it’s a blessing. Being away. Being sheltered and distanced from American politics. Italians, of course, complain about their political system, too. It’s inefficient and corrupt. But not nearly as mean-spirited as the American system. That’s what I dislike most about America. The mean-spirited nature of our politics. My Italian true love tells me that Italian politics are even more nasty than American politics. But I don’t believe it. Italian politicians are funny. They laugh at each other.  In America, they don’t laugh. Instead, the Republicans despise Democrats. And they hate Obama. Because he’s black.  Maybe even to the same degree that Nazis hated Jews. Some Republicans refuse to accept Obama as an American. Insisting that he wasn’t even born in America. Despite solid proof to the contrary.  Yes, hate affects one’s judgment. And that’s what we have in America.  A politics of hate. –Jim Broede

Why do we tolerate this debacle?

The irony of it all. Conservative Republicans in Congress are saying that government is inept. Full of scandals. That they’d like to link to the Obama administration.  Mostly because they hate Obama.  For being black. And so they blame him for everything. But it’s Congress that’s most inept. The gridlock. Nothing significant gets done. Little wonder. The Republicans block virtually everything. Wanting Obama to fail. Even if that means wrecking government merely for the sake of wrecking government. Because Republicans not only hate Obama. They hate government, period. That’s the nature of Republicans. Hateful. Mean-spirited. And it won’t change until we Americans insist that decent people of good will take over the reins of government. Tell me, fellow Americans, why do we tolerate this political debacle?  --Jim Broede

Those with money rule the roost.

I scoff at politicians who tell me I ain’t treating ‘em fairly. Since when was politics played fairly? Never has been. Never will. That’s the nature of the game. Treat your opponent unfairly. Here’s the way I see it. If one is dealing with a scumbag – well, then one has to play by scumbag rules.  That’s why I generally steer clear of politics. It’s degrading.  Corrupting. I try to stay aloof. But occasionally I get into a political fray. Doesn’t make me feel good. Equivalent to jumping into a cesspool.  Makes one feel dirty. And evil. Occasionally, a politician such as Barack Obama tries to play fair. But it doesn’t work. A naive Obama eventually learns. One can’t be fair in dealing with Republicans. It doesn’t work. Despite Obama’s lofty ideals. Thinking that he can outfox  Republicans by taking his case to the people. And thereby getting the majority on his side. But it won’t happen. Because the political, economic and social systems are rigged. Those with money rule the roost. The majority never wins. A reckless minority has seized control. --Jim Broede

Politics ain't a fair game.

Nothing wrong with singling out Tea Party and other politically conservative organizations for special scrutiny. I’d certainly do it. If I were head of the Internal Revenue Service. Because I suspect them of cheating. Of trying to evade taxes. I’d do the same with big corporations, too. Suspected tax evaders of every ilk. Because they are enemies of the common good. Cheating for the sake of cheating. Of course, I’d have to prove it. And if they thought I was treating them unfairly – well, take me to court. I’d not let them get away with portraying themselves as nonpolitical. When actually they are as political as political can get. It’s a travesty for conservatives, or anyone for that matter, to seek tax-exempt status as social organizations. When it’s all a ruse. But that’s the nature of politics. Get away with any and everything. And when you are caught, pretend that you are being unjustly persecuted.   Thing is, politics ain’t a fair game. It’s partisan. It’s vicious. It’s immoral. –Jim Broede

I have more holidays than Italians.

My Italian true love has been saved from a day of labor. Today. Because it’s a holiday. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia.  A holiday in honor of the city’s patron saint. My true love tells me that the holiday rolls around annually. But it seems more often. I have the impression that it occurs several times. Maybe it’s more the fact that religious holidays abound in Italy. Yes, it’s an advantage of living in a Catholic country. Almost 100 percent of Italians call themselves Catholics. Maybe Italians have been bribed -- with an abundance of religious holidays. Come to think of it, when I’m living in Italy with my true love, every day seems like a holiday.  Even though I’m a non-Catholic. A non-Christian. Instead, I’m a spiritual free-thinker. Means I don’t need a holiday to celebrate life. Every day is special. I’ve learned to savor precious moments. Daily. Means I have far more de facto holidays than the holiday-rich Italians. –Jim Broede

Puts me into an idyllic rapture.

I biked 44 miles today. Following the same one- and two-mile routes. Over and over.  I find comfort. In repetition. But when I exercise, whether it be biking or walking or jogging or running, there’s a rhythm to it all. Maybe it’s my way of dancing. My mind may be preoccupied with all kinds of thoughts. At the same time that my body works like a perfectly tuned engine.  Running on its own. Allows my mind to function unencumbered. Makes me wonder. Is it imagined or real? This clear divide. A separation of my mind/spirit from my physical being. Puts me into an idyllic rapture. –Jim Broede

On being truly alive and conscious.

I think about life. Virtually every day. About being alive. And conscious. I have to. I need a daily reminder. So that I don’t go on cruise control. Otherwise, I might become a robot. Robots abound. All around me. Or so I suspect. People who aren’t conscious of being alive. Because they don’t actively think about it. They merely go through the motions of living. Quiz them about the day. And they don’t recall anything significant. They haven’t thought about being alive. Maybe I’m wrong about that. Like I say, it’s only a suspicion. A guess. I compel myself to search for meaning and purpose. Every day. That’s why I write. My blog. Daily love letters, too, to my Italian true love. Even on days when I’m with her. In the flesh. Or on Skype.  I need her. In my life. In meaningful and loving ways. For sustenance. For vitality. She helps me feel truly alive. So do others. Especially my cats Loverboy and Chenuska. They emit loving vibes. Reminding me that I’m in love. Not only with them. But with life. Yes, conscious life. –Jim Broede

The real non-mechanical me.

I suspect that my physical being really isn’t me.  My body is a machine, at most, and maybe nothing more than a container. For my spirit/soul. Some day I will escape my body. Sort of like escaping from a prison. I’m not complaining. It’s really not a bad place to be. Because it gives spiritual me the opportunity to experience the physical world. Difficult for me to do that in the non-physical spiritual realm.  The real me is really pure spirit. And as spirit, I have been given the opportunity to experience the physical dimension/world. By being placed in a physical container.  Could just as well be inside a rock or a tree or a flower. Virtually anything physical. The physical me really isn’t me. It’s a machine. Something mechanical. My body is most at ease when I function like a machine. In a mechanical rhythm. Unencumbered by my spirit. This has implications when I make love. Real intimate love making is strictly spiritual. Non-mechanical.  There is nothing mechanical about the spirit. --Jim Broede

Life was designed to be savored.

I don’t let other people control the pace of my life. Instead, I take charge.  Doing as I please. At my tempo. Every day, I see people who become rattled. Uneasy. Nervous. And it’s because they submit to the dictates of others. They acquiesce to unreasonable demands. Maybe from a boss. Or even a friend. That’s foolish. And counterproductive. I let everyone know that I’m my own dictator. I fill the role. Admirably. No sense in letting others do it for me. Friends often tell me that they aren’t in a position to live at my kind of pace. Because they aren’t retired. They are still employed. Working. But that’s a lame excuse. Even when employed, I negotiated.  A reasonable pace. My pace. I choose to live slower than others. Because life was designed to be savored. Not hurried. –Jim Broede

Almost as good as a sweet dream.

I don’t mind being tired. Especially at the end of the day. Because I love to rest. To relax. To fall asleep. With a pleasant thought. About being in love.  But I know people who have difficulty sleeping. Even when they are very, very tired. Maybe it’s that their minds stay too active. And their thoughts less than pleasant. I don’t mind waking in the middle of night. Because I have a thought. One that I want to record. So I get up. And write. And that gives me great satisfaction. Might even lose track of time. Which is one of the nicest blessings of life. To be fully absorbed in a pleasant moment. Almost as good as a sweet dream. –Jim Broede

Best of all, to have loved.

I love to think about life. To ponder. That I’m alive and conscious. To be aware. That I exist. Nothing short of incredible. Can’t say that I’ll always be. Maybe death is the end. Nothing. Nothing any more. But even if this is only a momentary glimpse. Still, that makes life a pleasure. A blessing. To have lived.  And best of all, to have loved, --Jim Broede

Dreams that come true.

Every day. I wake up. And turn on my imagination. To the good stuff. The positives. Things that make me happy. Which means my Italian true love comes to mind. I haven’t forgotten. I’m in love. And have been for most of my life. I’ve had two true loves. One after another. That makes me fortunate. Some don’t even have one true love. In an entire lifetime.  Maybe it’s that I have evolved. Into a romantic idealist. A writer. A poet. A dreamer, too. Best of all, it becomes reality when one lives his dreams. I insist on that. I want life no other way.  Dreams that come true. –Jim Broede

Good for one. Tragic for another.

When I’m happy, it’s often because someone else is sad. I benefit by others’ misfortune. That’s the way of life. For instance, yesterday my Chicago Cubs rallied for two runs late in the game and defeated the Washington Nationals, 2-1. That made me happy. Put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. Savoring the nice turn of events. But if the Cubs had lost, I wouldn’t have done any savoring. I’d not be as happy. Meanwhile, ardent and avid fans of the Washington Nationals may have been annoyed and unhappy over the loss of their favorite team. Blowing a late lead. Especially, to the lowly Cubs. Furthermore, the Cubs won two of three games in Washington over the weekend. Besting Washington’s best two pitchers. Yes, I know baseball games are relatively trivial events in the grand scheme of life. No reason to lament the loss of a game. But baseball fans do. However, there are life and death situations that effect one’s life. In good ways. In bad ways. Depends. I frequently cite one of ‘em. In my life. My maternal grandparents died young. In their 20s and 30s. Leaving my mother an orphan. And her parents’ early deaths prompted her into a marriage of convenience. With a man she really didn’t love. But if that had not occurred, I’d never have been born. Therefore, I benefited from the timing of my grandparents deaths. That’s one way of looking at life’s turn of events.   Good for one. Tragic for another. –Jim Broede

Playing/living for the wrong reason.

If I had overwhelming talent, as a baseball player, I’d find it difficult being paid $52 million over four seasons. Just to play baseball for the Chicago Cubs. It’d make me feel like I was being far overpaid for the privilege. And it might put pressure on me to be really, really good.  To truly earn that money. Knowing full well I’m not worth that much. Perhaps I’d become uptight.  And under-perform. I’d probably feel better being paid far less. Because that would be more than adequate. Still providing me with the good life. Doing what I enjoyed. For the pure pleasure of playing baseball.  There is a $52 million player, pitcher Edwin Jackson, pitching for the Cubs now. And he’s started the season slowly. Losing his first five games. He’s been lousy. The worst of the Cubs five starting pitchers. And I suspect it’s because he’s trying to live up to all the hype. To truly earn far more money than any baseball player is really worth. In a sense, the money may be taking the joy out of playing baseball. Playing/living for the wrong reason. The love of money rather than the love of baseball.  –Jim Broede

Happiness. That's the relevant thing.

My Italian true love is happy. Living and working in the Sardinian town where she was born and raised.  She left for her advanced education. At a university. And lived and worked for several years in Florence. But she made it back to her hometown. I tell her maybe she’d be better off in a totally new environs. Because coming home again can be stifling. But that’s merely my opinion. I suspect it would have been stifling for me. If I had stayed where I grew up. In a small town in southeast Wisconsin. I needed to get away. To be surrounded by an entirely new cast of characters. New friends. New acquaintances.  New adventures. Gave me a new start. Meeting people for the first time.  With  no preconceived ideas about me. My true love doesn’t have the same advantage. She’s pegged. To a degree. By impressions local folks had when she was younger. But she’s evolved. In significant ways. She’s no longer the same person. Thing is, some of the natives assume she hasn't changed. They expect her to be someone she’s really not. Therefore, they have a false impression. A false image. Which is funny. They really don’t know her.  I suggest that she set the record straight. But then, she’s laughing, too. Sounds like she’s happy. That’s the relevant thing. –Jim Broede

Other lives I might have lived.

A strange but fascinating feeling. When I heard from Joan Witt. Revived vague memories of 60 and 70 years ago. When I was in elementary school. In high school.  Barely knew her. Before either of us had evolved. And became what we are today. Two very interesting human beings. We’re about the same age. In our late 70s. Joan and I share similarities. We’ve experienced true love. Joan has been married for 57 years. To the same guy. Had eight children. Six sons. Two daughters. Wow! Incredible. Happy. Happy. Same with me. Married for 38 years. Until my wife died of Alzheimer’s. It was true love. Same as now. I’m on my second true love. A wonderful Italian. I live with her in Sardinia. For five months. Every fall and winter. She lives with me in Minnesota in the summer. Anyway, back to Joan. She remained in the small community where I grew up. In southeast Wisconsin.  I moved away. Never to return. But maybe will. There’s the 60th reunion of my high school graduating class. In August. Joan wants me to come. Not so sure I will. But that won’t stop me from renewing my acquaintance with Joan. And maybe several others. People out of my distant past. Because I’m curious. I have a sense of what if… Yes, what if I had stayed? Would I have cultivated a relationship with Joan? Or with other classmates? How would my life have been different? So many potential scenarios. Life adventures that never happened. But might have. I’m fascinated by the thought of it all. Life takes so many twists and turns. I’m a writer. Often writing from my imagination. And now I’m imagining Joan. And so many others. Like ancestors. Out of my past. Wanting to know. What might have been. Other lives I might have lived. –Jim Broede

Racism at its worst.

Never have I come across a more hateful lot than conservative Republican leaders. The ones that say they want Barack Obama to fail. Just for the sake of failing. Because they despise him. Hate him.  Similar to the way Adolph Hitler and the Nazis hated Jews. Hate for the sake of hate. These hateful Republicans don’t even mind if Obama’s failure would be a failure for the USA. That’s gotta be pure hate. Even beyond Hitler’s brand of hate. Because Hitler still wanted Germany/Deutschland to succeed. Of course, the Republicans hate Obama merely because he’s black. They can’t stand to see a black man succeed. Yes, that’s racism at its worst.   –Jim Broede

I've got the better/good life.

When I was writing for the St. Paul Pioneer Press, we had a damn good writer named John Camp. One of the best. I was in awe of him.  Maybe even a little bit envious. Wish I had his natural writing talents. Camp won a Pulitzer prize for his journalism. Now he’s taken to writing fiction. Thrillers.  Under the pseudonym John Sandford. He’s making a good living at it. He’s famous. A best-seller.  Eavesdropped on a radio interview with Camp/Sandford day before yesterday. He’s got the good life. Writes every day. Turns out novel after novel.  Chooses to live in Santa Fe. In New Mexico. Because Minnesota winters tended to put him into depression. Says that in Santa Fe, one gets 350 days of sunshine annually.  Now Camp returns to Minnesota for only two or three weeks. In the summertime.  Come to think of it, I’ve got a better/good life. I’m not nearly as talented a writer as Camp. But I’m me. And I don’t wanna be anyone else. I write every day. In my own way.  Splitting my time. With my Italian true love. In the paradises of Minnesota and Sardinia. –Jim Broede

Postponing defeat's bitter taste.

Slow down. Slow down. Slow down. That’s what pitching coach Chris Bosio keeps telling Chicago Cubs pitchers. Take time to think. About each pitch. Don’t be in a hurry. Life was meant to proceed slowly. To be savored. And that includes the game of baseball. I buy into Bosio’s concept. He wants his pitchers to take the game one pitch at a time. To not get ahead of themselves. To envision exactly what they’re gonna do with each pitch. To imagine the hitter swinging and missing or grounding into a double play. Bosio knows that baseball is largely a mind game. Confidence makes a difference. Knowing the purpose of each pitch.  It seems to have had a positive effect on the Cubs starting pitchers. They have one of the best earned run averages in baseball. Unfortunately, the relief pitchers, the hitters, the fielders aren’t doing so well. Looks like they are playing fast and furious. Not taking time to think. They’re atrocious.  Inept. It’s time for the entire team to play slowly. More games lasting 4 or 5 hours. Maybe into the wee hours of the next day.  If that doesn’t work, at least the Cubs will be postponing defeat's bitter taste. –Jim Broede

The ultimate universal language.

I speak my mind. Some people wish I’d shut up. Or speak less. To be more tactful. Though I consider myself sensitive. But still, it doesn’t bother me to practice a little bit of insensitivity on insensitive people. Why not? It might work.  When it comes to communicating with others, I’m constantly feeling my way. Experimenting. Acknowledging that maybe I’m the one at fault. Because I don’t speak their language. Just because we both speak English, doesn’t mean we share the same vocabulary. Or the same intellect and emotions and savvy.  I like challenges. I’m fascinated, for instance, by the effect of Alzheimer’s on the mind. Trying to find ways to communicate with those with dementia. By entering their world. By exuding good vibes. They can be reached. By a form of spiritual talk. Maybe that’s the ultimate universal language. Vibrations. –Jim Broede