Poetics and Ruminations

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Twenty-nine

MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS

 

PART TWENTY-NINE

 

Donald Trump has more than lied;

Donald Trump is fit to be tried.

 

THE CATERWALL

 

Donald Trump, The President,

Did not know what "govern" 

                                        meant,

"I want my wall without dissent!"

He pouted in his discontent,

"Or I'll shut down my. 

                                government!"

 

CUT AND RUN

 

Cut and run, cut and run,

I think it would be so much fun

Just to quit, to cut and run

Without consulting anyone!

 

Cut and run, cut and run,

Declare a win, just say we won

And tell our allies that we're 

        done,

Then cut and run, cut and run!

 

OH SHUT UP

 

Government is shutting down, 

Shutting down, shutting down,

Government us shutting down -- 

Trump's a moron.

 

Build his wall with iron bars, 

Iron bars, iron bars, 

Build his wall with iron bars,

And his bullshit.

 

Merry Xmas everyone,

Everyone, everyone,

Merry Xmas everyone,

Happy New Year!

 

 

WALLFLOWER

 

The thing that I don't get at all

Is why Trump thinks he'll get his wall.

 

DONE

 

I'm gonna keep the government shut,

I'm gonna keep the government shut,

I'm gonna keep the government shut,

To prove that we don't need one!

 

I'm gonna prove I'm useless here,

I'm gonna prove I'm useless here,

I'm gonna prove I'm useless here,

And then I will have won!

 

AGAINST DONALD TRUMP

For Gail White

 

If I were in a crowd with Donald Trump

I would not care to have the bugger bump

Against me and remark, "Excuse you, please,"

Because by then I'd have a case of fleas

Compounded with a nasty nest of lice

And other pestilences not so nice,

As for example anthills filled with ticks

Plus several tapeworms filling out the mix.

I hope Trump does not hold things out against me,

For I would be disgusted most intensely!

How could those women crawl between the sheets

Even for thousands, hold him to their teats

And act as though they liked what he was doing?

(I doubt that one could even call it "screwing."

"Nailing" might be closer in intent,

"Impaling," though,is more like what I meant.

While he works just watch the girls grow paler

Working under Donald the Impaler.

 

EDEN

 

Everyone knows that Adam and 

     Eve

Lived in a leafy bower,

And who doesn't know that 

     Donald Trump

Wanted a Moscow Tower?

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.  

 

 

Sent from my iPhone

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs Part Twenty-Seven

KHASHOGGI

 

"The Sheik of Araby told me

He's not some sort of bogey

And had no hand in the murder of

The journalist Khashoggi.

 

"They did not lure him into their

Embassy in Turkey,

Kill him, cut his body up,

And pile him in a murky

 

"Basement hideaway where he 

Festered in a corner

Until he learned to write nice things

Like little Jackie Horner.

 

"And I believe my oily friend,

He gives me lots of money

Which I respect him for a lot,

And I don't think that's funny! 

 

"But I'll investigate these claims,

And I'll get at the facts

About this weird Khashoggi mess

Like a butcher with an axe."

 

 

FAKE NEWS

 

"I love to yell 'FIRE' in a crowd

And then, when someone sets one,

I blame the bullet that was fired

Or the idiot that gets one."

 

 

FIRED

 

it's okay because I'm tired

Anyway. I've been mired

In his muck, I've been liared

At for months since I was hired

To be his stooge, so now I'm fired.

 

Fine and dandy. Bye-bye, Trumpy!

May your life be short and lumpy.  

 

 

BALLS

 

Baltics, Balkans, I ain't seen 'em!

Not a set of balls between them.

 

 

GRUMPY

 

Donald Trump is feeling grumpy,

For the Democrats have won

Lots of seats that once were 

                                            Trumpy.

Now his works have been undone!

 

Governors have disappeared

All across the USA,

Representatives that he has feared

Have appeared, ruined his day,

 

Not to mention month and year,

So he mopes and pules away,

Wipes away mucus and tear --

What can anybody say

 

To make Trumpkin feel much 

                                           better?

Take away Fake News's passes!

Write that nasty judge a letter

When he shields that bunch if asses!

 

He is just a legal leech 

To defend freedom of speech!

 

 

HIRE AND FIRE

 

Who is Trump about to hire

For his "shitshow in a dumpster 

                                              fire"?

Don't ask me, I'm not a liar.

 

 

NO LOVE AFFAIR

 

Trump wants to help Nancy Pelosi

Keep her leadership of The House?

Watch her button up her blouse!

He cries, "Why don't you?  I love 

                                                    me!"

Nancy shows no jealousy.

 

 

LOYALTY

 

"I will not hear the murder tapes--

They're just a case of sour grapes

Being crushed. My Prince will 

                                                 come

Someday and he will pat my bum

For being purposefully dumb.

He'll thank me for my loyalty

To the Saudi royalty."

 

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs Part Twenty-Six

PART TWENTY-SIX

SUSAN COLLINS

The Mainely Republican senator
Won't let constituents menace her.
She'll put on the Court
A pro-woman sort
Unless he's a Donald Trump creditor.

MANNEQUIN

Maine's Representative Poliquin
Won't be interviewed or dare frolic in
The media 'cuz
They think he's a scuz,
But he's merely a standard Republican.

TESTICULAR TESTIFICATION

Did white men grill Anita Hill,
Then toss her on the DC landfill?
Did they appoint that dumbass Thomas
For his lifetime to the SCROTUS?
Should Christine Ford just jump aboard
The Brahma bull and then get gored?
If I were she I'd simply flee.


TRUMP'S HURRICANE

"This is a tough hurricane,
One of the wettest we've ever seen
From the standpoint of water."
(But not from the swimpoint of an otter.)


I DO NOT LOVE THEE

I do not love thee, Donald Trump,
I see you and I take a dump --
It hurts because it's such a lump!
I do not love  thee, Donald Trump!


THE INJUDICIOUS JUDGE

We saw him blow his top,
We watched in utter awe
As this resentful man
Displayed his fatal flaw:

His failure to believe
He had a flaw at all
From the moment he was born
Till we saw him start to bawl.

Poor ickle-wickle Brett!
How did we dare accuse
This paradigm of law
Of trying to amuse

Himself at a high-school party
By trying to screw a girl
Without her full consent?
Far, far too drunk to hurl

Her on the bed and strip
Her party clothing off,
He let her get away
And never got his boff!

He gave his best defense,
One he would not allow
In his own court of law:
"Not guilty then and now!

"That's all you need to know!"
Now here we sit in awe
Of this unappointable
New Justice Kavanaugh!


JUSTICE

Rah, rah, rah!
Ha, ha, ha!
I am Justice Kavanaugh!
Justice Thomas sits near me,
Justice Ginsberg on his knee --
Who'll be my gal? Wait and see --
Ha, ha, ha, ha! -- Who she'll be!

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part 25

 

NATIONAL ENQUIRY

(To the tune of "Where Has My Little Dog Gone?")

 

Where, oh, where has my dear Pecker gone,

Where, oh where can he be,

With my tale cut short and his friendship quite long,

Where, oh where can he be?

 

Alas! I fear that my Pecker has flipped

And he's telling stories on me!

My ass is dragging and his tongue has slipped --

Alas and alack! Woe is me!

 

Where, oh, where has my old Pecker gone,

Where, oh where can he be?

My tale's is unsaved and his safe was quite strong,

Who knows where my sad tale may be?

 

 

R. I. P. JOHN MC CAIN

August 29, 1936 - August 25, 2018.

 

The senator of many terms

Must now become dessert for worms.

No war devoured his flesh or brain,

But his own cells ate John McCain.

 

 

FAREWELL TO DONALD TRUMP

 

Don't insult me, Donald, when I'm gone!

Buddy, though our friendship was never on,

Why not try doing something right 

Now and then? Try hard, with all your might.

We're parting, you'll go your way, I'll go mine

I have just this to do

Give a little diss and hope it brings

Little luck to you.

I think it's kind of funny

How with all your money

Your friends are far snd few.

 

Don't insult me, Donald, when I'm gone 

Please don't talk about me, Donny, when I'm gone.

Though our friendship ceases, from now on,

If you can't say anything real nice,

Do not talk at all, is my advice.

We're parting, you'll go your way, I'll go mine.

I have just this to do:

Here's a little diss, I hope it dumps

Lots and lots of shit on you,

But makes no difference how I carry on

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me, Donny,

And don't come to my funeral when I'm gone!

 

 

MONKEY BUSINESS

 

"My language may be kinda clunky,"

Says Ron DiSantis, "but you know,

Voting for Gillum would be to monkey

Up my nomination, so

 

"Vote for me for Governor

Of Florida, and don't go ape

Over this Black guy! I'm for Trump, 

So you're sure I'll never rape,

 

"'Cuz I can pay for prostitutes,

As my mentor always does,

Fot I'm a Navy lawyer, pal,

Not some Demo-Commie scuz

 

"Like Andy Gillum -- put him back

In the Tallahassee zoo

Where he belongs with simians,

Not on the streets with me and you."

 

 

DONALD TRUMP HOT

 

Donald Trump hot,

Donald Trump cold,

Donald Trump in a plot

With his gold.

 

Some like him hot,

Some like him cold,

Most like him in his plot

With his gold.

 

 

KAVANAUGH

 

What's Justice Ginsberg made of?

Sugar and spice

And everything nice --

That's what she is made of.

 

What is Judge Kavanaugh made of?

Slugs and snails 

And old lizard tails --

That's what he is made of.

 

 

ANNE OMINOUS

 

"She bravely grows euonymus

And signs her tripe 'Anonymous.'"

 

 

TOME

 

As Santa admonishes each elf,

"You have nothing to fear but 'FEAR' itself."

 

 

LITTLE JEFF SESSIONS

(To the tune of "Little Sir Echo.")

 

Little Jeff Sessions, find out who wrote

That op-ed piece! (What op-ed piece?) THAT op-ed piece!

Little Jeff Sessions, don't be a goat! 

(Won't be a goat) Don't be a goat!

Won't you ever do what I say? (I say!)

YOU say? (YOU say!)

You're a dumb Southern fellow

I know by your voice,

But you never will do as I say! (I say!)

 

Don't you dare to recuse yourself! (Recuse myself?)

Again! (Again?) Again! (Again?)

Or I will put you back on the shelf!

(The shelf?) YOUR shelf)

(MY shelf?) YOUR shelf. 

So you had better do what I say! (I say!)

You're a dumb Southern fellow

I know by your voice,

But you'd better do what I say!

Or else! (Or else?) OR ELSE!

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

Sent from my iPhone

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Twenty-Four

PART TWENTY-FOUR

 

VISITATION

 

"The boss of Russia's not Rasputin!

I'll visit, not embarrass, Putin,

I do not plan to harass Putin

'cuz he's my pal -- there's no disputin'

I'm as wacko as Rasputin,

And that is just as sure as shootin'!"

 

 

TWIT TWITTERING

 

Donald Trump

Thinks with his rump

And loves to Twitter

With his shitter.

 

 

COILLUSION

 

Donald and Rudy 

Are both being moody --

In the latter's confusion 

He says that "collusion

Is no kind of crime!"

Don says, "About time

We pointed that out!"

But Rudy's a lout,

For Oxford's rendition

Of the true definition

Of "collusion" is "Secret or illegal cooperation or conspiracy in order to deceive others...." 

So Trump is a fool,

And Rudy's his tool.

 

 

TRUTH

 

"The truth is not the truth,"

Says Giudy Ruliani,

"My name is not my name,"

Cries Rudy Giuliani.

 

"My nose is not my nose,"

Says Trump's finest attorney,

"His ass smells like a rose

Supine upon a gurney

 

"As Don's rolled down the hall,"

Asserts the spaghetti lawyer,

"To have my nose removed --

I guess they'll need a sawyer

 

"To saw my wooden nose

Off there right at the crack line

Just below the spot

Where most folks have a spine,

 

"Which Donny claims he's got,

But who can tell what's true?

I don't think it is I (me?) --

It's certainly not you!"

 

 

CONVICTIONS

 

Fake news witch-hunt! No collusion!

I won't tolerate restrictions!

You're just stirring up confusion!

I'm a man of great convictions!

 

Sessions fails me with recusion!

Russians screw up our elections!

I can't even get my shoes on

Before I don my new convictions!

 

Manafort -- merely illusions!

Cohen is inventing fictions!

Stab wounds are more than contusions!

I have multiple convictions!

 

 

TRUMP LOSES PECKER

 

"Oh, no! Not Pecker too!

I may have been too cocky!

Flipping should be illegal!

This bed is feeling rocky!

 

"He used to be my friend!

He spiked that woman's story

By buying it, not to publish,

But own its rights to bury

 

"While I was running hard,

Trying for the erection 

Of a college of Electors

That would swing the big election.

 

Now Pecker's gonna soften,

Confirm that female's tale,

And I'll be hoist on my petard

In substance and detail!"

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Twenty-Three

 

PART TWENTY-THREE

 

CLINTON CONFESSES

 

"I've suffered historically

Incredibly much, don't you see --

It's not about Trump

Or that Monica lump...,

It's all about Me, Me, Me, Me!"

 

 

GOD BLESS THE PRESIDENT

 

God, bless the President, man that I love!

Stand behind me and hide me

From the flight of the kite up above!

 

When she mounts me saying prayers

With Melania in my home,

God bless the President when he starts to foam,

 

God bless me, Donald Trump, man that I love

With Melania in my home,

God bless the President, wherever I may roam,

God bless me, Donald Trump, however I may roam!

 

 

THE SECRET

 

I have a little secret,

Kim knows the secret too,

But we will keep our secret,

And we're not telling you!

 

 

BOTTLE-BABY SESSIONS

 

"The Bible says that 'Thou shalt strip

Children from their parents

If they trespass upon your land

Without the proper warrants.'"

 

So says the nation's moralist-

In-Chief Jeffrey Sessions.

"This must be done so they may learn

Life's most important leshions...

Er, lessons."

 

 

THE WALL

 

I need to get my Border Wall --

That's what I want, and that's why all 

Those brats in Texas are in jail:

The Democrats want me to fail

And won't sign on to keep scum out!

I'll win this one without a doubt.

 

 

CIVILITY

 

"Let's be civil,

You son-of-a-bitch!"

Says our President,

Scratching his itch.

 

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part 22

PART TWENTY-TWO

 

PLAYMATES

 

I don't want to play in your yard,

You're just too darn mean to me.

I may take the fifth amendment,

You'll just haft-a wait and see.

 

There is no collusion, nossir,

No collusion anywhere,

No collusion with the Russians,

No collusion here and there!

 

I don't know a Stormy Pornstar,

Nor a Stormy Weather either,

If my lawyer paid her money

You should ask was he beneath her!

 

Or you might ask Giuliani,

He should know I would suppose--

He knows stuff I never heard of

Spoken in confusing prose.

 

There's a guy that I admire!

He says what? That I paid back

To my lawyer Stormy's payoff?

Fire him that Guinea whack!

 

 

I RAN CONTRA

 

I ran Contra to Obama

Who was born in darkest Chad,

Not Chicago or Hawai'i,

To a mixed-up mom and dad.

 

I ran Contra to the Clintons:

I beat Hillary really bad

Though she got three million more votes

Than I guess I ever had.

 

Now I get to undo all the

Stuff they did that made them glad....

No collusion! Much confusion!

Wind up Mueller! Sad! So sad!

 

 

DONNY TRUMPKIN

 

Donny Trumpkin, soup on his fly, 

Kissed the porn star and made her sigh.

She said when she had cashed her check,

"I'll talk about it...what the heck."

 

 

INNOCENCE  

 

Does Donald know the meaning of innocence?

In no sense.

 

 

APOLOGY

 

"The dizzy Disney CEO

Did not apologize to me

For all the nasty stuff they said

About me on their ABC,"

 

Said Donald when his fan Roseanne

Dropped racist turds upon an aide

Who worked for our last President,

But for the nasty cracks he made

 

About the Bureau and everyone

In DC that he could despise,

Did Donald Trump take back a tweet

Or look like he'd apologize

 

To an American or Haitian 

Or anyone from a shithouse nation?

 

 

TRUMPARDONS

 

Are you a crooked pal of mine?

I'll pardon you, dear Valentine.

 

 

PARDON ME

 

"I have the right to pardon me

(Though I cannot say 'Pardon me,'

Even when I sneeze or fart --

It's simply not a part of me)."

 

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Twenty-One, by Claudette McFang

 

PART TWENTY-ONE

 

FIRE, FIRE

 

"Fire, fire! I am a liar!

I am just kidding! My fly is dryer

Now that I've pissed on those I could hire,

Browbeat, batter, drag through the mire

And, as on teevee, fire! Fire!"

 

 

BOLTON

 

Is revolting --

I feel like bolting.

 

 

TRUMP, TRUMP, TRUMP

In my pup-tent here I lie

Thinking, Donald dear, of you,
And your White and slave-built House so far away,
But these tears that fill my eyes

Are attracting lots of flies
Though I try to teach my comrades to be gay.

Chorus:

TRUMP, TRUMP, TRUMP, the boys are marching,

Worry, Wetbacks, here we come,
And beneath our Starry Flag
We shall breathe the air again
In the genocidal land that we call home.

 

 

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

 

Didn't Georgie Boy say that?

He had a sign when he arrived 

board the ship in uniform

To remind us how he had contrived

To avoid war service in the reserves

To achieve the glory he deserves.

 

At least The Donald didn't wear

The uniform of the private school

That he attended before his hair

Turned orange so that he'd look cool

In the fruit trees of the Caribbean --

He just repeated what he had seen,

 

So now he too can be a hero

Since he, like Bush, has accomplished zero.

 

 

THE GANG

 

Trump has a thumb up his rump;

Cohen is gnawing on a bone;

Insanity, thy name is Hannity;

Comey, your mouth is foamy, but

Stormy Daniels takes on spaniels.

 

 

DONALD'S INSULTS

 

"That comic thinks insults are fine.

But the only good insults are mine!"

 

 

AGENT ORANGE

 

Donald Trump takes Agent Orange

To promote the growth of hair,

But he wants his pride to show,

So he shaves his nubbies bare.

 

SAD. VERY SAD

 

Trump now works with Giuliani.

Sad Rudy couldn't work with Ronny.

 

Correspondence with a Nephew

CORRESPONDENCE WITH A NEPHEW

By Lewis and Steven Turco

 

Steven Turco wrote (on 11/07/09):

 

Dear Uncle Lew,

    I read La Famiglia¹ over the last week on my work trip to Denmark (coincidentally, I surmised from your book that I am approximately 1/8 Danish). I must say I was quite enlightened by the amount of detail it gave me about my family history, especially my grandparents and obviously you. I've often wondered how Grandpa Luigi from Sicily found his way to be a Baptist minister in the U.S. He had quite a life, rich with experience, and overwhelming passion for his beliefs. I'm glad he had the opportunity to see the birth of a grandson and, although I don't remember him, the time we spent together in that first year apparently brought him great joy; knowing that will always live within me.

    Grandma Turco was very special to me. Dad and I and in later years Scott too would visit her almost every Friday evening. She'd greet me with kisses all over my face and have a plate of spaghetti waiting on the table. After dinner she'd always do her favorite trick for me and take out her dentures and put them in a cup of water. Obviously as a young child that scared the hell out of me but fascinated me at the same time.

    Her house was a mysterious adventure land for me, especially the attic, and I loved to explore it every time I visited. The old rooms, books, clothes, knick knacks everywhere stimulated my imagination to a degree that I will never forget.

    And then there was the typewriter. I'd spend endless hours typing away at stories I'd made up about friends, school and adventures that took me to all ends of the earth. I taught myself to type on that typewriter, one finger at a time, which is how I still type today, although I'm pretty fast at it. What I never really thought about and what struck me when reading your book was that typewriter was probably the same one that Grandpa Luigi used to write his weekly sermons. Thinking back now, I remember how Grandma would love to see me at that typewriter. She'd bring me cookies and help me if I had a question but never interrupted me as I "banged out" another story. Maybe it was just the sound of the typewriter that brought a sense of familiarity back into her household and gave her peace in a time of loneliness in her life. I sure hope it did.

One of the things I've always regretted was not spending more time reading your books. I always thought it was the coolest thing as a child to see your name on a book or better yet go to the library and look up one of your books and show one of my friends. On many occasions I would open the book and begin to read but very quickly become lost and/or confused and eventually just put it down. The poems that were sent at Christmas always struck me as "dark" and "non-joyous."

    I've never regarded myself as a "reader," but I've always as a child and an adult enjoyed reading for both enjoyment and educational purposes, though I could never seem to connect with your books. After reading La Famiglia, though, I not only have a better understanding of my family, its roots and fascinating history (on both sides), but of you, your experiences and the many reasons why you write what you do.

    I learned a great deal from this book, not only of who we are as a family but the trials, tribulations and hope and inspirations that affected many in our past and present and, more important, how it will positively influence the generations to come. I am extremely pleased that this book is dedicated to the future of the Turco clan and especially to my boys, who are the joy of my life.

    I attempted to write a book like this utilizing my past experiences and recollections, as I used to have a photographic memory, it just never fully developed.

Steve Turco

 

Dear Steve,

    I'm puzzled by several things you say in your letter. One of them is, "I used to have a photographic memory...." How can you "used to have" one of those? Short of a stroke, I would think it would be impossible to lose such a thing. It's just the way one's mind works. You seem to use that as an excuse for not writing the memoirs you planned to write. My memory is far from "photographic," but I remember enough things from my past to write memoirs. I'm sure everybody does. Take a look again at the memoir in La Famiglia that was written by my cousin Ann Badach.² She was never a writer, and that's the first thing she's ever published. The stuff she remembers is amazing and compelling.

    You also say, " I've never regarded myself as a 'reader' but I've always as a child and an adult enjoyed reading for both enjoyment and educational purposes."  Isn't that the definition of a reader?

    You say, too, "I'd spend endless hours typing away at stories I'd made up about friends, school and adventures that took me to all ends of the earth." So did I, but I never quit. I used to walk to school making up stories for my friends as we walked. How does one manage to lose interest in telling stories? It's baffling to me. What happened to you anyway? 

     "I taught myself to type on that typewriter, one finger at a time...." So did I. The Navy taught me to touch-type, but when in high school I worked at the Meriden newspaper, most of the journalists used the hunt-and-peck method, just as you and I and your grandfather did.

    Finally, you write that the Xmas cards I sent every year "always struck me as 'dark' and 'non-joyous.'" Where did you get the idea that writers are supposed to write stuff that's "joyous"? The world is a dark place, Steven, and that's what I often write about. Just this past week: people gunned down at Fort Hood; the D.C. sniper executed; more soldiers killed in Afghanistan, etc., etc. Have you ever read Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," the most popular poem in English literature? T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," perhaps the greatest poem of the 20th century? Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn"? Shelley's "Ozymandias," Poe's "The Raven," just to name a few exceedingly popular ones? Even the "joyous" poet Walt Whitman wrote "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" and "A Noiseless, Patient Spider." 

    I'm attaching a book review titled "Happy Days" that appeared in the New York Times Book Review last Sunday.

Love, Uncle Lew

 

HAPPY DAYS

By Hanna Rosin

(New York Times, November 5, 2009)

 

BRIGHT-SIDED: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America, By Barbara Ehrenreich, 235 pp. Metropolitan Books/Henry Holt & Company, 2009. I must confess, I have waited my whole life for someone to write a book like “Bright-Sided.” When I was a young child, my family moved to the United States from Israel, where churlishness is a point of pride. As I walked around wearing what I considered a neutral expression, strangers would often shout, “What’s the matter, honey? Smile!” as if visible cheerfulness were some kind of requirement for citizenship. I must confess, I have waited my whole life for someone to write a book like “Bright-Sided.” 

Now, in Barbara Ehrenreich’s deeply satisfying book, I finally have a moral defense for my apparent scowl. All the background noise of America — motivational speakers, positive prayer, the new Journal of Happiness Studies — these are not the markers of happy, well-adjusted psyches uncorrupted by irony, as I have always been led to believe. Instead, Ehrenreich argues convincingly that they are the symptoms of a noxious virus infecting all corners of American life that goes by the name “positive thinking.”

What started as a 19th-century response to dour Calvinism has, over the years, turned equally oppressive, Ehrenreich writes. Stacks of best sellers equate corporate success with a positive attitude. Flimsy medical research claims that cheerfulness can improve the immune system. In a growing number of American churches, confessions of poverty or distress amount to heresy. America’s can-do optimism has hardened into a suffocating culture of positivity that bears little relation to genuine hope or happiness.

Ehrenreich is the author of several excellent books about class — “Nickel and Dimed” is the best known. In this book she also reaches for a conspiratorial, top-down explanation. “Positive thinking,” she maintains, is just another way for the conservative, corporate culture to wring the most out of its workers. I don’t exactly buy this part of her argument, but the book doesn’t suffer much for the overreaching. I was so warmed by encountering a fellow crank that I forgave the agenda.

Ehrenreich’s inspiration for “Bright-Sided” came from her year of dealing with breast cancer. From her first waiting room experience in 2000 she was choking on pink ribbons and other “bits of cuteness and sentimentality” — teddy bears, goofy top-10 lists, cheesy poetry accented with pink roses. The sticky cheerfulness extended to support groups, where expressions of dread or outrage were treated as emotional blocks. “The appropriate attitude,” she quickly realized, was “upbeat and even eagerly acquisitive.” The word “victim” was taboo. Lance Armstrong was quoted as saying that “cancer was the best thing that ever happened to me,” while another survivor described the disease as “your connection to the divine.” As a test, Ehrenreich herself posted a message on a cancer support site under the title “Angry,” complaining about the effects of chemotherapy, “recalcitrant insurance companies” and “sappy pink ribbons.” “Suzy” wrote in to take issue with her “bad attitude” and warned that “it’s not going to help you in the least.” “Kitty” urged her to “run, not walk, to some counseling.”

The experience led her to seek out other arenas in American life where an insistence on positive thinking had taken its toll. One of the more interesting chapters concerns American business culture. Since the publication of Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People” in 1936, motivational speaking has become so ubiquitous that we’ve forgotten a world without it. In seminars, employees are led in mass chants that would make Chairman Mao proud: “I feel healthy, I feel happy, I feel terrific!” Corporate managers transformed from coolheaded professionals into mystical gurus and quasi celebrities “enamored of intuition, snap judgments and hunches.” Corporate America began to look like one giant ashram, with “vision quests,” “tribal storytelling” and “deep listening” all now common staples of corporate retreats.

This mystical positivity seeped into the American megachurches, as celebrity pastors became motivational speakers in robes. In one of the great untold stories of American religion, the proto-Calvinist Christian right — with its emphasis on sin and self-discipline — has lately been replaced by a stitched-together faith known as “prosperity gospel,” which holds that God wants believers to be rich. In my favorite scene of the book, Ehrenreich pays a visit to Joel and Victoria Osteen’s Lakewood Church in Houston, now the nation’s largest church. She arrives a week after a court has dismissed charges against Victoria, accused of assaulting a flight attendant who failed to deal promptly with a stain on her first-class airplane seat on the way to Vail. One would think, Ehrenreich suggests, that the largely working-class, multiracial crowd might sympathize with the working stiff on the plane who happened to be African-American. But no, Joel is shown dabbing his eyes on the video screen, and Victoria crows about the “banner of victory over my head” as the crowd cheers.

“Where is the Christianity in all of this?” Ehrenreich asks. “Where is the demand for humility and sacrificial love for others? Where in particular is the Jesus who said, ‘If a man sue you at law and take your coat, let him have your cloak also?’ ” Ehrenreich is right, of course, in her theological critique. But she misses a chance to dig deeper. I have spent some time in prosperity churches, and as Milmon F. Harrison points out in “Righteous Riches,” his study of one such church, this brand of faith cannot be explained away as manipulation by greedy, thieving preachers. Millions of Americans — not just C.E.O.’s and megapastors but middle-class and even poor people — feel truly empowered by the notion that through the strength of their own minds alone they can change their circumstances. This may be delusional and infuriating. But it is also a kind of radical self-reliance that is deeply and unchangeably American.

Hanna Rosin is a co-editor of Slate’s women’s Web site, DoubleX, and a contributing editor at The Atlantic.

Thanks for the response, Uncle Lew. The "photographic memory" line was just a jab at humor, a pun (not fully developed), I didn't mean it literally. I do read a fair amount of books so I guess I would be considered a reader, but my point was more that even if I do consider myself to be a reader I don't currently have the passion to make it more of a priority in my life. Maybe someday that will change, but for now I feel satisfied with the balance I choose between my home life, work life and how I fit my reading into both.

I never lost interest in telling stories, I love to tell stories, I just chose to do it verbally, it saves time.

The world is what it is. It's as bright as it is dark. For every horror story that happens on a daily basis there is a story of love and kindness as well. Life is short, I choose to focus on the things in this world that make me smile, laugh and bring me happiness. I know the ugliness is out there, but why would I want to bring that into my life? I've chosen early on in my life to be a decent person with a positive outlook. To do that I choose to surround myself with people, books, art, places that bring me "joy" rather than listening or reading about the depressing horrors of our society. Fortunately I've never had any severe hardships in my life that would turn me to the "dark" side like some of the authors you mentioned (Gray had an abusive father, Eliot had a nervous disorder) but if I did, I believe that it is still my nature to turn them into positive aspects (as Lance Armstrong did with his cancer) and continue to see the good in life. And although some of these authors that you mentioned may be highly regarded academic poets, they were certainly not people I would want to emulate my life after (Shelley abandoned his pregnant wife and child to run off with a 16 year girl and Poe was an alcoholic drug user.)

 

    I agree with Barbara Ehrenreich 100%. There is a lot of "positive thinking" bullshit out there that can cloud peoples' minds and affect their judgment, especially in corporate America. I see it every day. I don't think that just because I have a "positive outlook" on life that good things are going to come to me, or I'm going to become wealthy or not get sick, those things are going to come to me because I work hard and take care of myself. I'm a realist, I always have been, but I see no reason why I can't be a realist with a positive attitude.

Love. 

Steve

 

Ah, Steve,

    Nobody ever asked you to be anything but "a decent person with a positive outlook." I've always known you to be that, and it's one of the reasons I'm so fond of you. You're a lot like your dad, who is the same sort of person. He's a very decent guy and I've always been very fond of him, too. But I don't understand why you would condemn people like Gray and Poe and whoever for being who they are and writing out of their experience and their humanity. I've always thought I am a decent person too, who likes to surround himself with art, music, and all the things you mention, as well. That doesn't prevent me from seeing that the "balance" you mention doesn't seem to me to be a balance unless I'm able to observe and write about the rest of life. I can sing a happy song, but I can also sing a sad song, and the only thing I demand of any song is that it tell me the truth and be beautiful.

    Case in point: One of my colleagues at Oswego was a German Jewish economist named Richard Heiss. He was married to another native German called Jo Heiss. He came to SUNY Oswego in 1961, four years before I arrived, and he was active in the Oswego Opera Society for which Jean and I sang in the chorus most years. Jo was a ceramicist and a member of the Oswego Art Society like my Xmas card partner George O'Connor. While we were in Oswego last month I thought about them, wondered if they were still alive at ages 89 and 87 respectively. I thought about them while we were on our daily walk in Breitbeck Park at the bottom of the hill where we live on West 8th Street because we used to run into Dick and Jo sometimes when they walked there as well.

    On Monday last, while we were driving back to Dresden, Dick and Jo Heiss each took massive amounts of prescription narcotics, but before she died Dick shot Jo in the back of the head with a pistol. People found their bodies a couple of days later. The police determined that no third party was involved. Dick and Jo were also decent people, usually with positive outlooks. They did volunteer work and had many friends, but they had no children, no other known family in the U. S. Why would a good old couple die by murder-suicide at a great age? They must have hurt a great deal — why else would they have so many narcotics on hand? — and it was known that they were ill.

    Here's the question: What should I think about them? Should I dismiss them for their unforgivable actions? Maybe they were somehow psychically injured by having grown up in Nazi Germany. Maybe a husband should never be forgiven for killing his wife, no matter what the reason. But I understand how Dick and Jo could have done this to themselves (they injured no one else), because I'm getting old, too. Should I reject the idea of writing a poem for them? Because that's been revolving in my mind for a couple of days now as I read the developing story on-line in the Oswego Palladium-Times and hear from other colleagues via e-mail. Or should I just dismiss them from my memory as being unworthy subjects for an elegy? Because if I write it and do it well, I will show the few people who read it how human Dick and Jo Heiss were, and how sad their passing is.

Lew

 

Uncle Lew,

    I guess it comes down to what "balance" means in each individual's life.  For me, I tend to balance out the good stuff with the great stuff and shield out the bad stuff. You take it all in and go from there. I guess that's what makes the world what it is.

    Sorry to hear about your friends. I'm sure whatever you write will be honest and lasting.

Steve

_____

¹La Famiglia: The Family, Memoirs, by Lewis Turco, New York, NY: www.BordigheraPress.org, VIA Folios 57, 2009, 196 pp., ISBN 978-1-59954-006-1, trade paperback.

²Ibid., “A Letter to My Cousin,” by Ann Badach, pp 185-189.

 

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Twenty

ARMS AND THE TRUMP

(With apologies to Robert Browning)

 

Boot, saddle, to horse and away!

Arm the teachers! Start shooting today --

No time to reason, no time to pray!

 

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 

 

Shoot up the the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; 

Many's the shooter will not get away

Good luck to teachers who enter the fray!

 

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 

 

Forty rounds fired, but none go astray!

Those teachers are deadly in their own way

Even though some of them must be gay!

 

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 

 

School boards will have to lower their pay

To purchase those guns, but heck, what the hey!

Teachers can work in the summer, can't they?

 

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

 

 

HERO WITH BONE SPURS

 

Even if i had no gun

I'd have run inside,

Even if the doors were locked

I'd bust them open wide

 

And tackle that young murderer

With his automatic gun,

Knock him to the high school      

     floor --

A face-off, one-on-one!

 

I wouldn't stand outside the 

     school

Listening to shots

Like that coward of a cop --

I hope to Hell he rots.

 

We need heroes who can act,

Not creeps who brag a lot.

We need men like those who

     lived

In Arthur's Camelot.

 

 

HOPE SOMETIME HICKS

 

What has happened tp Hope Hicks?

She hung around and took her licks, 

But now she's headed for the sticks

To deal with black flies and with ticks.

 

 

ROBIN

 

"I steal from the rich and give to the poor,"

Says the outlaw Robin Hood.

"I do the opposite," says Donald Trump,

"And trade wars are always good."

 

 

HUSHABYE

 

HIs lawyer bribed the porn star on his own,

Was never reimbursed by Donald Trump,

Was never thrown a scrap of rind or bone --

He simply tossed his money in the dump.

Do you believe such an egregious lie?

Alas, my friend, alack! Neither do I.

 

 

HEADS OF STATE

 

Orange Head and Mushroom Head

Both were ping- pong freaks;

They learned of this phenomenon

By reading "Wikileaks,"

Therefore they thought they'd play a game

And end their wordy fray

Before they got too old and tame

And could no longer play:

PYONGYANG!

 

So back and forth the white ball went --

They volleyed till, at last,

These noble heads of State were spent

And each was in a cast.

Then each one took a final shot

And could no longer play:

They heard their final ricochet --

PYONGYANG!

 

 

TRADE

 

Mrs. Trump didn't kill her son,

She fed him lots of mayo,

So now he's fired Tillerson

And traded him for Pompeo.

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.