Letters From The Donald

The peril of making a contribution to the campaign of a political candidate — Republican or Democrat — is that your name and address get put on a list and sold to every other candidate for that party.  And because I’ve contributed to candidates running under the banners of both parties, I get letters and emails from every imaginable candidate.

I think that’s why I’ve become one of Donald J. Trump’s pen pals.

img_3106Donald J. Trump’s letters are a little bit . . . weird.  I guess that shouldn’t be surprising, should it?  For one thing, he doesn’t actually put dates on his letters.  One says “Tuesday evening”; another says “Wednesday morning.”  Hey, I wonder if he wrote that one during one of his 3 a.m. Twitter rampages?

For another thing, he doesn’t use my name in the salutation.  One letter is addressed “Dear Patriotic Republican.”  (That’s not quite accurate — the “Republican” part, at least.)  Another begins:  “Dear Fellow American.”  It’s pretty clear that Donald not only doesn’t really know my name, he also doesn’t know my gender.  His letters talk about “grassroots leaders like you — men and women . . . .”  It’s flattering to be called a “grassroots leader,” admittedly, but I’m guessing that Donald J. Trump and his campaign really don’t know who the heck I am, much less what kind of leadership abilities I might possess.

What are the letters about?  Money, of course.  Donald J. Trump knows one thing about me, for sure:  I’m one of the “handful” — really, he says “handful” — “who have not yet contributed to the Trump Make America Great Again Committee.”  Well, he’s got that right, at least.  And like every other politician, from the beginning of time, Donald J. Trump needs money.  It’s time, he says, that I send in an “Emergency Contribution Reply,” or give him my “Pledge of Support” along with some cold, hard cash.

Of course, I haven’t responded to any of Donald J. Trump’s letters, and I’m not going to.  But I do appreciate the letters, and the compliments about my patriotism and my leadership.  And those letters do a splendid job of helping to get my fire pit blazing on these cool autumn nights.

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Return From The Road

Last night I got home from a long road trip for work.  I was gone for the whole work week, had to change hotels, touched down in three different airports along the way, and ate my meals exclusively in office cafeterias, airport lounges, and restaurants I’ll probably never visit again.

I know this kind of travel is the norm for many people, but I don’t see how they do it.  The transient lifestyle really wears me down.  I don’t get my exercise, and I don’t sleep very well, either.  My normal circadian rhythms are thrown totally out of whack, and fatigue accumulates like a heavy snow falling on a rooftop.

By the end of the week, as I don my last clean clothes, I see that every other shirt and garment in my suitcase appears to be permanently wrinkled.  My eyes feel dried out, my hands feel bloated somehow, and I’m ready to get home come hell or high water.  As I race through the last airport concourse trying to catch a quick connection I just hope that weather, or mechanical difficulties, or air traffic control don’t stop the homeward momentum.  I’m ready to get a kiss and hug from Kish and a happy tail wag from Kasey.

I never sleep so soundly as I do when I return home after a long business trip.