"Greedo shot first, Winston. Greedo has always shot first."

Note: a few days ago I sent my father a copy of the letter that Donald Trump sent to Turkish President Recep Erdogen--a letter that Erdogen reportedly threw in the trash--which was as follows: 

THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington
October 9, 2019

His Excellency
Recep Tayyip Erdogan
President of the Republic of Turkey
Ankara

Dear Mr. President:
Let's work out a good deal! You don't want to be responsible for slaughtering thousands of people, and I don't want to be responsible for destroying the Turkish economy — and I will. I've already given you a little sample with respect to Pastor Brunson.

I have worked hard to solve some of your problems. Don't let the world down. You can make a great deal. General Mazloum is willing to negotiate with you, and he is willing to make concessions that they would never have made in the past. I am confidentially enclosing a copy of his letter to me, just received.

History will look upon you favorably if you get this done the right and humane way. It will look upon you forever as the devil if good things don't happen. Don't be a tough guy. Don't be a fool!

I will call you later.

Sincerely,
Donald Trump

...to this, my father, with his talent for brevity, replied:

I hope you'll recall what I said last year. The man is dangerous to this country. he is without a doubt the most stupid being on this planet. Or may brilliantly evil. He has no regard for this country. He is only concerned with his fat self. by the end of the upcoming week, I hope the Democrats have sufficient evidence for impeachment. We'll see. The corruption 45 has visited on this nation defies description. Love ya meeses to pieces.

Dad

...yes, he did indeed write "meeses to pieces."

​And believe it or not, it actually figures into my reply:

Dad,

Josh Foster, a good friend of mine from UMASS with whom I've reconnected on Facebook, offered an interesting theory:

Besides being sociopathic--that is, having no moral or ethical sense--he shows all the signs of having a serious learning disability. 

Think about it: he doesn't read, his vocabulary is limited, and he has had to compensate with what seems to be a complete lack of academic acumen with the sort of glib, populist style that makes his approach work crowds in the basest way. At his military school, he was horrible in academics (remember that he paid to have all his school academic records suppressed), but apparently excellent in non-academic matters, such as military discipline (in other words, he did fine when someone gave him easy to learn, simple orders that he could master, and then execute in lockstep). This would also explain his fondness for authoritarian leaders. 

It also makes sense, because if you think about it, Fred Trump was apparently exactly the sort of father who would be a nightmare for a person such as this. No doubt, if Trump indeed has a learning disability, his father, as opposed to viewing him as a son he loved unconditionally and therefore accepted as who he was (which would have led the way for his overcoming or adapting to his disability), no doubt viewed him as "damaged goods," and probably sent him to military school with the idea that such a place "would toughen up that stupid kid of mine." 

I know it's incredibly difficult to do this, what with him having done so much damage and spewing hateful, hateful things, but if I turn him into, say, one of my students, and try to find some humanity in him, I honestly see him a sad, sad person. I really do see him as a person where, if I were to have gotten through to him and had a one on one conversation with him after a class, he would have burst into tears, and talked about horrible, horrible experiences with his father saying that he was no good, that he was a waste of human life, and that his father was ashamed to have him as a son. 

This would also explain why he's so desperate to win people's approval, and why he needs, so badly, to believe that huge crowds of people come to see him. Having no sense of self-worth can create a void in someone that they desperately need to fill with others giving them the love that they never got when they were young...and therefore don't have for themselves. This would also explain why he needs to surround himself with expensive things, and why he so needs to put his name on everything. Having those obscene accoutrements of wealth and privilege--the buildings with his name, the gold toilet, the trophy wife--allows him to say to the world "hey...I'm worth something. Really. I'm worth something. Don't you see I'm worth something?"

Again, I know that attempting to have compassion for such a person can make any self-respecting person roll his eyes. Dick Cheney (okay, maybe not self respecting, but...) after all, said "while conservatives want to deal with terrorists, liberals want to analyze them." And my response to that, though, was always: well, why not both? Yes, when they grow up and become monsters, we need to deal with them, but it's important to remember that they all were children, and that only a select few--the truly sick--come out of the womb as monsters. 

And even here, just about every time, in almost every case, true sociopathy traces itself to some horrible trauma suffered at an incredibly young age, perhaps as early as six months. Perhaps Fred abused him as a baby...perhaps even sexually. It's really not out of the realm of possibility. 

In other words, someone, something, usually made them who they were. 

If you remember the film "Manhunter," there's a telling moment that honestly reminds me of Trump. As Will Graham is "saddling up" to confront Dollarhyde, the murderer, Jack Crawford (Denis Farina's character) says something to the effect of "it almost sounds as if you feel sorry for him." And Graham says something to the effect of "yeah, I do. He started out as a kid. He was probably a sweet kid. Then someone did horrible things to him, and turned him into the sick, twisted psychopath that he is now. And now he have to take him down." 

Again, about trying to understand all this as opposed to merely being enraged by it: I'm reminded of that line in the Netflix show "Mindhunter" that we watch, which is about the establishment of the FBI Criminal Psychology Department, and shows two men solving crimes by talking to serial killers: "In order to catch crazy, you have to know crazy."

By the way, getting back to the whole military thing, Trump's love of all of that--the authoritarian regimes, the glorification of Stalinist/Hitleresesque military parades--reminds me of something you said about the military in general: they take care of you, and give you a sense of self worth. 

"They clothe you, they feed you, they tell you what to do, they give you approval they give you these really neat things that you wear on your lapels...it's everything a child wants," you once said. 

Also, when I think of the affection Trump has for military parades, I'm reminded of the way you said you felt when you were a ROTC Wing Commander, and had hundreds of guys saluting you, and how, when you then went into The Air Force as a lieutenant, you felt a rush when 40 year old enlisted men saluted you. Of course, for you, having been raised with love, it was the sort of thing you could walk away from, hence your decision to rejoin civilian life. 

At the same time, though, imagine someone who didn't get that love. For them, those salutes are the only thing close to love and approval that they get, and consequently, they can't do without it. It brings new meaning to those people who say "I love The Corps." For some of these people, the "love" of their superiors and the "love" of the organization may be the only thing resembling familial love that they've ever received, and that they will ever receive. 

This also explains, by the way, why people such as Trump react so savagely not just to humor, but to pity, even sympathy. Of course, the humor part is easy to explain--at the core of many bullies is a deeply insecure person who can often be reduced to tears by mental bullying--but the pity part (and here I mean genuine empathy of the "Oh, my God, you went through hell" variety, as opposed to the vindictive "you're a little man, not in size, but in stature" variety) is a bit more complicated. 

Think of that part in "Good Will Hunting" where Will's therapist, Sean (Robin Williams) is looking over his case file, and sees all the gruesome photographs of Will's abuse. This, or course, leads to that classic "it's not your fault" moment, and it's important to remember that before Will breaks down in tears, he gets violent. It's truly as if Sean is finally getting to the core of things, something so painful, so horrible, that it's agonizing to confront. 

And unfortunately, most people just can't face that pain. It's just too horrible. They cover it up with rage and money, and it slowly hollows them out. 

I know I'm sounding like Dr. Phil here, but it just explains so much, even the sad, pathetic correspondence with Erdogen, which, let's face it, reads like the sad, semi-literate scribblings of a second grader. When we strip all of it away, we see, at the core, a truly sad, fat little boy, sitting on the stoop and crying because his father abused him yet again an unloved person, probably abused as a child...and now, because of that abuse, we're paying the price for it.

Thankfully, there are people in world raised with unconditional love, which in turn fosters an inner strength, and consequently, leads to the creation of a deeply compassionate and empathetic person. And it is from this love and kindness that I draw hope. Yes, he has done horrible damage, but he still has not crushed the incredible kindness and decency that we saw in Obama, and, I think, see in Warren, and, yes, in Sanders, and, yes again, in Biden. 

It's easy to think that this is The End of Times. At the same time, I draw faith from that moment, in "Watchmen," when Adrian Veidt says "I did it. I brought it to an end," and Dr. Manhattan smiles sagely and says: "Nothing ever ends, Adrian." 

Or to put it another way: even if Houston wins, there's always next year. 

Love you, man. ​

A while back I downloaded the above video from You Tube for a health teacher. It’s stayed with me, because again and again, I think about the way things are now, and I feel as if entertainment--everything, actually--reminds me of the ideas in this brief film.

If you’re reading this and haven’t checked out the film, here’s a brief summary (and afterward, I’ll explain why I think about it a whole lot lately):

The film discusses the effects of meth in the brain. Briefly stated, each brain cell has a supply of dopamine, the pleasure chemical. Normally, a neuron releases a set amount of dopamine, which hops to the next neuron. The next neuron then has a batch of receptors that grab the dopamine.

Once the dopamine has delivered the “pleasure message,” it hops back to the receptors of the first neuron, which absorbs it so that it can recycle the dopamine.

When someone does meth, the meth hijacks the first cell, causing it to release way more dopamine than usual. Then, after all this dopamine floods the next neuron, the meth blocks the dopamine from returning to the first cell...which means that the dopamine just keeps on hitting the receptors of that second cell, sending one pleasure message after another.

After a while, though, that dopamine dissolves, and the first cell hasn’t been able to recycle it, which means that the first cell now has a lot less dopamine. To make matters worse, all this overstimulation of the second cell’s receptors cause the second cell’s receptors to withdraw.

The result is a constant upward treadmill, in which the user takes more and more meth so as to get that first cell to release ever decreasing amounts of dopamine, which that second cell has an ever decreasing ability to absorb. Eventually, it gets to a point where the user is taking meth just to feel the “normal” feeling that was the way he or she felt before doing all this meth in the first place.

I say all of this because when I think of all the sources of entertainment that are out there these days, I feel as if we’ve become a nation of burned-out meth addicts.

I think of the first “Star Wars” movie, of which critic Pauline Kael rightly said “The loudness, the smash-and-grab editing, the relentless pacing drive every idea from your head; for young audiences Star Wars is like getting a box of Cracker Jack which is all prizes.”

I still remember that when I saw this movie, it was a rush unlike anything I’d ever experienced. There was one amazing thing after another, with no let up.

At the same time, I remember having a conversation with a colleague a few years ago, in which he discussed watching the film the previous weekend.

“It’s so incredibly slow,” he said. “I mean, jeez...there’s just so much talking, and the action doesn’t really kick in until the final hour or so. Before that, it just goes on, forever and ever.”

And he’s right. Though I don’t find it boring, it’s amazing how slow the pace of “Star Wars” is compared to today’s films.

It’s also amazing how primitive the special effects are. Yes, taken in the context of their time, they’re amazing, but if you watch it with a group of kids, they’re liable, with their visual sophistication, to complain that the effects are lame.

And they are. Because after it came out, people soon tired of it. They needed more stimulation.

And so the entertainment industry gave it to them. We’d depleted our dopamine receptors, so it was necessary to make the high stronger.

One of the first things to go was plot development. Many years ago, when I attended a filmmaking class at The New York Film Academy, one of my instructors talked about a concept in films called “the setup.” This is the part of the film in which the writer puts all of the pieces in place, and then sets them on their way.

It used to be that the setup of a film could take thirty minutes or more. That certainly is the case in Star Wars, even with its then hyperactive pacing. No long wait for a setup here...the film begins with that huge Imperial cruiser blasting away at that tiny Rebel craft.

Yet even there, the film spends some time developing the main idea. It’s quite some time before Luke, with nothing left on Tattoine after the Imperial forces leave his home a burned out wreck, joins the Rebel forces.

Compare this to the first five minutes of “Fight Club,” whice came out twenty years later. No wasted time here. The film begins with the explosive sound of The Dust Brothers, while the first shot--appropriately for this essay, considering its brain chemistry analogy--follows the brain’s cortisol stress signals and pulls outward, through the skill, through the skin, and down the length of a gun barrel jammed into Edward Norton’s mouth.

From there, we get the setup in a hyperactive blur of quick cuts, and within two and a half minutes, we know it all.

And that’s the way, it seems, that everything goes these days.

And I find myself, when I read and watch films, deep in the throes of addiction to this kind of pacing.

I see sign of it in my students. No more do most students want to sit and listen to a teacher lecturing or telling stories. No more do most of them sit down and play board games.  

Instead, they play first person shooters, where the violence is ratcheted up to almost pornographic levels. A little while ago, I watched a Charlie Brooker documentary on video games, and, not having played a first person shooter in some time (I always found them dull, and some of them gave me motion sickness), and I felt like a depressed old man, stunned at the violence (check out the nine-minute mark of the "Charlie Brooker's Gameswipe" video that I embedded above this essay, and tell me what you think).

When I read, I find it difficult to stay with stories that take time to develop. And, more depressingly, I know that there was a time that these things genuinely gave me pleasure. It wasn’t the visceral, meth-like pleasure of a quick cut action movie; instead, it was this slow, graceful pleasure, one that I could count on again and again.

I see it in old pinball machines as well. A while back, Megan and I went to The Pinball Machine Museum in New York, and I was stunned (and, yes depressed), at how slow and boring the pinball machines of my childhood were. I must have played “Captain Fantastic” hundreds of times; then, when I tried it out in the museum, I played it once, and quickly moved on to the more modern machines, with their ramps and digital sounds and bi-level construction, some of them even featuring a second, miniature pinball machine (“Family Guy” and “Pirates of the Caribbean” come to mind).

I used to be so excited when a new comic book movie came out, and honestly, I know that the following sentiment is not just because I’m a lot older now: I’m burned out by them. I’ve lost track of the Marvel Comics films, and feel an overwhelming sense of “meh” at the whole thing.

Yet still, there are these little things.

Every so often, something comes around that reminds me of what it was to get that sort of natural high from a story, in which I felt this calm, lasting sense of seeing something truly great, something that made me simply smile and say “that was...boy, that was something.” One film that comes to mind is “Mr. Holmes,” a film in which Ian McKellen plays not Magneto but an elderly Sherlock Holmes. I still remember, midway through, turning to my father and saying “this is a truly great film; everything is great in this film, everything.”

“Yeah,” my father said, “that’s about right.”

Look, I’m not saying that I don’t like checking out a mindless summer movie every now and then. It’s just that now, mindless summer movies are the norm, and they come out all year round.

And more and more, I find myself retreating from them, seeking to detox myself, and rediscover the calm, quiet pleasure of a story well told at a steady pace. Man, after all, cannot live on meth alone.  

​