Friday, September 5, 2025

Meditation at Bishop O'Dowd High School

 The Sound of Awakening

The Buddha teaches that enlightenment is not a distant mountain to climb, but the realization that everything—every person, every sound, every breath—is already part of the sacred. The Eternal Buddha is here.

Students are buddhas becoming. The teachers, administrators, security people, groundskeepers, counselors, and parents; we are bodhisattvas showing our children the path. This place, this chapel, this school, this morning is our Deer Park. Sacred not because it is quiet, but because it is alive.

Outside, the school starting another day; buses beeping in reverse, students chattering, cars coming and going, crows calling, bees buzzing. It is not a distraction. It is the dharma in motion.

So we sit. We breathe. We listen.

We are in the center of the world—Bishop O’Dowd at 8:15. It is the music of awakening. Not a moment to escape, but a time to immerse ourselves in the sound of buddha everywhere around us.

Let the breath come in. Let it go out.

Let the beeps of the bus be our temple bell.

Let the laughter be our mantra.

Let the crows be our choir.

Let the quad be our sound of now.

And for this moment may we be present.

Friday, August 8, 2025

The Bellamasue and the Tiendita, A Maiden Voyage with a New Kayak in Oakland

The maiden voyage of the Bellamasue—my $299 Pelican kayak—was a quiet success. I’d finally gotten the roof rack, the cradles, the cotter pins, and the straps to work. I slid it into the water at Tidewater Boathouse near high tide and paddled slowly out toward the channel marker. I felt the old muscles in my shoulders wake up as I feathered my strokes. Everything worked. The kayak tracked, it felt right.

Getting it up and down from the car turned out to be easier than I expected. Carrying it from the parking lot to the dock was hard, but manageable. 78 year olds are weaker than we used to be and 10 feet of 40 pounds lugging a distance is pushing it for me now. I wore my wide Mexican gardener’s hat and a neck bandana from Tepoztlán, for sun, sweat, and maybe blowing my nose. Water people don’t look cool but we look like we belong.

A woman at the water on a stand-up at first seemed standoffish, but then a tentative greeting and we had common ground, She’d gone up the creek and seen a big crab, grasses, and other signs of wildness hiding in plain sight. Had I ever done that? she asked. And we swapped quiet stories of urban waterway magic. Junky from the road, beautiful from the water. For a moment we shared an understanding. 

Later, I parked in front of a small tiendita in East Oakland to pick up pozole ingredients. The Bellamasue was still on top of the car. The girls at the butcher counter were Salvadorean, the clerk Honduran. They saw the kayak, maybe the hat, definitely the güero. But the moment I asked for pork neck bones and maíz para pozole in decent Spanish, the whole vibe changed. Now I was the local oddball—not a stranger, just another Oakland type. We all belong in one way or another, East Oakland near the Estuary. There’s almost nothing that doesn't fit in Oakland, there's space for all us and things we haven’t seen seen before, like güeros in big sun hats with kayaks outside who speak Spanish. 

Thursday, July 31, 2025

On Becoming a Buddhist

 

It was a Jesuit who first opened the door to Buddhism for me. I was a freshman at Loyola University in Los Angeles in 1965 and 1966. One evening I attended a lecture by Father William Johnston, SJ. He was professor at Sophia University, the Jesuit school in Tokyo, a scholar and a mystic who had lived in Japan for years. He said he was a Buddhist and a Jesuit priest and that the two were compatible, that Buddhism is a philosophy, not a religion.

It was the first time I encountered Buddhism as a valid belief system instead of some foreign and mysterious religion. I do remember the premise during the Vietnam War that because of Buddhism the Asians didn’t value life the same way Westerners did and why so many died willingly in our war against them, a very Western imperialist attitude toward Eastern philosophy. Fr. Johnston seemed quite alive and in this world as I remember. Sharing his Buddhist insight he planted the seed of Buddhism that grew and flowered in me.

It was nearly two decades later that I got sober using the 12 Steps of AA. Meditation is an important part of the daily AA practice and I began meditating as encouraged by the other members. I heard that “prayer is when we talk to God; meditation is when we listen.”

For years, my meditation was brief. I would tell myself I will do this for at least five minutes or more, and usually it was just five minutes. I used the Hazelden book Twenty-Four Hours a Day: A Meditation Book for Alcoholics. I have continued to meditate off and on using different books for inspiration and adapting it to different opportunities and situations, but meditation has been a part of my life.

In 2012 I made a trip to Japan as a guest of my old boss from Dai-Ichi Kangyo Bank. Hayashi-san made sure I visited shrines and temples. It was my first direct encounter with Shintoism and seeing Buddhism in its own environment. I found these places moving, and my Japanese friends laughed at what seemed to them my belief and devotion, but really it was just practicing like the Japanese seemed to do—not worrying about what it meant.

In my hotel room the Buddhist text The Teachings of Buddha was in a hotel drawer like a Gideon Bible. It wasn’t particularly profound—mostly short parables and sayings—but when I returned home I used it for daily meditation. The structure of reading something short, then sitting with it quietly, suited me. Without really studying Buddhism, my daily reading familiarized me with Buddhist thinking.

A few years ago, as I periodically have done, I wanted to renew my meditation practice, to try it more faithfully, and for my daily reading I picked up a book by Thich Nhat Hanh. Years before, I had heard not to fight the “monkey mind” that so plagues us all—particularly when trying to meditate—but to let it be and not follow it or fight it. Thầy Nhat Hanh taught me to refocus on my breath. That was a big help in not getting lost with my “monkey mind.” His gentle and wise discourse opened the door a little wider and made me more curious, and I decided to learn more about Buddhism itself. I realized I didn’t really understand Buddhism in any systematic way. I’d read Alan Watts, Jack Kornfield, and others. I had a sense of the teachings—but no framework. So I bought The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Buddhism. It seemed a little silly to be using that series, but I remembered Suzuki Roshi’s Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, and the title seemed right.

I studied the lists—because Buddhism, as an oral tradition uses lists: the Three Jewels (Buddha, Dharma, Sangha), the Four Noble Truths, the Five Hindrances, the Eightfold Path, the Six Paramitas and more. The lists helped me structure my understanding and gave me language for what I had already begun to feel.

Another breakthrough came to me at my congregation of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Berkeley when Susan Mashiyama gave a talk on Buddhism during a summer service.  She told us about the Metta Prayer. I had heard of metta, but I didn’t understand it and had never heard the prayer before.

May I be peaceful.

May I be happy.

May I be safe.

May I awaken to the light of my true nature.

May I be free.

…and repeating the same phrases with You, Them, and Us.

It was simple but moved me deeply and added so much to my practice. After meditation, I recite this prayer, first for myself, then for others—my sons, my daughter, their mothers, my niece, and friends, I’ve added names as needed, including the children of Gaza and people I’ve promised to pray for. I repeat each line until I truly hear it. When my mind wanders, I gently bring it back—no self-scolding, just redirection. Like returning to a trail over and over.

I also began reading The Lotus Sutra, guided by Nichio Niwano’s commentary. I’m now on my second or third pass through Niwano’s book Buddhism for Today. It’s dense and poetic, and I suspect I’ll never fully absorb it. But it deepens my sense that the Dharma is a flowing, living river.

I tried going to a Chan monastery in Pleasant Hill—beautiful grounds, impressive land—but it felt distant. Formal ranks, color-coded robes for the neophytes, a kind of organizational structure that didn’t speak to me. The nuns were kind, but I didn’t feel invited. I didn’t want to be part of an institution. I wanted community. And it was a long drive.

I’ve realized my community, my sangha, is already at UUCB. Twenty years ago I found a liberal community of searchers, wanderers, and misfits like me. People who hold beliefs gently and believe in practice. People who are trying. And it still works today.

Midway through this process I began to describe myself as a Buddhist, a Unitarian Buddhist, but a Buddhist. I study Buddhism and I practice daily, and for me my practice often moves me to be a better person, kinder and more present. I am not yet the Buddha, completely one with all, but I am beginning and trying. And I’m a nicer driver.

Thursday, July 17, 2025

Genocide and American Complicity

This week Francesca Albanese, UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights, joined Colombian President Gustavo Petro and South Africa and representatives from 30 nations at the Hague Group conference in Bogotá, Colombia. The Hague Group formed this year to protect and uphold the rulings of the International Court of Justice in relation to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Their aim is to stop the genocide.

Not only is the United States absent from this effort, but our national press—The New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times, USA Today, and almost everyone else have not even reported on it. The American silence on Israeli atrocities—and on efforts to stop them—is complicity.

I was horrified by the Hamas terrorist attacks. The brutal murder of Israeli civilians, including women, children, and entire families, was close to home. The taking of hostages was horrifying. This was outrageous and it is intolerable.

However the response of the Israeli government is murdering 50,000 people or more and it hasn't stopped. That is not war, that is genocide. The collective punishment of an entire population, the mass bombings of civilians, the displacement of over a million people, the destruction of hospitals, schools, refugee camps, and the starvation of a besieged people—this goes far beyond any claim of self-defense. These are war crimes, and our government has supported them. It is our bullets and bombs that make this genocide possible.

The International Criminal Court has found probable cause to pursue charges against both Hamas leaders and Israeli officials for war crimes and crimes against humanity. Francesca Albanese’s efforts are rooted in these findings and in the United Nations General Assembly’s vote calling for an immediate ceasefire and full humanitarian access. She is not acting alone—she represents the consensus of international law and the conscience of the world.

Yet the United States continues to supply weapons and funding to the Israeli government—even as that government has shut out United Nations relief agencies, targeted journalists and aid workers, sabotaged U.S. aid corridors by firing on crowds, creating chaos, and making aid delivery unworkable.

As things stand, we are not passive observers. We are active participants in genocide. Our tax dollars are funding the bombs. Our silence is enabling the starvation. Our failure to act is eroding any moral authority we once claimed.

I support the Israeli people. I believe they have a right to defend themselves and to establish themselves as a people and a nation. But I do not believe in apartheid. I do not believe in genocide. I do believe that if Israel is to survive, it must deal honestly with the people who were there before them. It must come to terms with the Palestinian people—no matter how difficult—to create a new state. A state that is just, fair, and grounded in the shared talents and histories of both its peoples.

This is not an easy path. But it is the only path that leads away from permanent war. Northern Ireland is trying to do that now with fits and starts. South Africa prevented a civil war by forming a new Republic. The Republic of South Africa is not perfect, it has many problems, but they are trying. Israel’s current version of a "one-state solution" is not unity—it is genocide by occupation, displacement, and denial.

Somehow, Israel must return to the path that Yitzhak Rabin and Anwar Sadat opened—before it was slammed shut by Likud, by Netanyahu, Ariel Sharon, and now again by Benjamin Netanyahu. I am not against Israel. I am against the policies of its current government—policies of apartheid, permanent occupation, and collective punishment. Israel’s leaders want to label any opposition to their extreme agenda as anti-Semitism. It is not. Israel cannot exist in opposition to justice and humanitarian principles. In fact, it is only by returning to those principles that Israel can survive as a nation.

The path Netanyahu is taking is the path of a pariah state—isolated, illegitimate, and ultimately unsustainable. I believe Benjamin Netanyahu is a war criminal. His motivation is not the survival of Israel but the survival of his own political career—and staying out of prison.

Anti-Netanyahu is not anti-Semitic. Anti-apartheid is not anti-Semitic. Opposing genocide is not anti-Semitic. These accusations are used as a shield. It is a lie.

I condemn terrorism. I mourn the Israeli dead. But I cannot support a government that slaughters civilians and uses American weapons to do it.

The United States must immediately stop supplying arms and funding to Israel. We must join the international community in demanding a ceasefire, full humanitarian access, and a return to negotiations. We should be standing with Francesca Albanese, with the Bogotá conference, and with the global consensus that genocide is never justified.

The time for moral clarity is now. Calling out genocide is always the right thing to do. It is never acceptable—for any reason, by anyone.


The Hague Group

  1. Algeria

  2. Bolivia

  3. Botswana

  4. Brazil

  5. Chile

  6. China

  7. Colombia

  8. Cuba

  9. Djibouti

  10. Honduras

  11. Indonesia

  12. Iraq

  13. Ireland

  14. Lebanon

  15. Libya

  16. Malaysia

  17. Mexico

  18. Namibia

  19. Nicaragua

  20. Norway

  21. Oman

  22. Pakistan

  23. Palestine

  24. Portugal

  25. Qatar

  26. Slovenia

  27. South Africa

  28. Spain

  29. Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

  30. Turkey

  31. Uruguay

  32. Venezuela



Monday, July 7, 2025

GRINGO IN WONDERLAND

The Taxi Trap at TAPO


After nine hours on the road, the bus finally rolled into TAPO—the southern terminal in Mexico City. The ride had taken its time, weaving through traffic and odd little streets, with delays along the way. But we arrived more or less on schedule. I was tired. Groggy, maybe. Not alert.

The terminal looked closed down for the night, or close to it. A few men stood near the exit, directing people toward the street with that friendly-but-pushy confidence that should be a red flag. The locals ignored them. I didn’t. I’ve seen this setup before—in Mexico City, in Puerto Vallarta, and anywhere tourists meet taxis. I should have known better.

But one of them offered to help with my bag. “The taxis are right this way,” he said. I let him take it.

We walked past the actual taxi stand. That should’ve been the moment I stopped everything. Right then and there: “Dame mi maleta.” But I didn’t. I was too wiped out. And that’s how these guys work—on travelers who’ve been on the move too long.

The car wasn’t marked, wasn’t waiting in the proper taxi zone, and wasn’t anything special—just a plain Nissan, unwashed and unremarkable. “Fair price?” I asked. “Yes, yes,” he nodded. “I’ll show you on the phone.” Of course he would. His friendliness was thin, and I didn’t trust it. But by then it was too late. I was in the car, and my bag was in the trunk. A classic mistake.

He didn’t really know where he was going. We wound through side streets while he followed his GPS. I kept glancing at it, wondering what I’d gotten into. Eventually we ended up somewhere near the Zócalo—but not at my hotel. He pulled up outside a different one and said, “This is it.”

It wasn’t. But I got out and asked what I owed.

“Setecientos cincuenta,” he said—MX$750.

For a ride that should have cost MX$100, maybe MX$200 at night. I’d already made peace with overpaying—maybe MX$350, with the tourist tax. But this? I wanted to call him a thief, un ladron, but I didn't have my bag yet.  

I told him: “Cuatrocientos. No más.” I didn’t even have MX$750 on me. He grumbled but opened the trunk. At that moment I realized how vulnerable I was. If he’d driven off with my bag, there would’ve been nothing I could’ve done. But he didn’t. He took the MX$400—still a win for him—and drove off.

I looked at the hotel he’d dropped me at. Not the right one. I checked my phone: my actual hotel, El Catedral, was a 15-minute walk. It looked like a short hop on the GPS, but city blocks in Mexico City can stretch out. So I started walking.

The area was alive but not threatening—parents with kids, people heading home, fast food still open. I passed a McDonald’s, a few corner stores, and street vendors closing shop. One group, sharing drinks and laughter, nodded as I passed.

When I finally reached my hotel—through a side door—it felt like stepping out of barracuda-infested water and into calm. A bellboy took my bag and walked me to the front desk. No hustle. Walked back to his post before I could tip him. No angle. Just service.

I was finally where I needed to be. Safe, and reminded once again: in Mexico, the predators are real—but so is the kindness. You just have to get through one to find the other.

The check-in felt like an airline counter—pleasant but complicated. It turned out the reservation I thought I’d made through Expedia hadn’t gone through. What I thought was an email from them acknowledging that the reservation hadn't been made was instead from the hotel. Still, I had already paid for one night, and she was able to add the next three without a problem.

I kept thinking, This is kind of expensive, but when I saw the bill—MX$1,300 per night—I had to laugh. For a clean, modern hotel with bellboys, working Wi-Fi, and a perfect location behind the cathedral, it was a bargain. It came out to about $70 USD. There are cheaper hotels, but not many that feel this solid.

I took the elevator to my room. Still a little rattled, I tried to get the TV going. Took me thirty minutes just to connect the Wi-Fi and enter the password with the remote. In the end, I streamed a show on my laptop. I fell asleep around midnight and slept well enough—until 6 a.m., when my body told me that was that.

In the light of day I reflected on my $35 taxi ride, that I paid $20 for and it was just funny and a lesson, be vigilant; I don't have this down perfectly yet. The whole taxi scam cost me $10 extra. That’s it. A $10 lesson in humility. Not my first. Probably not my last.

It reminded me of Puerto Vallarta, back in 1995—a $3 taxi ride that cost me $38. These guys have been around forever. The “luxury taxi” lie. The fast talk. The phone with the “rate” they never actually show you. The fake friendliness. They know how to spot a tired traveler.

When I refused his ridiculous fare, he got defensive. “It’s the night rate,” he said. Supposedly, everything doubles after 10 p.m. The meter doesn’t exist. The rate’s on his phone. Trust him. Only—it wasn’t 10 p.m. And I never saw the phone. Arguing with a petty thief over the exact amount of the theft felt pointless.

In the end, I paid MX$400, got my bag back, walked 15 minutes, and got some fresh air. I figure I paid an expensive but normal $10 for the ride, $10 for the lesson, and got a little exercise and night sightseeing to go with it.

We’re all God’s children doing our best—even Pepe the ladróncito.

I no longer pray for ladróncitos to burn in hell. I just pray that one day they have a spiritual awakening. 

Friday, June 27, 2025

A Gringo in Oaxaca

I am in Mexico. I’m staying in Oaxaca, at a small hotel near The Cathedral called El Parador de San Agustín, a block and a half from the Zócalo, the center of town. It’s a traditional Mexican hotel for business people and Mexican tourists, with a few guests from El Norte, mostly from the U.S. The building has a modest street façade with one entrance to the office and another leading onto a broad patio paved in brick. There are tables and chairs for breakfast, meetings, or socializing. The hotel’s architecture is classic; white walls and red accents, woodwork, and a second-floor gallery with iron railings overlooking the patio below.

The staff are warm and informal, often working from a desk near the entrance when they’re not attending to guests or helping other staff members. The small café faces the street with its own entrance, three tables against the wall on the sidewalk, and another entrance leading onto the patio. Two cooks run the café, preparing breakfast for guests and snacks for occasional walk-ins. They also tend a large stew pot with great care; beans and maybe something else during the day. The hotel is quiet and comfortable, shielded from the busy one-way street where police manage traffic at both corners.

Just outside, there’s a book stall: tables against the wall on the sidewalk and in the street, filled with books. Tarps stretch from the building across the sidewalk to cover them—makeshift but permanent, protecting the books from the nearly daily rain that visits Oaxaca during the summer. There’s also a modest clothing shop, a Banamex, and a great Gelatolandia. Foot traffic is constant. The hotel offers a peaceful retreat from that daily hum: a calm courtyard, clean rooms, and reasonable prices. $85 a night or $95 with air conditioning. I opted for a room with a ceiling fan and patio windows that bring in fresh air.

The staff are delightful. David is professional and friendly, a bit reserved. Jiero is thoughtful and prefers to speak English, so I’m happy to help him practice. His English is quite good. Eli, an English teacher at a private school, will not speak English to me at all in the best possible way. When I ask questions, he answers in Spanish and stays there. David does the same. I appreciate it deeply. This is how I learn. Dulce, initially shy to speak English, is a third-year university student studying business administration. Her English is very good, a good accent, and she is happy to practice with me. I’ve decided to speak only English with her in return for the kindness of others who stay in Spanish for me.

I can do almost everything in Spanish now; order meals, ask directions, converse. I have a large but idiosyncratic vocabulary and tangled grammar. But Mexicans are almost always patient and helpful and mostly understand me. They kindly compliment my accent and fluency, though I know I’m far from fluent. Still, I get by. My Spanish may sound tortured to me, but it works. I can talk to people here, and that means everything. In Mexico, the doors are open for Americans who make an effort. And with more Spanish, those doors open even wider. Even the simplest words; gracias, por favor, buenos días, are met with warmth.

¿Habla inglés? will often bring a reply of "Un poco," which can mean anything from three words to near fluency. Taxi drivers and waiters often say it with a smile and will make a good effort to understand you, even if their English is minimal. These days, people are using Google Translate, which is a great tool and I think it’s okay to refer to it, but only as a reference to help you, not waving the phone in someone’s face while it speaks for you. To me, that just looks rude.

Americans are here, mostly independent travelers, not cruise ship tourists or resort guests with packages. In Oaxaca, many are here on their own as part of a language program. Some speak only a little Spanish, but they come anyway. I admire that. It takes guts to travel somewhere unfamiliar and try to learn the language and culture. That’s part of why I enjoy talking to Americans. The tourists have stories, come from all over the U.S., and bring an earnest curiosity and appreciation.

That said, it can be hard to talk to fellow Americans here. We don’t blend in, and most of us aren’t trying to, but we also aren’t always open to meeting one another. I miss the easy camaraderie I had with tourists as a Park Ranger. Without the hat and badge, I’m just another visitor. Still, when I do meet American travelers here, I enjoy it immensely. They’re interesting people—the kind who choose to come here, who take the risk and try to learn. I respect that.

Mexicans, meanwhile, are remarkably open. You’ll never really blend in, even with language and cultural awareness, but you can become almost family. Some of my friends here call me casi Mexicano. I like that. For those who speak English, I sometimes say I’m a wannabe Mexican. It gets a laugh, and it says something true. I’ll never be Mexican, but I’m trying.

Oaxaca, in particular, is a place that encourages that effort. This isn’t Cancún or Cabo. There’s no industrial tourism here. The people are welcoming, the prices are fair, and the sharks are few. It’s not about extracting dollars; it’s about sharing culture. As anyone who’s been to Cancún knows, most Mexicans are helpful, seem to like the tourists and speak English. There are barracudas, thick in the tourist spots, ready to pick your pocket, literally or figuratively. Hotels have American prices when Mexicans wouldn’t pay nearly as much. Usually, it’s a good experience, though sometimes annoying. In Oaxaca, there are only a few sharks and no barracudas. Here, the sharks aren’t so aggressive.

One of the best parts of this trip is being here at the same time as my daughter, Paloma. She’s staying with a local family near La Basílica de la Soledad in La Colonia Centro. It’s the densest, most vibrant neighborhood I’ve seen—a beehive of life on Saturday mornings, with cafes, markets, churro vendors, families, and shoppers everywhere. Paloma is living with three American housemates—one her friend from Oakland and two from D.C. Paloma’s mother is a first-generation American with parents from Panamá. Paloma self-identifies as Afro-Latina. She is the only one of the four who speaks Spanish. Mexicans know she’s not one of them; she has an international school accent, but she told me she passes sometimes. She was very proud that in the laundromat no one suspected she was a foreigner.

The others, sweet and earnest girls, are mostly monolingual, though they’ve studied Spanish in school. Paloma said one, who is Latina but not fluent, has been a little standoffish—even cold. I’ve talked to Mexican Americans who are embarrassed that they don’t speak Spanish, and Mexicans have a rude term for people who identify themselves as Mexican or look Mexican but don’t know the language. It’s not easy. And those who try to overcome that barrier are admirable. Through the embarrassment, they decide to learn the language anyway. It takes courage.

I chose to learn Spanish not because I had to, but because I wanted to be part of this world. I wanted to acculturate. Also, I simply love being here. I love la gente. The people make this place beautiful. It’s a great country to learn in, and a great country just to be in. It’s a writer’s country.

I imagine myself in a room like this one as Malcolm Lowry, Graham Greene, or Katherine Anne Porter, with an overhead fan and a typewriter on the desk with a blank page. In my case, an empty computer screen. I know a lot about Mexico, its history, its culture, the story of La Virgen de Guadalupe, and maybe why Americans celebrate Cinco de Mayo as if it’s the national holiday instead of the minor one it is here. I’ve had Mexican friends joke that if you want to know about Mexico, ask Jack. I’ve learned what I can, but I know I’m still just scratching the surface. I’ll never be Mexican, but I keep learning, and I keep coming back.

Sunday, July 7, 2024

Joe Biden Must Retire

 The Democratic Party needs to replace Joe Biden or they will lose the election. Biden’s ego threatens the Republic. Biden kept reminding us to look at the alternative. It made me angry being told I had to vote for Biden to save Democracy. Our choices are supposedly between an evil man who has no concept of Democracy and a geriatric egomaniac who we the majority of Democrats did not want. We were told we had to save Democracy by by voting for someone we never wanted and didn’t choose.

Many people think Biden did a good job in his three years in office. When he decided to run again for President he put it all at risk. I believe any of the possible Democratic candidates other than Biden could beat Trump. In the last year Biden’s reelection at best has been a big if. Now Trump has a good chance of beating Joe Biden. America’s future is at stake and Biden's bid to be reelected is too big a risk. The likelihood that Trump could win became almost a certainty with Biden’s Debate performance. Of course committed Democrats will vote for Biden instead of Trump but all those Republicans who hate Trump, undecideds and independents are deciding they don’t want an addled old man who will very likely die in office.

I think arguments about facts, actual competency, what’s good for the country, who would be better, all those questions are irrelevant. If Biden runs for President he will lose.

I don’t buy the premise that it’s too late to change. I think there is a good chance that given a decent choice between a functioning Democrat and Donald Trump that certainly all Democrats will support and vote for the Democrat and maybe a good number of other people who don’t want Donald Trump. I think that’s very likely. I don’t think the African American vote, the youth vote, the Hispanic vote, or any other way of divvying up the American voter is going to be important when the choice is between a reasonable person and Donald Trump. I’m counting on the Democratic Party to at least deliver up a reasonable candidate. I think that’s likely.

Let’s get on with it. Thank you, Joe for a lifetime of dedicated service. History will say you were a good Senator, a very good Vice President and maybe an excellent President. I’m not a Centrist. I haven’t been satisfied for a long time. But I always vote Democratic. Now give me a choice. Retire and enjoy your legacy. Anything else is risking the Republic itself.