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The most recent Christmas season took on a particular glow this year.

First, Donald Trump, a man who seemed determined at every turn to display his selfishness, was going head-to-head both with Santa Claus -- a guy I like -- and Jesus Christ -- a guy a lot of people claim to like. Questions abounded: Would the tempestuous Trump fire Santa? And if not Santa, how about Jesus?

Second: Would Donald Trump actually become a president of the United States -- a job spoken of in well-modulated tones reserved for what was once the most powerful and magnetic country in the world? The answer seemed to be 'yes,' and yet this was a man who spoke in explosive tweets and reversed course frequently.

And third: On the day after Christmas, I found myself, at 76, in one of those ergonomically-praiseworthy and passenger-dubious beds reserved for heart/lung patients at Cooley Dickinson Hospital. And it was from that perch that I was given a chance to see America sold out in one way or another.

Drugs, of course, warmed my medicinal stew. I saw things from behind the lenses of opaque whites, pale blues, an occasional red ... you know, the pill repertoire. It was clear that the Republicans would do what they could to dismantle health care in America while pretending like Pinnochio's nose to offer an honest replacement. Victory without effort is so much easier than what was once called "sweat.".

And then, floating up in this hospital miasma was the announcement that Ringling Bros. & Barnum & Bailey Circus would close up shop come May. In an era of 141 characters and Tweet mentalities and Twitter presidents, it all seemed appropriate: The world powers gathered in Davos to carve up the financial pie: Trump was serving; China was buying.

It was time to lie back and relax. Would there be a pill for all this? Sure.

I do wonder a bit if those who got sick to death of the sissy liberals will remember who it was who left them in their second pile of smug and uncaring shit.

.....

About 50 years ago, my first publicly published piece was in the Gazette. Et puis, the last. Too frothy. Too energetic.

No more columns.