The Iliad of Our Age: A Pageant of Masks and Power

Prologue: The Gods Depart, the Masks Remain

In Homer’s Iliad, the gods meddled in mortal wars not out of justice but vanity. They played favorites, seduced heroes, and stoked conflict for sport. Mortals bled for causes they barely understood. Today, the gods are gone, but their masks remain. What we call politics is not governance but theater: a Greek tragedy repurposed for prime time.

Act I: The Rise of the Warriors and Elders

The stage fills with figures who claim gravitas, each donning a mask from myth:

• Donald Trump enters as the Aging Actor, a faded Agamemnon who refuses to exit, mistaking bluster for command.

• Bernie Sanders speaks as Nestor, weary yet insistent, urging the assembly toward forgotten ideals.

• Alexandria Ocasio‑Cortez stands as Cassandra, warning of looming crises, but condemned to be mocked or ignored.

• Chuck Schumer plays Dolus, the trickster spirit, feigning concern, weaving masks of care but revealing only hollow gestures.

• Tammy Duckworth embodies Achilles wounded yet unbowed, her scars a reminder of sacrifice.

• Mark Kelly appears as Ajax, the warrior‑senator, invoking duty and law against unlawful commands. His defiance is not rebellion but fidelity to the code, yet he is punished for speaking the truth aloud.

Act II: The Pageant of Illusion and Image

The spectacle shifts from warriors to illusionists, image‑makers, and opportunists:

• Marjorie Taylor Greene shrieks like the Harpies, swooping in to unsettle order.

• Pete Hegseth blusters as Thersites, loud but empty, mistaking noise for wisdom.

• Karoline Leavitt echoes like the cursed nymph, repeating borrowed words without conviction.

• Kristi Noem appears as Circe, the enchantress of image, weaving charm into power plays, but her spells reveal farce more than transformation.

• JD Vance wanders as Odysseus without honor, shifting loyalties for optics rather than survival.

• Gavin Newsom shines as Apollo in modern dress, radiant and polished, a master of image and presentation.

• J.B. Pritzker looms as Plutus, god of wealth, shaping the stage through resources and patronage.

Act III: The Chorus of Outsiders

The chorus murmurs as outsiders enter, complicating the script:

• Erika Kirk becomes a modern Helen, glamorous and grieving, suddenly central to the spectacle.

• Usha Vance lingers as Penelope, silent and sidelined, her loyalty threadbare and no longer useful to the plot.

• Robert F. Kennedy Jr. shifts as Proteus, cloaking himself in prophecy and persuasion, but slipping between forms so often that truth itself becomes unstable.

• Rob Reiner exits as the Director, a storyteller whose passing should have inspired reflection. Instead, his death was repurposed by Donald Trump as another line of grievance, not mourning but monologue.

Act IV: The Chorus Awakens

The chorus, the people, watches, half‑entranced, half‑aware. Some begin to see the seams in the costumes, the stage lights, the script rewritten nightly to flatter the leads. They recognize that this is not governance but theater: a tragicomedy of ambition and betrayal, where the masks of gods conceal only mortals desperate for applause.

Curtain Call: From Spectacle to Governance

The play has run too long. The masks are cracked, the stage lights harsh, the script exhausted. We have cheered, jeered, and gasped at the spectacle, mistaking theater for leadership. But we the people were never meant to be passive spectators.

It is time to rise from the seats. It is time to demand governance, not entertainment. It is time to strip away the costumes and insist on substance.

The Harpies may shriek, the Circe may enchant, the Proteus may shift, and the Aging Actor may cling to his role, but we hold the true power. The tragedy ends not when the actors exit, but when the audience refuses to be fooled.

The curtain must fall. The pageant must end. And we must insist: govern us, do not perform for us.

Folklore as a Mirror of the American Psyche

This essay began with holiday traditions. I was curious about how different cultures celebrate the season, expecting quirky contrasts. What I found instead was a window into how societies tell stories and enforce values. European traditions lean dark, full of consequence. American traditions lean whimsical, full of reassurance. That contrast led me to Grimm fairytales, Disney adaptations, and ultimately to a broader critique of the American psyche.

Introduction

Folklore and holiday traditions are not just seasonal amusements; they are cultural artifacts that reveal how societies understand morality, consequence, and identity. A comparison of European and American traditions shows a striking divergence. Europe embraces fear and consequence, while the United States sanitizes stories into charm and nostalgia. This difference illuminates broader patterns in national personality and political rhetoric.

Folklore and Consequence in Europe

European traditions such as Krampus in Austria, Père Fouettard in France, and the Yule Lads in Iceland embody a pedagogy of fear. These figures mete out punishment proportionate to misbehavior, reinforcing the idea that actions have tangible consequences. The original Grimm fairytales followed the same logic: stark moral lessons, often violent, designed to instill discipline and caution. In Europe, folklore acknowledges nuance—good behavior earns reward, bad behavior earns punishment.

Sanitization in the United States

When these tales crossed into American culture, they were transformed. Disney softened Grimm’s brutality into charm, replacing punishment with magic and optimism. Holiday traditions followed suit. Rudolph the Red‑Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman are not warnings at all; they are feel‑good stories, designed to delight rather than discipline. Even the Elf on the Shelf, which gestures toward surveillance, rarely delivers consequence.

This reflects a deeper cultural instinct: Americans resist narratives in which “we” suffer punishment. Our folklore reassures us that we are good, loved, and destined for happy endings. Consequence is erased, replaced by charm and nostalgia.

Cultural Implications

This divergence mirrors national personality. Europe accepts that misbehavior deserves punishment, even for “insiders.” America casts itself as the eternal good guy, deserving of triumph, while punishment is displaced onto outsiders—the villain, the scapegoat, the “illegal.” This tendency aligns with political messaging that thrives on nostalgia and innocence. Reagan’s “feel‑good” era projected warmth even amid Cold War tension. Contemporary slogans such as “Make America Great Again” resonate because they echo this sanitized storytelling—promising a return to greatness without reckoning with consequence.

The American Psyche

Our refusal to accept consequence shapes not only children’s stories but adult politics. When crises arise, the instinct is to externalize blame rather than confront systemic accountability. Folklore thus mirrors the national psyche: optimistic, nostalgic, resistant to punishment, and reliant on the construction of an “other” to bear the burden of failure.

Author’s Note

If our traditions mirror our national personality, then perhaps it is time to rewrite the script. We need to acknowledge when we are wrong, when we fall short, and when consequences are deserved. Looking inward is uncomfortable, but it is the only way to grow.

We must stop being seduced by messages that sound good but lack substance. Nostalgia and slogans may feel comforting, but without a plan, they are just stories—no different than Frosty or Rudolph. Real progress requires responsibility, not just reassurance.

Folklore teaches us that consequences matter. The lesson for America is clear: accountability is not something to fear—it is something to embrace.

Needful Things and the Politics of Manipulation: When Desire Becomes Division

Stephen King’s stories have never been about monsters—not really. They’ve always been about people. About what fear does to us. About what we’re willing to sacrifice for security, for power, for the things we think we need.

In the early ‘90s, I devoured his books, captivated by his ability to strip humanity down to its core—the choices we make when tested, the thin line between good and evil, the battle between fear and reason. The Stand was the ultimate cosmic struggle, a story about the forces that pull people apart or bring them together.

But lately, one of his lesser-known works, Needful Things has been tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me of something unsettling. The fractures in Castle Rock—the way fear turned neighbors into enemies—feel eerily familiar. I look around, and I see my own country splintering. Families divided. Once-clear truths are buried beneath the weight of misinformation.

“There were people who lied for gain, people who lied from pain, people who lied simply because the concept of telling the truth was utterly alien to them . . . and then there were people who lied because they were waiting for it to be time to tell the truth.”

― Stephen King, Needful Things

And I wonder: Have we all made a bargain we don’t understand?

Stephen King’s novel unfolds like a cautionary tale for our time: a charismatic outsider arrives in town, offering exactly what each person has long desired. He promises happiness, belonging, and purpose—if only they will pay his price. But what they don’t realize is that the price isn’t just money; it’s loyalty, it’s division, it’s a slow, corrosive turning against one another. And in the end, the town burns.

The parallels are impossible to ignore.

The Charlatan’s Promise

Leland Gaunt understands human nature too well. He doesn’t force Castle Rock’s citizens into conflict—he simply nudges them, exploiting their personal grievances and turning them into weapons. He convinces them that the trinkets he offers—the things they’ve always wanted—are priceless, though in reality, they’re nothing more than junk.

In American politics today, the same strategy plays out in a larger, more dangerous arena. Political figures craft a narrative where only they hold the key to restoring the country’s lost greatness. Only they can provide safety, strength, prosperity—if their followers remain loyal, if they ignore dissent, if they turn against those deemed outsiders. The promises sound grand, but just like Gaunt’s worthless trinkets, they are hollow.

Turning People Against Each Other

Gaunt doesn’t need to directly destroy Castle Rock—he knows that if he poisons the town’s relationships, people will do it themselves. Friends become enemies. Longstanding resentments are given fresh fuel. The town collapses not because of external destruction, but because the people themselves unravel the fabric of their own community.

We’ve seen the same thing happen in America: manipulated fears turned into battle lines. Immigrants, journalists, educators, entire communities labeled as threats to prosperity, scapegoated until the divide feels irreparable. The strategy is simple: convince people that what they have—whether it’s tradition, power, or identity—is being stolen, and they will fight to protect it. They will fight even if their perceived enemy is their own neighbor.

The Fallout

In Needful Things, the ultimate realization comes too late: the town burns to the ground, and the objects people fought over—their supposed treasures—are revealed to be worthless. They destroyed everything for nothing.

This is the warning we should heed. When manipulation takes root, when division becomes a weapon, when people sacrifice real values for imagined grievances, the result is destruction. The country fractures, communities weaken, and in the end, all that’s left is the wreckage of what was once a shared identity.

The Urgency to Speak

History will remember this time. Whether future generations look back and recognize the warning signs or continue down the same path will depend on whether people speak up, whether they document, whether they refuse to be silent.

I choose to write because silence is complicity. I write because I see the patterns. And like those watching Castle Rock burn, I refuse to stand by and let the flames consume my community without saying something first.

Final Thoughts & Call to Action

History is shaped not just by the leaders who rise, but by the people who allow themselves to be divided. Fear convinces us to fight over illusions—over things we are told we must protect. But the truth is, what we need most isn’t found in fear, in loyalty to a singular figure, or in turning against our neighbors. What we need is each other. What we need is the willingness to listen, to reject manipulation, to find our common ground. If we refuse to be divided, we refuse to let history repeat itself.

Maddy in the Music Store

Nineteen years ago, our family was avid American Idol viewers. We watched weekly, cheered for our favorites and subsequently followed their careers. 

We listened to the weekly broadcasts and mentally aligned ourselves with favorites. We were so invested that at one point, I wrote a story about the contestants for my then 7 year old daughter, who loved music and Idol. 

I based the story on a favorite book I read them, Tommy at the Grocery Store, where the child got lost in the store and everyone who found him confused him with a grocery item. Amazon informs me that I purchased this book in 2000. That's some serious history. 

All that aside, I am compelled to share my own tribute. It involved the 2005 contestants on AI, my daughter and her passions. She loved (s) music. I am sharing this because she just auditioned for a show and it all came back. 

I proudly present: (written by me, inspired by Bill Grossman and the 2005 season of AI competitors). 

Maddy at the Music Store

Mommy left poor Maddy sitting 
At the music store. 
With player pianos and shiny guitars, 
Mommy walked right out the door. 

Constantine walked in the store, 
And picked up the little girl. 
Thinking she was a microphone, 
He sang and gave a twirl. 

His voice didn't get any louder, 
He put his mouth right next to her ear. 
"This isn't a microphone, there is no cord, 
You've got a defective microphone here." 

"Hey Bo, what do you think?
This microphone's broken, I fear." 
Bo looked at Maddy and loudly proclaimed, 
"Silly guy, it's a guitar you have here!" 

Bo picked her up and turned her sideways, 
Strumming at her belly. 
Maddy giggled but didn't make music, 
And Bo made her laugh like a bowl of jelly. 

"Yo, Anwar, this guitar isn't working! 
Tell me what you see." 
Anwar took a look at Maddy and said, 
"Bo, It's a piano, listen when I play a key!" 

Anwar pressed Maddy's nose, 
And much to his surprise, 
No sounds came out, so he pressed her ear, 
Still no sound, pressing the eyes! 

Anthony ran in and looked at him asking, 
"What are you trying to do? 
That's not a piano, it's a tambourine!"
And grabbed her by her shoe. 

Anthony was tapping Maddy 
From her head down to her toe. 
"This tambourine's not working, guys, 
It simply has to go!" 

Nadia walked in the store ,
Looking at Anthony's confusion. 
"Anthony, what are you doing? 
Do you think that is some sort of musician?"

Nadia was with Mario, and asked him, 
"Hey, buddy, what do you think?
This doesn't look like an instrument, 
But rather some sort of drink."

Mario tipped Maddy over, 
Trying to take a sip. 
Nothing came out and he was confused, 
And put his hand to his hip. 

Just about then, Maddy's Mommy walked in, 
Smiling with great delight. 
"Oh Maddy, here you are... 
Let's get home while it's still light!"

She grabbed the little girl's hand
And walked across the floor.
Maddy turned around and waved, 
As she stepped out the door. 

Good luck to Maddy at the Music Store. You've got a lot more music in store for your future. 

With love... 

57 Channels and Nothin's On

(nah, that's not me, that's Bruce Springsteen)

Time for my quasi-annual birthday letter to myself and the other two of you, possibly three who read my rarely updated blog. 

Tomorrow, I turn 57. It's a prime number, as I noted when I turned 53, but that quip seems a bit tired to keep repeating. Optimists (and Amazon) will tell you every day is a prime one, and pessimists will say that means nothing is special. I'm somewhere in between. I hate admitting that my disposition has tempered as I got older. I just am not as optimistic. Maybe I'm finally realistic? Life deals a lot of cards and they aren't always ones you can play. I remember my grandmother played Canasta, and the cards more than filled her hands. Those cards she managed to play. Sometimes my cards feel like jokers. 

I didn't do my annual birthday post last year at 56. We were in the midst of moving again and closing out my mom's estate. We did do a nice getaway to the North Shore of Minnesota, taking advantage of the last weeks we still lived there. This past year brought us a world of change and for the first time in several years, I may not feel "prime" but I do feel settled. 

We moved back to our hometown last September and lived in an apartment until our condo was finished. I was really ungrateful and a bit horrible. I hated living in the apartment (though it was a lovely place - for anyone who wasn't me). I griped about how unsettled I felt, how I hated having things in boxes, and how I missed having a garden and a home. I look back at 56-year-old me and want to smack her. Yet she is still me. At least until tomorrow at 4:22 PM. 

Instead of smacking myself, I relented and admitted I didn't have the best grip on things and found myself a therapist. Many will find this admission a bit of over-sharing or admonish me for putting too much out there. However, I am a communicator and I also (according to my therapist) have a deep penchant for harmonizing. I am compelled to help others. It's in my DNA. If telling people I am in therapy takes some of the stigmas away, I am going to over-share. 

I have always said that birthdays are the only day someone can be "all about themselves". I'm approaching the "all about me" day and probably because of my DNA, I especially relish that because I actively try to spend time in self-reflection. However, I've learned that shouldn't just be once a year. I'm learning a lot this year. 

We are in a new home that we moved into in July. Most of the boxes are unpacked, at least physically. I am unpacking a lot more emotional things and that is going to take a long time. I've let go of a lot of things that I don't need, and I'm trying to do the same mentally. 

Cross-stitch I made several years ago

I still think I may finish my book about the empty nest that I so diligently started in 2016 when I turned 50, lost my father, had both children out of the house, and tried to figure out who the heck I was. Since then, we've moved 3 times, downsized, liquidated one parent's house, and seen jobs come and go. Turns out, I still don't have the answers. And maybe that is okay. 

In that time, I've also been trying to grow my business. That was inspired by my first trip to Europe in 2015. I remember my boss telling me that it would change my life forever. It has and as a result, I opened my own travel business in 2022,  Love Our World Travel. Here's a nod to Lee and his prophetic words. Thank you and yes, you told me so. 

Since moving back, I've rekindled important friendships and learned that distance is completely arbitrary when you truly care about each other. I've met up with friends I hadn't seen in over 30 years. How special! I have spent more time with people I've always loved and just needed to remember than I can imagine. It's been a wonderful year. 

Turns out, the only permanence is change. 

(that's not me either, that's The Alarm.) - who incidentally I met a few years back with my friend Don, when we upgraded our tickets for a meet and greet in 2019. 

Who would have imagined that I could reference two of my favorite bands in one blog post? Another nod to another friend, Amber, who used that tool in most of her blog posts. Gone too soon. We writers loved her. 

Yay me, yay 57. Maybe instead of "nothin's on" I prefer to say,  everything is on. 

Promises Kept

While I no longer blog on a regular basis, or even sporadically, I took the advice of a friend long ago who said, never give up control of your words or your spaces. I fill my time in a multitude of ways. I own a business, travel planning, Love Our World Travel, and I substitute teach.  Those two activities fill my time adequately. 

BUT, today, while teaching a group of precocious fourth graders, and discussing writing, I mentioned that I am a writer. The questions came at me rapid fire. The answers? 

*No, I've never written a book.
*No, you won't find me in a library.
*Yes, I am a writer, mostly non-fiction, without by-lines.
*Yes, you need to start every sentence with a capital letter. 
*First person is I, second person is you, third person is he/she/they. 

I explained that writers do lots of things with words, not always with a byline and not always fiction. I write content. I help websites. I do local news. They seemed to understand because they quickly shifted gears and asked if I ever wrote about my students. I do. Often. I hadn't anticipated that they would hold me to task. They are better than the best assignment editor. 

I started this over a month ago and am revisiting it today, because I must fulfill my promise before the school year is over. 

What can I possibly say about a group of young people who love to learn? I will say that they stand out in a way that excites and disappoints me. By that I mean, I don't always substitute teach for their particular class, and there are other classrooms in their building that astonish me. Not in good ways. 

I continue to be surprised when young people are uninterested in learning. It shocks me that they don't care. I don't know why they aren't interested in knowing more than they do at this young point of their lives. There are days I walk out of a school dejected and sad. There are days I cry. I know that my impact is pretty insignificant, I know that I spend a slice of a slice of their days with them, but I still wish I had a chance to light a fire. I wish I could tell them what a special time of their lives they are living. I wish I had a magic wand so that they knew that the world really is their oyster. The world is filled with possibility and it is theirs for the taking. 

I want them to see the world and hunger for it. I want them to know that it's a good place and they have a way to participate and maybe even make it a better place. I take a few hours a week and go and look into their world. I see the future. I want them to see themselves through my eyes. 

When I see an eager and excited young group of students, kids who want to know more and know that the world has the answers, I smile. They make me want to return. Again. And again. 

This is my love letter to Mrs. M's 4th grade class at BIS. 

You fill my heart. You are the reason I know the future is in good hands. Please keep learning and stay excited. There is so much to know and I believe in all of you. When I see an opportunity to spend time together with each other, I smile, because you're all so special. 

You're going to change our world. 

I love all of you. Now I kept my promise. The next promise is yours to keep. Go. 

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Sitting at my computer, trying to find the inspiration to wrap gifts and get in the holiday spirit, my mind is racing with thoughts. 

I cannot quite let go of the years when Christmas was purely about the kids, not the adults. The adults orchestrated the magic, but what happens when the magician no longer has an audience?

Instead of magic, how about a little time travel with a stroll down memory lane? I listen to a podcast called Pop Culture Preservation Society and they keep those Generation X memories alive. (highly recommend if you prefer to have an auditory stroll). But for today's blog post? It's all literary. 

Who remembers the Sears Gift Catalogues? Oh the page upon page of anything you could ever scroll past and all you had to do was fold the page to find it again. The toys, the clothes, the games, all my childhood dreams in one tidy book. 

In 1973, I decided the only thing I wanted was the Barbie 747. I have no idea why. I wasn't allowed to have Barbies. I never had been on a plane. But I was obsessed. All I needed was the 747 and a good dose of imagination. My cousin Krissy had Barbies and they would probably come visit if I had a 747, right? 

That's a piece of holiday memories. Spending time running around the house with the cousins who were close enough to our age to bond. She lived in Texas and I lived in Ohio, but she was only a few months older than me, so we were practically sisters. 

Another memory is the giant annual Christmas party my parents had while they were still married. Please know that this memory in no way indicates that I wish they had stayed together. They were better apart. But in the mid 70s, their parties rocked. Mom would create a theme and Dad would invite the guests. They got a babysitter to keep my brothers and I entertained upstairs while the party guests took over the main floor of our old farmhouse. As the preparations for the party ensued, we got to sample foods and treats that were rarely allowed in our house. Call it crazy, but I cannot think of Christmas without thinking about Sprite and ginger ale. We were never allowed soda/pop in our house. Crack open a can of Sprite or ginger ale and it feels like a party! 

I would be remiss if I didn't mention my two aunts. They bookended my dad's side of the family. Aunt Marlene was the eldest, Aunt Denise the youngest. We were blessed with nurturing and cool in one stroke. Aunt Marlene inspired how I would treat my future nieces and nephews because she just doted on all of us. Aunt Denise taught me to be a strong woman. She inspired me to get educated and to pursue life on my terms. If Aunt Marlene never knew how she inspired me, Aunt Denise will. 

Absent from this stroll down memory lane are my parents until now. This is the first year I am without either of them. Yet that tie to the past is unbroken. My father and mother gave me such a foundation. I separately and together love them. They are my roots. Plus, they bought me the Barbie 747. Something I never ever thought would happen. 

As we go forward, let's promise to honor the past, cherish the present, and look forward to the future. 

Who says you can't go home?

Nah, that's not me. That's Bon Jovi. 

I'm borrowing a technique from a writer friend of mine who was gone too soon. She always began and ended her blog posts with borrowed quotes. I always thought it a cool tie into pop culture, and so on. (Amber, you rocked). 

The past seven days have been a deep dive into my childhood. When Mama Green passed away in March, we began the exorcism of her years of hoarding. 

Mama was a lot of things, but nobody will ever accuse her of minimalism. If 1 was good, 20 were better. And in the piles were buried treasure. 

But I must digress to the home of my childhood. I grew up on an idyllic farm, about an hour away from Cleveland, OH. We had produce, livestock and open spaces. We had come from the city to the country, but our home remained a retreat. Friends and family would visit the farm. It remained idyllic, until it didn't. 

Today, following the absolute auction that we held to close out mom's estate, I went back to my childhood home to inventory the things left behind. 

There was a lot. In the piles of hoards that mom accumulated, the liquidators found themselves in a place of stopping. They sold and sold and sold, and still things were missed. 

Home I went. I walked again the property, thinking, "is this the last time?" as I have for the past 8 months. I really didn't shed many tears, though my heart was heavy. I cursed that "stuff" took over. 

I was there to inventory what was left. We have a few weeks to shed those things. Multiple articles tell us that "nobody wants this stuff" and yet, I think, it has a soul. It has history. 

I want to tell that story. 

Instead, I am left with shells of rooms and echoing memories. I walked the farm. I started to carry rubbish out of the basement to the dumpster, while quietly vowing, I just want to remember this place in a way that isn't gross. I want to look and see memories not piles of stuff. I'm a little raw today. But once I comforted the raw, I saw the yard where family laughed, where kids ran, and the house where love lived, however temporarily. 

I was home. I walked around the empty rooms and talked to mom. I talked to dad. I talked to my brothers and my grandparents. I talked to everyone who had a lovely memory there. I apologized to all the folks who didn't and I realized that a lot of things land a little tenderly. The inclination is to tell only good stories, but like anywhere, the stories aren't just good. 

In the end, I didn't go home. I only visited. Because in the end, "home is just another word for you."

Nah, that's not me, that's Billy Joel. 

Thank you everyone for being you.