Blast Away - 2020 The Fool

During the hurricane season of 2019 Donald Trump forwarded the idea of nuking a hurricane to weaken its cyclonic power.

AXIOS reported in August 2019 that Trump announced during a White House meeting on hurricanes, "They (hurricanes) start forming off the coast of Africa, as they're moving across the Atlantic, we drop a bomb inside the eye of the hurricane and it disrupts it. Why can't we do that?"

The response to the idea was, uh, muted, according to Axios. "You could hear a gnat fart in that meeting," one source in the room told Axios. "People were astonished."

Trump denied the statement, although earlier in the same year he had refused to sign the Non-Proliferation Treaty or NPT banning short-range nuclear missiles.

On May 15, 2019 Trump had delayed signing the START treaty and mused with White House officials about staging the first nuclear test since 1992.

Few politicians of either party had commented on the scheme.

Proposed date - August 8 to commemorate the destruction of Hiroshima.

Target - Someplace local.

Probably New York.

# 45 truly is a madman as is # 47. Probably asked the same of Gaza or why the IDF don't do the job. Easy answer. Isael does not have the bomb.

THE EYE OF THE STORM by Peter Nolan Smith

In early September of 1960 Hurricane Donna struck New England as a category 2/3 storm. The radio station WBZ announced numerous school closing led by Beaver County Day School and closely followed by my primary school on the South Shore, Our Lady of the Foothills. My older brother and I were happy to stay home. We were new kids in town.

That morning a raging gale whipped through the woods of the Blue Hills. Telephone wires moaned with each gust and the windows ofour split-level ranch house windows vibrated in their sashes. The electricity died at noon and my father lit a kerosene lamp, which he placed on the kitchen table.

Our family of seven huddled around the flame like Neanderthals sheltering in a cave.

Several hours later the howling hurricane abated to a whisper.

“Where are you going?” my mother demanded with hands on her hips, her voice ringing with the authority of a woman, who had carried five babies in her womb.

“Outside to show them the eye.” My father loved a good storm.

“Hurricanes are not a joke.” My mother had experienced the 1938 hurricane. That tempest didn’t have a name, yet hundreds of New Englanders had died in its path.

“I know.” My father shrugged in weak surrender to the truth.

"You act, as if you don't."

Hurricane Edna in 1954 had destroyed his sailboat on Watchic Pond. The hull lay in our backyard.

Six years later he had yet to repair the damage to the mast.

He never had much free time and five kids under the age of ten were a lot of work.

“The skies have cleared." My father looked out the window and then back to my mother.

"We’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I wanna go too.” My two-year old brother bounced off his high chair.

"Not a chance." My mother grabbed his wrist. Padraic had almost died at birth from pneumonia. She wasn't giving Nature any second chances and sternly regarded my father. “Only a few minutes.”

"Maybe even less."

"Then go." My mother trusted my father to obey his promise, since he loved her enough to convert to Catholicism.

“I’ll keep them safe.” My father led us outside.

We lived in the shadow of Chickatawbut Hill.

Branches were scattered across the yard.

Overhead a counter-clockwise swirl of the cloud funnel opened to the blue heavens.

“That is the eye of the storm.”

The three of us 360ed on the lawn to gawk at the storm’s awesome power and glory.

Lightning pulsed within the cloud wall like the Aurora Borealis. If my best friend hadn’t drowned a month ago, the cyclonic display would have reinforced my faith in the Almighty. Instead I said, “Wow.”

Rain dotted the walkway. The wind was soon once more a gale. The raindrops stung our skin.

My mother yelled for us to get inside.

My father lifted his finger to indicate we wanted a few more seconds.

He had fought the Maine’s Great Fire of 1949. I never had seen him scared of anything other than my mother’s wrath. He quickly explained to us how hurricanes formed in the tropics. We were 9 and 8. His meteorological lesson was lost on his sons and the oppressive pressure of the powerful storm weighed heavily on our flesh.

“Remember this for the rest of your life. Few people see this.”

My mother’s next demand was an ultimatum.

“If you don’t come in, I’m locking the doors.” She was serious.

“We better do as she says.” My father guided us inside the house. He gave my mother a hug. She was relieved to have us back inside.

The second half of the hurricane stuck within minutes and lasted into the evening.

The weatherman on WBZ radio announced the all-clear message wagon, as we were going to sleep. School had been cancelled throughout New England. My father was excited as a child on Christmas Eve and he whispered, “Tomorrow Revere Beach.”

The beach there was ideal for watching the storm die against land. Giant waves would slap the concrete flood walls with a force strong enough to make the streets shudder with fear.

The boyish joy in his voice kept us awake for another three minutes, for tomorrow promised to be a day of big waves and wild sea spray.

We could hardly wait.

Isla Mujeres B-Ball 1988

In 1988 a hurricane had savagely struck the Yucatan. Ships crowded the streets of Isla Mujeres across from the basketball court, where me and la Mayans played against the Italian National Women's under-21 team. A crowd gp>My short comrades and I shook their hand and we voweed to play them like gentlemen.

The first time down the court the 6-2 forward threw an elbow at my head and the bone connected with my skull.

After that it was on.

I shot for shit, but I hacked the forward a thousand times and we won to the cheers of the locals. The brunette slurred, "Sfigato."

Through the fuzz of my concussion I recalled an old Latin curse and said, "“Vescere bracis meis.”

Almost no one in the plaza understood the dead language phrase 'eat my shorts, but the forward she whispered, "Victus."

"Semper, but no one wins forever."

I signaled for beers from the nearest cantina and we drank to basketball.

It was a game we all loved

Whence Comes the Storm

In 1978 I lived on East 10th Street with my girlfriend, a hillbilly from West Virginia. The bedroom of our 3rd floor apartment was situated on the airshaft. An actor friend lived on the 5th floor. Every night the building shivered with the screams of a woman in orgasm. This cascade of cries of 'oh god yes' continued for a week.

It could only be the actor and his svelte girlfriend.

My girlfriend went frigid under the aural assault and I couldn't maintain an erection. Finally I confronted my friend, "Could you tell your girlfriend to keep it down?"

"My girlfriend? I thought it was you."

We were both wrong.

The source of the sexual maelstrom was the 4th floor apartment occupied by two lesbians.

They were twice the men we were at half the weight.

THE EYE OF THE STORM by Peter Nolan Smith

My father loved a good storm and in 1960 Hurricane Donna in 1960 hit New England as a category 2/3 storm on the second Monday of September. WBZ announced numerous school closing. My primary school, Our Lady of the Foothills, was one of the first on the list. My older brother and I were happy to stay home. We were new kids in town.

That morning a raging gale howled against our split-level ranch house and the windows vibrated in their sashes. The electricity died at noon and my father lit a kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. Our family of eight huddled around the flame like Neanderthals sheltering in a cave.

Several hours later the hurricane abated to what seemed a whisper.

"The eye of the storm." My father rose from his chair and motioned for my older brother and me to follow him to the front door.

"Where are you going?" my mother demanded with arms on her hips. She was a beautiful woman, but her voice rang with the authority of someone who had carried six babies in her womb.

"Outside to show them the eye."

"Hurricanes are not a joke." My mother had been through the 1938 hurricane. It didn't have a name. Hundreds of New Englanders had been killed in its path.

"I know." My father shrugged weakly.

Hurricane Edna in 1954 had destroyed his sailboat on Watchic Pond. The hull lay in the backyard. Six years later he had yet to repair the damage to the mast. Six kids were a lot of work. He pointed out the living room window. "The skies have cleared. We'll only be a few minutes."

"I wanna go too." My second youngest brother bounced off his chair. My mother grabbed his wrist.

"Only a few minutes." My mother trusted my father to obey his promise. He loved her enough to convert to Catholicism.

"I'll keep them safe." My father led us outside. We lived in the shadow of Chickatawbut Hill. A sultry wind raced through the trees. Branches were scattered across the yard. Overhead a counter-clockwise swirl of the cloud funnel opened to the blue heavens.

"That is the eye of the storm."

The three of us 360ed on the lawn to gawk at the storm's awesome power and glory. Lightning pulsed within the cloud wall like the Aurora Borealis. If my best friend hadn't drowned a month ago, the cyclonic display would have reinforced my faith in the Almighty. Instead I said, "Wow."

Rain dotted the walkway. The brief respite was coming to an end, My mother yelled at us to get inside.

My father lifted his finger for another few seconds.

He had fought the Maine's Great Fire of 1949. I never had seen him scared other anything other than my mother's wrath. He quickly explained to my older brother and me how hurricanes formed in the tropics. We were 9 and 8. His meteorological lesson was lost on us, but the oppressive pressure of the powerful storm weighed heavily on our skin.

"Remember this for the rest of your life. Few people see this."

My mother's next demand was an ultimatum.

"If you don't come in, I'm locking the doors." She was serious.

"After it's over, we'll drive to Revere Beach." My father guided us inside the house.

The second half of the hurricane stuck within minutes and lasted into the evening. The weatherman on WBZ radio announced the all-clear message wagon, as we were going to sleep. School had been cancelled throughout New England. My father was excited as a child on Christmas Eve and he whispered a reminder.

"Tomorrow Revere Beach."

And the boyish joy in his voice kept us awake for another three minutes.

Tomorrow promised to be a big day.