The President’s Speech Writer

“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” –President John F. Kennedy

One thing many of us can do to help our country during the coronavirus pandemic is to simply stay at home. I’ve done just that, leaving my house only once a week, on average, since shelter-in-place orders were given by Boone County authorities in mid-March. But I still feel like I could do more to help my country during this difficult time.

While watching the president struggle to speak succinctly, accurately, and effectively at his daily Covid-19 news briefings, I realized something: Mr. Trump needs some help. The president needs a speech writer. And wouldn’t you know it, I just happen to be available.

Setting aside their political affiliations, one striking difference between Donald Trump and his predecessor Barack Obama is the way they communicate to the American people. Mr. Obama was an eloquent speaker who utilized his teleprompter better than possibly any other president in history. Mr. Trump, on the other hand, tends to speak “off the cuff”, preferring to “wing it” as he stands before the assembled members of the press.

Trump’s tendency to freestyle often results in a fair amount of backtracking or denials. “I was misquoted” or “I was being sarcastic” or “That’s fake news” are his oft-repeated responses to journalists’ demands for clarification. A good speechwriter would help prevent the president from accidently giving out misinformation or causing confusion while speaking to the media and the American people.

Mr. President, I want to do something for you—and for my country. I would like to be your official speechwriter. And I would love for you to deliver the following speech as soon as possible:

“My fellow Americans, I am speaking to you today from the Oval Office, where I have been meeting with the nation’s top medical professionals and scientists as they work tirelessly to end the coronavirus crisis.

Let me begin my remarks by making one thing perfectly clear: When I said I take no responsibility for our country’s initial response to this threat, I was wrong. Harry Truman was right: The buck stops here. At this desk. With me.

Back in January, when I was first made aware of the novel coronavirus, I did not think that it posed a danger to the American people. I believed, after consulting with my advisors, that the Chinese government had things well under control. That was a mistake.

As the virus spread and the reality of the situation became clear, I felt it was important to prevent a widespread panic from occurring. My staff and I publicly downplayed the threat the virus posed while diligently working behind the scenes to mitigate its impact on our people and our way of life.

In an attempt to deflect attention from the mounting casualties, I portrayed the press as the enemy. I blamed the media for sensationalizing and politicizing the virus when in reality, they were simply doing their job—which is to expose the truth.

The truth is that I have mishandled this crisis, and for that I sincerely apologize. I apologize to the members of the press for vilifying them. I apologize to the medical community for disregarding their advice, and I apologize to you, the American people, for failing to keep you safe.

In 2016, you placed your trust in me to lead this great nation of ours. I hope you will trust me again now when I say that from this moment on, I will do everything in my power to navigate us safely through to the end of this frightening ordeal.

The road ahead will be difficult. There will be painful economic challenges along the way. And there will be more precious lives lost before this pandemic is over. But if we come together as Americans have done since the Colonists joined forces to fight for the cause of Liberty, we will emerge from this crisis stronger than ever.

President Kennedy famously challenged us to ask what we could do for our country. Here are some things you can do right now, to help our country get through these tough times. First, stay home and avoid being in close proximity to other people as much as possible. Second, if you are in need of assistance, ask for help, but if you are in a position to aid others, please do whatever you can for them. Rich or poor, black or white, healthy or sick, we are all in this together.

Finally, do not blame the people of China for the situation in which we find ourselves. Regardless of the Chinese government’s culpability in this crisis, the average man, woman, and child in China are not to blame. They are victims in all of this, too. Make no mistake; racism will not be tolerated in this country. Misdirected anger and frustration in the form of attacks on Asians and Asian Americans will be punished to the fullest extent of the law.

Above all else, always remember that ‘United We Stand, Divided We Fall’. If we stick together, we will get through this. So, stay home, stay safe, and stay positive. God bless you all, and God bless America.”


http://bocojo.com/opinion/the-presidents-speech-writer/

Mr. Naughton’s Music Videos

Drums: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223414564815579/?d=n

Homemade whatchamacallit: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223342206606669/?d=n

Many Ways to Say I Love You: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223232010811843/?d=n

Reveille on Trumpet: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223217929259813/?d=n

Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most on trombone: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223206736980013/?d=n

It’s You I Like: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223192824072199/?d=n

Washtub bass: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223157913239450/?d=n

Garden trellis harp #3: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223148185916273/?d=n

Garden trellis harp #2: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223148164275732/?d=n

Garden trellis harp #1: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223148143115203/?d=n

Forever Friends on cigar box guitar: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223145190121380/?d=n

How To Make a Diddley Bow: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223070272088476/?d=n

Homemade Three String Blues Box: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223044014112043/?d=n

I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry on cigar box guitar: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10223005880038715/?d=n

It’s a Beautiful Day at the Primary School: https://www.facebook.com/1330990285/posts/10222975329994983/?d=n

The Best and Worst School Year Ever

As of today, 31 states have cancelled in-person classes for the remainder of the school year. Although it came as no surprise to me when Governor Parson made the difficult decision to do sohere in Missouri, I was nevertheless devastated by the news.

Having worked as a substitute teacher for seven years, I was delighted to be offered a one-year contract as Southern Boone County Primary School’s music teacher when a last-minute vacancy left the district in a bind. My dear friend, Principal Brandy Clark, knew that I loved subbing in music class whenever I got the chance, so she asked me if I would be willing to sub for a full year on an emergency teaching certificate. I accepted without hesitation. I knew this was the opportunity of a lifetime.

I first dreamt of becoming a music teacher over 30 years ago, when I was a high school student. I played the trombone and baritone horn, and I played them pretty well. I was a member of Hannibal High School’s highly competitive Studio Jazz Ensemble, concert band, and marching band. During my senior year, I became co-drum major of the Pirate Pride Marching Band and received the John Philip Sousa Outstanding Musician Award. My musical future looked very bright.

Inexplicably, I turned down music scholarship offers from two well-respected colleges and opted instead to kill as many brain cells as I could at the University of Missouri while paying full tuition. I eventually graduated—with a degree in philosophy—but my cumulative grade point average was abysmal. In fact, it was bad enough that the only way I could become a certified music teacher now would be to go back to school and earn a whole new degree, which would take several years.

After exploring all of my options and taking a few online classes, I was forced to admit to myself that despite how badly I want to continue teaching music after this year, I am not willingto put myself through the stress of trying to be a dedicated teacher, the best husband and father I can be, AND a diligent college student while simultaneously maintaining my sobriety and managing my anxiety.

During Christmas break, after a lot of sleepless nights, I made the difficult decision not to pursue a teaching degree. Since then, I’ve been focused on enjoying every single minute of this school year. I am happy to report that I love teaching music even more than I thought I would.

The 2019-2020 school year has been the most rewarding professional experience of my life.

When we were told that spring break was going to last an extra two weeks while the novel coronavirus situation played itself out, I knew that we would not finish the school year. I wanted to remain upbeat and optimistic for the sake of the children, so I told them, “I’ll see you soon.” After school, I sat in my car and stared at the building through tears in my eyes.

The reason I say I was devastated by the governor’s announcement is because I never got to say a proper goodbye to my students. Although I plan on subbing at the Primary School every chance I get next year, my second graders will be moving on to the elementary school in the fall. The way I see it, I missed out on about 150 goodbye hugs from those kids. That’s a real gut punch.

An even bigger punch in the gut is knowing that my career as a music teacher has ended just as suddenly and unexpectedly as it began.

I spent three months as a second grade teacher and four months as an art teacher while covering maternity leaves in previous years. I thoroughly enjoyed both of those experiences, but I can’t imagine that anything will ever top my seven months as a music teacher.

Obviously, I love working with kids, but I also love the grown-ups I work with at the Primary School. The teachers, aides, cooks, administrators, counselors, therapists, nurse, paraprofessionals, secretary, and custodians in that building are not just my co-workers or friends, they are my family. I have missed them terribly in the weeks since schools were shuttered.

As easy as it is to sit around feeling sorry for myself, I feel even worse for one particular friend and co-worker. Crystal Branch, a coach and physical education teacher in our district for more years than she would like for me to reveal, is retiring at the end of this school year. 

Crystal is one of the finest educators and human beings I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She has made a positive impact on the lives of thousands of people, young and old. Her generosity knows no bounds. This community could never repay what she has given.

Coach Branch doesn’t deserve for her career to end this way. 

Crystal was assigned to be my mentor when I was hired in August. For putting up with me, and for having such an amazing career, she deserves to have a parade in her honor or maybe even a state holiday named after her. But for now, she’ll have to settle for this: Thank you for everything, Coach. I love you, and I miss you already.

We all do.  

Worth the Wait

My good friend and journalistic mentor Bruce Wallace seldom gave me unsolicited advice. Bruce, like most wise folks, understood that unsolicited advice is typically ignored by the recipient. Luckily for me, I recognized that if Bruce thought something was important enough to share with me, then I’d better pay attention. One such tip was “Never bury the lede.”

Webster’s says, “In journalism, the lede refers to the introductory section of a news story that is intended to entice the reader to read the full story.” The lede usually includes the most important and relevant information of a story, which is precisely why a writer should avoid burying it deep within the text of his or her piece.

In other words, Bruce was telling me, “Naughton, hurry up and get to the point!” He was absolutely right of course. In the digital age, people have shorter attention spans than ever before. Does reading a book take an eternity? Why not watch the movie version instead? Is a full-length movie too long to sit through? If so, why not try a half-hour program on television? Don’t have thirty minutes to spare? Now there’s a new app for your smartphone called Quibi that lets you watch a condensed show while you are waiting to do something else in which you will quickly lose interest.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. I remember. “Get to the point, Naughton!” That is precisely what I intend to do, because I have the good sense to take the sage advice of a career newspaper man who once told me not to bury the lede.

So, without further ado, I will reveal that which I should have revealed at the outset. But before I do, I would like to offer my sincere apologies to Bruce Wallace for not following his advice in this case. It must be frustrating for Bruce to see his protégé writing about (and ignoring) his words of wisdom in the very pages of the newspaper that he poured his heart and soul into for so many years.

I also owe you the reader an apology, because your time is precious, and you don’t deserve to have a hack like me cause you to feel as though you have wasted a moment of such a valuable commodity. Please forgive me. I can only hope that when all is at last revealed, the ensuing information will have been worth the wait.

Some things are worth the wait. Others, not so much. Slow-cooked beef brisket is almost always worth the wait. A McRib sandwich? Not really. That’s just one man’s opinion though. You are, of course, entitled to your own opinion on which meats are worth waiting for. Maybe you prefer a smoked pork butt. Who am I to judge? We don’t have to agree.

One thing we can all agree upon is that in this particular instance, the lede has unquestionably been buried. I’m almost to the end of my allotment of words, and yet I’ve managed to avoid revealing the point of this meandering and seemingly pointless missive. I’m just glad you’ve managed to hang around this long. Honestly, if it were the other way around, I would have watched a Quibi or two by now.

Nevertheless, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? (By the way, the expression “cut to the chase” is attributed to filmmaker Hal Roach, Sr of ‘Laurel and Hardy’ and ‘Our Gang’ fame. [For your information, ‘Laurel and Hardy’ were a legendary comedy duo from the early Classical Hollywood era, and ‘Our Gang’ is a comedy franchise also known as ‘The Little Rascals’. {Alfalfa was my favorite Little Rascal, by the way.}]) Oh dear, I’m afraid I got sidetracked again. My point is that it’s time to get to the point.

What I’ve been trying to say is this: I am going to be a grandfather.

When my son Alex told me the news, I had but one request; “I don’t want to be referred to as ‘Granddad’, ‘Grandpa’, or any variation thereof.” My only grandfather that I ever knew passed away over thirty years ago. He was “Granddad”. Instead, I asked to be called “Pop”, because that’s what Alex has called me for years—and I love it.

With a due date in early October, it will be six months before Pop gets to meet his first grandchild. Baby Naughton will definitely be worth the wait.

I Want a Pony

I Want a Pony. I NEED a Pony.

It’s no secret that I am obsessed with motor vehicles. During the 32 years in which I have been driving, I've owned 36 cars, trucks, minivans, and sport utility vehicles, plus a motorcycle, a motorhome, and a small motorboat. This list doesn’t even include the vehicles I bought and sold while I briefly had a dealer license.

In all, I’ve purchased over 50 automobiles, amounting to an average of slightly more than one vehicle for every year that I’ve been alive. Yes, I realize I have a problem. Not enough garage space.

It’s not my fault. I blame the women in my life. My Grandma Jean, a.k.a. Grandma Sweetie Pie, bought a new car every other year throughout her life and only reluctantly gave up her driver’s license when she turned 90. Every curb in downtown La Plata, Missouri has had a flake or two of red paint left on it by one of Mrs. Naughton’s cars.

  

My mother Donna worked at car dealerships during most of my formative years. She started out in finance, moved into sales, and eventually became the general manager of a Chevrolet Dealership. To this day, every time I detect a whiff of “new car smell”, I fondly think of my mom.

Of course, the woman most to blame for my car collecting compulsion is my wife, Bethany the Enabler. Normally the Voice of Reason in our family, for some reason, the Enabler is utterly powerless in her efforts to constrain my car buying habits. Somehow the answer to her standard question, “Do we really NEED another vehicle?” is always yes. I can always justify the purchase of another automobile.

We NEED a diesel-powered, three-quarter-ton, four-wheel-drive, crew cab truck to pull our camper. We NEED a fuel-efficient commuter car for work or school (one for Bethany, one for me, and one for our son Alex.) We NEED a hot rod to enjoy as a family at car shows and parades. And since our daughter Tiana just turned 16 on Monday, (Happy birthday, baby girl!), we NEED a reliable car for her to drive as well.

The plan is for Tiana to start driving my Volkswagen Beetle, which means I will NEED to buy something else for myself. Our big diesel truck is too big to be practical for daily driving, and my 1971 Chevy C10 pickup is just an old beater with a heater, not a comfortable cruiser. Therefore, I really have no choice but to start looking for something to get me from point A to point B.

I’m thinking a Mustang or a Camaro would do the trick. Nothing says “practical commuter vehicle” quite like a pony car.

I’ve owned some fun cars over the years, including a couple of ’57 Chevy Bel Airs and a pair of Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptors that got up and down Highway 63 quite well, thank you very much. But I’ve never owned a pony car.

While a two-seater like a Corvette would be a lot of fun, it wouldn’t be helpful for hauling groceries or kids. A pony car, like a Ford Mustang or a Chevy Camaro, would offer seating for four, cargo space in the trunk, and the joy of driving a bona fide sportscar.

To have lived 48 years and NOT owned a pony car or any sort of sportscar is, to me, inexcusable. My mother would agree. She owned a two-seat, 1976 Datsun 280Z when my brother Blake and I were kids. On one occasion I saw, from the passenger seat, the Z’s speedometer twist past 110 miles per hour on Interstate 172 in Illinois. (Blake saw nothing but clouds in the sky from his vantage point in the car’s rear package tray where he laycurled up in the fetal position, frozen in terror.)

I recently found a beautiful 1969 Mustang convertible for sale that I’m really interested in. Shiny red paint, white top, white interior, 210 horsepower V-8, 3-speed manual transmission.Unfortunately, with the county-wide and state-wide coronavirus stay-at-home orders in place, it will be a while before I can see the car in person. The seller and I both agreed that it’s better to be safe than sorry, so I will just have to wait. As Tom Petty famously sang, “The waiting is the hardest part.”

Depending on how long the wait will be, I may be able to afford a bright red, 420 horsepower, 2010 Camaro SS that I saw advertised the other day. An informal poll among my friends on Facebook leaned toward a preference for the Mustang. While a classic convertible would be hard to beat, a modern and reliable Camaro with twice as many horses would be a solid choice, too.

At this point, I really don’t care which car I end up with. I can’t go wrong either way. And honestly, this ridiculous quest of mine gives me something to help take my mind off the serious situation we’re all currently facing. I think it will help my mental health to know there’s something fun waiting for me at the end of this interminably long period of isolation.

I want a pony car. I NEED a pony car. When this pandemic is over, I will have a pony car.

I Am Not Okay

I Am Not Okay (But I Will Be)

Nearly nine years ago, I reached out to a life-long friend and told her something I had not shared with anyone else—not even my wife Bethany. “I think I might be bipolar.”

A few days after our conversation, I sent my friend an apology on Facebook Messenger. “Sorry if I worried you with all that talk about being bipolar. Most days, I feel great, but my down days are a bit disconcerting. Am I crazy? Of course I am—I’m a Naughton! Seriously, I’m good most of the time, and that’s all any of us can hope for.”

My thoughtful and wise friend wrote back and said, “There isn’t anything that you won’t be able to handle with the help of your wife, the most supportive woman in the world as far as I can tell.”

  

She was absolutely right, but this story wouldn’t be very interesting if I told you that I asked Bethany for help the very next day. It also wouldn’t be true.

In fact, I never did ask Bethany for help. Not directly anyway. Thankfully, intuition is another of my wife’s superpowers. I was having a pretty rough day a couple of weeks ago, and after giving me a chance to cool down, Bethany asked, “So what’s going on with you?”

I couldn’t pin down an exact reason for feeling the way I was that day. The pandemic and how it might affect my family, my friends, and my students had certainly been weighing heavily on my mind, but I had felt that same feeling of general anxiety countless times before.

Ever since I quit drinking alcohol a little over three years ago, I have been much more aware of my struggles with anxiety. In hindsight, I know now that I used alcohol as a way to self-medicate. The more anxiety I felt, the more I drank. And on days when I felt good, I drank then, too, out of habit.

For the past three years, I have been operating under the assumption that I’ve been living with undiagnosed anxiety and depression—as well as addictive personality disorder. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me what I already knew.

Or did I?

“Sometimes it’s really hard to be me,” I said in response to Bethany’s question, while choking back tears. “I hate feeling like this!”

Last week, with Bethany’s encouragement and support, I finally talked to a healthcare professional about my issues. After discussing the things that have been bothering me, including my anxiety, depression, sleeplessness, ceaseless internal monologue, and dependence on alcohol and now my smartphone, I was given a mood assessment that screened for possible signs of bipolar disorder.

Answering seven or more questions with a “YES” response indicates the subject may be bipolar. I answered “YES” nine times. Having a family history of mood disorders is also a strong indicator. Members of my family in previous generations have been diagnosed with addiction, anxiety, depression, schizophrenia, PTSD, and, (you guessed it), bipolar disorder.

So, friends, it would seem that your friendly neighborhood newspaper columnist has bipolar disorder. This should come as no surprise to those closest to me. It explains the sometimes silly “highs” I often experience and the scary “lows” I endure as well.(It might also help explain the photo that accompanies this column each week.)

Obviously, I am not surprised by this diagnosis at all, considering that I confided my suspicions to a trusted friend nearly a decade ago. What did surprise me, however, were somethings I learned as I read more about my condition. Anxiety is actually a common symptom of a hypomanic episode. Hypomania, (associated with bipolar II disorder), is defined as a sustained state of elevated or irritable mood. Because many of the symptoms of hypomania are misattributed to personality, patients are not usually aware of their hypomanic symptoms.

  

While I didn’t recognize that I had been experiencing hypomanic episodes, I was acutely aware of the depressive episodes I’d been dealing with over the years. According to what I’ve read, it’s common for depressive episodes associated with bipolar II patients to be more frequent and more intense than hypomanic episodes. I’ll drink to that! (Well, not anymore. Again, alcohol as self-medication. Not a good treatment plan.)

I am confident that I have a good treatment plan now, though. I’ve started taking a prescription medicine that will hopefully help stabilize my moods. I have a follow-up appointment scheduled with my doctor this week to discuss how it’s working so far. I’m also trying to spend more time walking outdoors, making music, listening to music, and practicing meditative breathing exercises.

Now, the big question is, “Travis, why are you telling the world about your mental health issues?”

I want people to know that it’s okay to not be okay. If you are struggling with a mental illness or a mood disorder, you should not feel any more embarrassed about it than a person who suffers from a physical ailment. Bipolar disorder is caused by misfiring neurotransmitters that overstimulate the amygdala, which in turn causes the prefrontal cortex to stop working properly. The resulting emotional overstimulation triggers manic episodes and worsens depressive ones. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Please, if you need help, get help. It’s okay.

I am not okay. But I will be.