These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
THE FXBG ADVANCE SUNDAY 7/12/26 AFTERNOON READ
By Drew Gallagher, ADVANCE COLUMNIST
In less than 48 hours, Donald Trump ruined two of my favorite things. and neither was raindrops on roses.
I was legitimately excited about America’s 250th birthday since I realize that my RSVP for the Tricentennial is likely to read “Unable to Attend…with regrets from the grave.” There was such potential to bring the country together to celebrate our triumphs as well as our tribulations to show that this “experiment” in democracy was ongoing but, to this point, a rousing success. With our proximity to Washington, a day trip with the family to a mall with museums instead of an Aerie clothing store would have been a fun way to mark the occasion. That was until the birthday party somehow morphed into a lecture series on the latest in nanobubble technology and the market price of turkey legs—with melted ice cream and no prospect of cake.
In 1990, I attended the Earth Day rally on the Mall, and I had visions of a similar celebration complete with performances by the Indigo Girls and R.E.M. which would have elicited a sympathetic pat on the back from my 18-year-old daughter to acknowledge that both Michael Stipe and I have noticeably aged since the last century. The atmosphere on that Earth Day was one of hope, and if they wanted to add a Ferris Wheel and funnel cake for the 250th that would have been perfect. Instead, I spent the 4th watching fireworks on TV and wondering if it was the end of the world as we know it, and I most definitely did not feel fine.
Mere hours after I grumbled my way through the 250th, it was revealed that a red card ban for the United States’ star forward had been lifted in time for him to play on Monday night in the round of 16 World Cup match against Belgium. This was welcome news except for the fact that it was without precedent and only occurred after Trump waded into the debate to remind FIFA president Gianni Infantino (English translation: “Johnny the Baby”) that Gianni was going to need asylum soon, and there was a room with a view of the pool waiting for him at Mar-A-Lago. The Trump Jinx was now in full effect, or at least an unwanted distraction, and the American side responded with what soccer pundits call, in technical terms, “shitting the bed.”
I was angry until I managed to channel my inner Julie Andrews and tried to think of a few of my favorite things that Trump, seemingly, can’t destroy, which is probably naïve of me because he destroyed a birthday party and the greatest sporting event in the world in less time than it takes him to cheat-win a club championship at one of his golf courses.
Playmobil Knights (Not in White Satin)
The Playmobil toy figures are one of my fondest memories of childhood and are the equal to other great sons of Germany like Gummi Bear, Bertolt Brecht, and David Hasselhoff, who isn’t German by birth but has been weirdly adopted by Deutschland as their man and superman. The first set of Playmobil figures my brother and I received for Christmas were cowboys and Indians (as white in face as my brother and me), but it was when we got our first set of knights that we realized we could escape middle class America through imagination to joust in Medieval England. The knights offered the promise of chain mail and swordplay even if they could only bend at the waist, which I assume would have been problematic at Agincourt.
When my son was born, I discovered a toy store on Caroline Street downtown that sold Playmobil figures. One year for Christmas, I vowed to buy him a Playmobil castle which was no small undertaking because it was expensive and had to be assembled on Christmas Eve after he went to bed. I remember the crisp December night when I walked into the toy store and gently shook the snow from my hat. I walked to the back of the store with the misplaced certainty of a man who thought he could assemble a castle in a few hours to rekindle a Child’s Christmas in Wales—or West Reading, Pennsylvania, as the case may be. When I took the castle to the counter the owner could sense my inner turmoil and asked if there was a problem. I told him I was conflicted because I was already spending a lot of money but saw that there was a red fire-breathing dragon in the store that would be a perfect combatant for the army of knights I hoped my son would assemble. The owner, who had a nasty cough that was a precursor to the disease that would first take his ability to run the store and then take his life, looked at me and said simply: “Well, every castle needs a dragon.” It was poetic in its simplicity and that dragon still sits on the filing cabinet in my office.
The Boston Red Sox
I hesitate to say this out loud, but I am reasonably confident that Trump cannot ruin the 2026 Red Sox for me because the current management seems to be doing a fine job of ruining them all on their own. As baseball fans might recognize, this year marks the 40-year anniversary of Boston’s epic collapse in the 1986 World Series when they were one stupid strike away from ending the Curse of the Bambino and blew it. (And for the readers who like to diagnose me with Trump Derangement Syndrome, I’d like to point out that I was afflicted with No, No, Nanette Syndrome as well as Bucky F**king Dent Syndrome long before Trump jinxing the New York Knicks and the U.S. Men’s National Soccer Team was a thing. TDS can take a number.)
I am forever indebted to owner John Henry for bringing me unbridled joy in 2004, 2007, 2013, and 2018, and for also preserving the national shrine that is Fenway Park. John Henry will never pay for a beer if he ever comes to drink on my back patio. General Manager Craig Breslow on the other hand is not welcome on my back patio until he can explain how he gutted this current edition of the team so thoroughly and with seemingly no foresight. Trump can go grab a nap at Fenway Park anytime he likes, and when we don’t make the playoffs this year it will not be because of his somnambulance but rather because our roster is held together by nothing more than the bubblegum that used to come in the baseball card packs of my youth that lost its flavor in less than 30 seconds.
Music
There are any number of songs that make me smile, no matter the strains of the world. “Sweet Dancer” by the Waterboys, care of Yeats, just asks us simply to let her finish the dance, something we all want to do in our limited time on Earth.
“Return to Pooh Corner” by Kenny Loggins returns the listener to memories of childhood and the childhoods of our own children and grandchildren. It does indeed chase all the clouds away.
“The Morning Fog” by Kate Bush reminds us to tell those in our worlds how much we love them. Even those who are no longer here.
“The Dutchman” by The Clancy Brothers is the quintessential love song where dear Margaret puts a drop of whiskey in her husband’s tea each day. (Note to my own dear Margaret—an IPA works, too.)
Lastly, there is a song titled “Better Things” by the Kinks. My cousin Shawn of the band Salt Hill once said that if he ever got really sick, he hoped people would send him that song instead of a card or flowers. It is a wish for us all—to find the bluest sky and something better for tomorrow. When Ray Davies promises that I can forget what happened yesterday and know that there are better things on the way, who am I to argue?
