What makes Trump really mad

The civilized world looks upon Mohammed bin Salman and Vladimir Putin as they greet each other at the G20 Buenos Aires Summit and cannot believe their eyes. These two suspected (with good cause) murderers are laughing and high-fiving and fist-bumping like two teenage boys celebrating a little league victory.

One can only imagine how this image must infuriate Donald Trump, the man who lives in awe of these two brutal dictators. Trump makes no secret of his admiration for strong leaders—Putin, Erdogan, Kim Jong-un, Duarte—men the rest of the world recognize as bullies and murderers.

Among the many criticisms of President Trump is his seemingly inability to grasp the intricacies of how a Constitutional republic operates. The idea of checks and balances, a representative government accountable to the people, the simple concept of respect for those who don’t agree with you seem foreign to him.

He can’t understand why his Attorney General is loyal to the Constitution and not to him. He doesn’t understand why he can’t get the FBI, his FBI, to investigate his political opponents. He sees the opposition party as not that, but rather as traitors. In his mind, voting on principle is a vote thrown away.

All this should come as no surprise. His business empire is built, like most empires, on nepotism, not sound business practices. There was no board of director’s oversight. Laws regulating his business were seen as obstructions to be ignored.

Family, and the loyalty that family provides, were the cornerstones of the Trump organization. They remain at the center of the Trump administration.

But to say he doesn’t understand what democracy stands for or how it works is to shortchange him. That great brain that he is always pointing to, the one God could have given to anyone, but chose to give it to him, might not be all Trump imagines it to be, but he would be the first to agree that he ain’t stupid.

What bothers him most is not the difference between our system of government and the governments that his admired dictators rule over, but rather that there has to be a difference. Why can’t a president possessing his unique talent not still get the special treatment these dictators receive, despite living in a free country?

Every Trump move is questioned—by Democrats and Republicans, as well as foreign leaders. The press won’t leave him alone. He has publicly voiced his frustration that the American press won’t defer to him the way the North Korean press fawns over Kim Jong-un. It’s not that he doesn’t know the reason. It’s that he doesn’t think the reason should exist.

For two years, he has had to repeat constantly that there isn’t, and never has been, any collusion between him and Russia. He barely knows Russia. Yet, he can’t shake the idea that whenever he makes these proclamations, everyone in the room is winking and rolling their eyes.

At the same time, Putin is able to say whatever he wants and no one in Russia questions his motives.

In Helsinki Trump shared the stage as Putin admitted he wanted Trump to win the 2016 election, an election that Russia interfered with, and who's interference Trump denies. Now, in Buenos Aires, Trump has to pretend his cancelling of talks with Putin is because of Putin's barbaric behavior in Ukraine and has nothing to do with revelations that Russia and Trump are, and have been for a long time, tight as thieves. 

Then he must listen as Putin's spokesperson explains that yes, Trump says it's about Ukraine, but the real reason is probably rooted in his domestic problems back home—problems Trump insists don't even exist. 

Trump is relegated to tweeting stupid stuff because he can’t speak the truth, while Putin can say anything he damn well pleases and face no repercussions. When Trump exclaimed that he could shoot someone in Times Square and get away with it, even he knew that while his supporters might accept that behavior, such action would be seen by everyone else as unforgivable. Such is not the case in their own countries for the real life murderers that Trump holds in such high esteem.

Putin, Mohammed bin Salman, and guys like them can say and do whatever they want. They can literally get away with murder, while Trump is unable to get away with what he considers no more than political shenanigans, things he thinks everyone does—mainly because they are things he has always done.

Trump is a great believer of democracy. He just wishes that when a great leader like him comes along, democracy could cut him some slack, and operate more like a dictatorship.

This just in...

Regarding Federal Reserve decision to raise interest rates:“They’re making a mistake because I have a gut, and my gut tells me more sometimes than anybody else’s brain can ever tell me.”

Regarding scientific findings on climate change: “One of the problems that a lot of people like myself, we have very high levels of intelligence, but we’re not necessarily such believers. 

You look at our air and our water, 

and it’s right now at a record clean.”

This just in from the House Intelligence Oversight Committee:

We know for the past two or three years, or possibly the last 20 or 30 years, people—some people—but definitely real people, have been asking to see Donald Trump’s tax returns. We would all like to know where and whom he’s gotten his money from, how he’s managed to survive so many bankruptcies, and how many women he has paid off to keep his affairs out of the news. We’d like to know whether he is a billionaire or billowing cauldron of hot air.

We’d certainly like to know these things.

However, after listening to him talk for a year on the campaign trail, being exposed to two years of non-coherent rambling coming out of the Oval Office, and being subjected to nonsensical tweets that appear to be written by someone taking an ESL course, our committee has decided there is something more important for Americans to know.

For this reason, we, on the House Intelligence Oversight Committee, have contacted Kew-Forest Elementary and New York Military Academy and subpoenaed Trump’s I.Q. tests results.

He should not be allowed to talk to one more foreign leaders—either publically or privately, or enact one more questionable policy decision snatched out of thin air after fermenting in that vat he calls his brain, albeit for 30 years or 30 seconds, until Americans know if their president possesses the basic intelligence needed to make high level decisions.

We don’t need a psychiatrist’s report to know if he’s crazy. We don’t need a quack doctor telling us he’s the healthiest president ever. We certainly know those around him lie as much as he does. We don’t need close friends or associates telling us he’s really a funny guy who’s simply getting a bad rap. We know for a fact that any rap he gets is a rap well deserved.

We do have to know, once and for all and beyond any reason of doubt, whether the president is an idiot, because we know what damage idiot leaders have done in the past.

Furthermore, it comes down to more than agreeing he acts like an idiot. Behaving like an idiot is every man’s right in a free country that guarantees the right to happiness, just as being able to vote for a man who behaves like an idiot is also a guaranteed right.

Maybe our founding fathers were too generous.

Nevertheless, behaving like an idiot and being an idiot are two different things.

A person who is not an idiot, but merely behaving like one, can shape up. He can wake up one morning, shake the cobwebs out of his head, and declare, enough is enough. I’m going to stop acting like a jerk. For a person who is not an idiot, this is a reasonable expectation. People turn their lives around all the time.

Let’s be honest. This is what we have all been hoping for. It doesn’t happen often, but it can happen, but it usually doesn’t.

Kids do it as part of the natural maturing process. They stop the name-calling, constant fighting, pushing and shoving. They become more responsible and less erratic. In short, they grow up. They can do this because they are not idiots.

Idiots don’t grow up. Their intelligence limitations keep them frozen in time—forever young, but unfortunately forever incapable of functioning in a grown-up world.

We don’t know what the case is with Trump. He could be someone simply pretending to be an idiot—and it would take a super smart person to explain why anyone would do this, or he could be an idiot. No one knows, but anyone who is not an idiot should want to know.

Trump often points to his brain and tells us what a smart man he is. This isn’t something we absolutely cannot take his word for.

We don’t believe him when he tells us how rich he and what a smart businessman he is because we know about the bankruptcies, business failures, and inability to get a loan from anyone other than Russian oligarchs.

We don’t believe him when he tells us he’s not a racist because he continues to spout racist comments, enact racist policies, and—to his great chagrin—racists seem to love him.

We don’t believe him when he tells us he’s not a misogynist because we have heard him so many times bragging about being a misogynist.

We can’t go on believing what he tells us about his “great brain” when we have seen so much that tells us just the opposite. We don’t know if he is really an idiot or whether it is all an act to make him more appealing—and someone, someday will have to explain to me how that works.

We don’t need to talk to him. That would tell us nothing because we know listening to him for the last forty years has told us nothing.

We need to see those I.Q. test scores.

After that, we can look at his financial records.

After that, there might be a lot of his own associates questioning their own intelligence.

One final point. We all have guts and we all have brains. Wise men, using their brains, understand that guts should only be used to digest their food. Trump is right about one thing. Nobody else's brain can ever tell him anything.

The Laziest Man in America —getting under my skin

DURING THE 2016 campaign, Donald Trump accused Hillary Clinton of having no stamina and Jeb Bush no energy. How ironic, coming from Donald Trump—the laziest man in America.

Being in your 70s and being lazy is no crime. There are lots of 70-year olds, who are kicking back, watching a little more TV than they should be. As the saying goes, “They earned it.” For the record, say what you want about Hillary, but I don’t think she has ever been lazy or lacked stamina, but this isn’t about her.

The thing about Trump is, he’s been lazy all his life.

Many will take issue with that assumption. How can he be lazy? The man is everywhere. He’s into everything. He barely sleeps. If nothing else, his twitter thumb is working around the clock.

One can be busy and still be lazy. In fact, being busy might be a sign of laziness—if nothing else, at least intellectually laziness.

An intellectually lazy person like Trump doesn’t take the time to think things through. He won’t make the effort because he doesn’t think the effort is necessary.

I can’t prove it, but I honestly think he came up with the idea for the wall during that famous ride down the escalator. He looked at the crowd on either side and saw how well protected he was from them. After all, he’s no Bobby Kennedy, mixing it up, shaking hands, patting supporters on the shoulder. He likes to keep his supporters at a distance. The closest he gets to them is his name on the sign they’re carrying. Walls are one way of achieving the separation he relishes.

Trump doesn’t read because that is only getting someone else’s thoughts. Likewise, he doesn’t need briefings. He hardly needs a staff. He’s got ideas popping into his head every minute, and a device in his hand to get those ideas out there.

Trump’s first instinct is to always trust his first instinct because in his gut, he knows that instinct is right.

If that instinct were right, he’d have a valid point, but it’s wrong, so he doesn’t. What he does have is a case of laziness.

He goes for easy answers to difficult or sometimes non-existent problems because it reinforces his brand—that he’s a strong and decisive businessman. On a side note, I think making money through branding is probably the laziest way to make money.

Here is the president, in his own words, acting off the top of his head—posing the problem and arriving at his solution.

“All Mexicans are rapists and murderers.” “We will build a wall and Mexico will pay for it.”

“I think Islam hates us.” “We must have a complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States.”

“Football players kneeling during the anthem are unpatriotic.” “Fire the sons of bitches.”

“Democrats are un-America and treasonous...and don’t love our country.” He insults them, belittles them, blames them and demands we vote them out.

“Journalists are the enemy of the people,” He says. Refers to ‘Fake News’ more than any other term, except maybe “no collusion,” securing his position alongside past dictators like Stalin and Hitler and current ones like Putin and China’s Xi Jinping.

Where there are real issues like Russia interfering in our elections, he doesn’t see them. “Putin says he didn’t do it and I believe him.” “Mueller’s investigation is a witch hunt, a hoax.”

When his staff puts loyalty to the Constitution over loyalty to him, he shames and bullies them, calling them names you’d expect to hear in a playground from a five-year old.

When they put loyalty to him over loyalty to the Constitution, they are pretty much given a green light to do anything they want—separate children from their parents, find their wives jobs, or just run the country into the ground.

These are the instincts of an intellectually lazy man. A man who has never met a perceived problem that didn’t catch his fancy—or an easy solution, he couldn’t latch onto and stick with as if bound with super-glue.

He lives in a world where everything we thought was true is false, where friends become enemies and foes become new best friends. Putin is a strong leader, not a dictator. Kim Jong-un is a funny and honorable man, but Trudeau is dishonest and weak.

His lack of substance and unmatched shallowness feeds the national nightmare of a nation divided. His flights of fancy are met by citizen’s fits of fury and 200 years of at least a charade of mutual respect morphs into twitter wars, which solve nothing, but sure do make everyone mad—except him.

For the last three years we’ve listened to our frustrated Congressmen and Senators publicly offer tired prayers that Trump will mature, do the right thing, grow into the office; that he will get serious by getting down to serious work. Where Obama’s iconic “Hope” poster became a symbol of change, Republicans only hope is that he changes before he screws up.

Newsflash: 70-year-old men don’t suddenly see the error of their ways—especially when those ways have worked out so well, even leading to the presidency?

I’ll tell you what 70-year-old men can do. They can remember Louie Prima.

The country’s relationship with Trump reminds me of the Louie Prima/Keely Smith duet. She, foreshadowing our current political climate, sang, “I got it bad, and that ain’t good,” and Louie, as the voice of the laziest president in history, responds, “I got it good and that ain’t bad,” before quickly adding, “I ain’t gonna change.”

This essay appears in my recent "Trump Dismantles Washington" 

Learning: It's not as hard as you think, if you put your mind to it

Don't blame Democrats, blame the genie

Donald Trump and I are practically the same age.

He is 26,396 days old.

I’m 26,266 days old.

I express our ages in days rather than years because the subject of this essay is learning, and I believe learning is an on-going, day-in, day-out experience. Yeah, we might have graduated in such and such year, or our twenties—pick your own decade –may have been throwaway years, but learning is a never ending process. At least, it should be.

While Trump is about four months older than me—a hundred and thirty days to be exact, I strongly believe he has wasted some of them, maybe more than he would likely admit to.

For almost every day that I have lived, I strongly believe I have learned something. I’m not saying I always put that knowledge to good use, or that I didn’t at some point forget what I’d learned, only to have to learn it again. To be sure, there were days when I didn’t learn a damn thing, and for that, I have no one to blame but myself. Nevertheless, I try to keep an open mind.

In my opinion, based on observations I have made over the last 15,000 days or so, Donald Trump hasn’t learned a damn thing on most of the 26,000 days he’s spent trying to impress on us, how much he knows.

What does it matter?  

I don’t know.

I just finished writing a novel about Trump that might not sell 100 copies if it were to stay in print for the next—let’s just keep it simple and say 10,000 days. Meanwhile, he is president of the United States.

That should tell anyone all they need to know about the greatest nation on earth and what it takes to succeed in it.

Nevertheless, this is an essay about learning and how every day is important. It’s certainly not about fairness or irony or luck.

Abusing the flag—again

Since becoming president, Donald Trump has used the flag to divide the nation.

Allow that to sink in.

Donald Trump, President Donald Trump, used the flag to divide the nation.

In a flagrant display of false, misguided patriotism, he has attacked athletes who are trying to draw attention to a debate effecting millions of Americans—how police and law enforcement treat Blacks.

These athletes have taken the patriotic stance that while America may be a great nation, in many instances, it acts badly. These athletes see America’s greatness in her ability to right wrongs, if only those wrongs can be brought to the forefront for a national debate. This is what our founders fought for. The right of representation, the right to confront unfair treatment and fix it.

Alexis de Tocqueville recognized this quality almost 200-years ago when he wrote in, Democracy in America, “The greatness of America lies not in her being more enlightened than any other nation, but rather in her ability to repair her faults.”

Trump does not understand this. He has used patriotism as his own personal weapon of choice, pulling it out to get his way, whenever debate and mutual understanding would have been more effective weapons.

Happy Independence Day

    In the fictional town of Harrington, the local newspaper, Press-Pilot, hadn’t had much luck in stopping an unwanted building project. Now people involved in the project were being murdered.     Reporter Julie DuBois and her editor, Sam Perkins, were discussing democracy and why sometimes it didn’t always seem to be working. Their conversation turned to Thomas Paine, author of Common Sense.

   The Man Who Wrote Letters is available at Amazon books. 

* * *

...“I could be wrong, but I don’t think he was writing for a publisher. He may have had a backer or two, but he was pretty much putting his own message out there and hoping it would stick. He was a snake oil salesman, selling a revolution to anyone who would buy in—and maybe a little democracy on the side.”

“Democracy, snake oil?”

“It was at the time. Nobody knew if it would work, but a small group were willing to take a chance. They also knew if they were going to succeed, they’d have to get the masses involved. Democracy was a pretty hard sell for those who’d never experienced it.”

“It’s a pretty hard sell sometimes when you’ve seen it in action all your life.” Julie was out of her comfort zone and knew it. She recognized the names and understood the principles, but these weren’t concepts she’d thought much about. She knew that was the rap on her generation....

Profiles in Non-courage

Mitch McConnell was elected to the United States Senate in 1984, the year Ronald Reagan won the presidency by almost 20-million votes and an electoral vote margin of 525 to 13. Mitch’s campaign slogan against Democrat Walter Dee Huddleston was “Switch to Mitch.” That should have told the nation something about the man that Kentucky would send to Congress for the next 34 years—a man who would win future elections with the catchy “Repeal and Replace.” No one likes meaningless but catchy slogans more than Republicans.

The fact that this slogan only garnered him a plurality of 5200 votes out of more than 1,8-million cast (0.04%) tells us something else about the man who would one day become Senate Majority Leader.

Mitch has been a voice in Congress through the Iran/Contra Affair, two Iraq Wars, the 9/11 attack by terrorists on the Twin Towers, the S & L debacle of 1988, and the Great Recession of 2008—all of them events occurring under Republican presidents, as well as the tax cuts of Reagan, Bush, and Trump. Don’t let anyone fool you, tax cuts help the rich more than anyone else.

He was there for the Republican’s 6-year investigations of the Clinton’s during Bill Clinton’s presidency, and the fruitless and seemingly endless investigation of Hillary Clinton for the Benghazi attack.

He was there when Obama’s administration opened the door for 15-million Americans to receive previously unavailable healthcare insurance and has spent the last decade trying to take that insurance away.

This man has been in Washington for all the big events, all the momentous decisions, all the bitter struggles. So what does he call his proudest moment?

The Man Who Wrote Letters—and did evil deeds

No one is born a killer. Situations and events in a society growing angrier by the day can turn an otherwise peaceful person violent. 

Construction was about to begin on a building project that would not only saddle the town with unfathomable debt, but would forever transform the quiet little town in ways only a few could imagine.

Public protests and letter writing campaigns had failed to stop this crooked scheme because the corrupt individuals behind it were motivated by their own greed and an utter disregard for the opinions of others. The town’s newspaper, against the project from the start, railed against it regularly on its editorial page, but no one reads newspapers anymore.

Public protests and letter writing campaigns had failed to stop this crooked scheme because the corrupt individuals behind it were motivated by their own greed and an utter disregard for the opinions of others. The town’s newspaper, regularly railed against the project on its editorial page, but no one reads newspapers anymore.

The letter writer had paid his dues, played by the rules. He recalled a time when that was enough, but those days were long gone. In his mind, that world didn’t exist anymore.

He accepted change, welcomed progress. Something different was happening in his community. Values that had once been cornerstones of society were being destroyed by a weak mayor and his corrupt cronies.

The few who tried to speak truth to power were met with apathy and ignored by citizens, who actually envied the successful and flamboyant businessmen who were scamming them. The question on everyone’s lips: Would anyone step up to stop the corruption?

Finally, one man did step forward to answer the call.

Now the question became, “Could anyone stop him?”

The Man Who Wrote Letters—and did evil deeds

  My third novel, The Man Who Wrote Letters—and did evil deeds, is in its final proof stage and will be coming out in a few weeks. 

  The crime mystery takes place in the fictional town of Harrington, Massachusetts and centers on an unpopular building project.

    We pick up the story when the body of a key figure   is discovered one morning just as construction is about to commence. The ensuing events and  investigation are revealed through the eyes of the young journalist assigned to cover it.

President Trump Throughout History

President Trump enters the Great American Think-off

 

In December 2015, I began a feature on my blog, entitled, “Trump Throughout History,” where I put him in different settings. Every year, I enter a contest called the “Great American Think-off.” This year, a member from a writer’s group I belong to is one of the four finalist going to Minnesota to debate the question: What shapes our lives more: Success or Failure?

I tried to envision what the president’s entry to a Great American Think-off would look like.

Everyone in the Oval Office was talking about the Great American Think-off, which I have to admit, I didn’t know anything about. Making America Great, I know, but Great America Thinking, I don’t know so much. Anyway, my staff told me this year’s question is:

“Thinking is a good thing, Yes or No.”

At first, I didn’t get it because I think both answers are right. Thinking can be a good thing like when I think I’m on to something, or it can be a bad thing like the time I thought I was on to something only to find out the thing I was on was a merry-go-round, which a lot of people would say is a good thing, but I don’t know—you’re here...you’re there...then you’re back here again.

Some people say a merry-go-round is a good ride, but I like my rides to get me somewhere. That’s what I think. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing...who knows,...we’ll see...or we won’t. I dunno. Think about it.

The more I think about it, the more I think, thinking is a bad thing. Too much thinking, which some people call overthinking can just make things more complicated. I like things simple.

Someone just told me the folks at New York Mills like personal stories, which is lucky for me because I have a million of them. Someone else just told me New York Mills is in Minnesota. Go figure.

Anyway, one time I did overthink something and it didn’t turn out so good, and I swore I would never think about something too much, again...and to the best of my recollection, I never have.

So, I hit a good drive and I’m in the middle of the fairway and I’ve got 180 yards to the hole. I could use a three-wood and reach the green easily, but I might go past it if I get off a clean shot...or I could use a one-iron, which I don’t like to use, but I can use if I have to. It may leave me a little short...and I’m not talking about me, because I happen to be a very tall man...taller than most, and when I say most, I mean, just about everyone.

I don’t want to get off track here. The one iron might leave me short of the green, which is called a lay-up and from there, I might be better off, if I can chip onto the green and get close to the hole.

But, I don’t know. If it comes between coming up short, or going too far...I’m kind of a long-ball guy. I don’t think you can ever go too far. So, I take the three wood out, but decide not to hit it too hard, but just hard enough. Well, you know what happened next...I didn’t think it would happen, but I knew it could happen because anything can happen and usually does...in fact, people tell me things happen all the time.

So, I take a shorter backswing and slow down my front swing. Is that what you call it? I never thought about it before, but if going back is called a backswing, a swing going front must be a front swing. This is the kind of confusion, thinking will get you.

Anyway, because I overthought what club to use, I wound up not hitting the ball cleanly and I came up short, but not just short, but short in a trap, which I hate being in. Anyone who has ever been in a trap will tell you, it is not a good place to be. Believe me, I know.

So, you see, based on this real story, which I didn’t make up on the spot like some people accuse me of doing, I would have to say thinking isn’t a good thing...not if you’ve hit a good drive and want to get on the green in two, which is something I would want to do and I think anyone would want to do.

So, that’s my answer. Thinking is a good thing—No.

I don’t know, though. Some pretty good thinking on my part went into getting to that answer.

Maybe I should think about it some more and see if I come up with a different answer, which I’m sure I will, because I always do.

I just got an idea for next year’s think-off. “Three-wood or one-iron, which is it?” I know what I think.

Can keeping your word be a bad thing? Hell, yes.

I remember when my year-long tour in Vietnam was ending, the army asked me what my preferences were regarding my next duty station. This is generally referred to as a “dream list,” and it usually is.
 

I think politicians engage in the same sort of deceit on the campaign trail. They tell us all the good things they hope to do. Whether they are conning us or themselves doesn’t matter. Someone’s getting played. Voters are not necessarily innocent bystanders. They get their hopes up, for whatever reasons, knowing that it is all a game.

In the end, none of this matters.

Government and politics being what they are, more often than not, the unexpected rules the day and the promises go into the “Save for future” bin. A president fortunate enough to be able to fulfill a promise will discover his victory comes at a price. Half the country will love him and half will hate him and the final product likely won’t be recognized by anyone.

Just as with the army’s “dream list,” you never know. “Be careful what you wish for,” has been valuable advice since the days of Aesop’s Fables for good reason.

The election of 2016 was a little different than most. Okay, it was a lot different. It was more vulgar, for sure. It was the first one in which both the FBI and Russia played significant roles. It was the first one in which the two major parties were represented by a woman and a reality T.V. star. It goes without saying that it was the most expensive election ever, but that will only last until the next one, which I guess makes it the same as every previous one.

There was also one other major difference. 2016 was the first year that a candidate did not promise to do things, but rather promised to undo things—and when I say things, I mean everything.

These are the Trump promises of election year 2016:

Trust Us - Con jobs big and small

Con jobs come in all sizes and with varying degrees of intent to deceive.

A small, well-meaning con job was once directed at me when I was a letter carrier walking my route in Virginia Beach. An older man walking his dog approached me.

The dog wasn’t that big, but it was dragging its owner along like a lion pulling a dead wildebeest across the arid African savanna.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got him under control,” the outmatched man said with a straight face.

He wasn’t intentionally trying to con me and certainly meant me no harm. He may have even thought he was in charge, but he had to have known the dog was running the show.

This was the most innocent of con jobs, but I wasn’t fooled and never took my eyes off the dog as it dragged its owner past me.

Then there was a con of a different sort—intentional, but not meant to harm—much—but certainly meant to deceive.

Which is it? Deal-maker or you're fired?

President Trump ran on two slogans: “Build the Wall” and “Make American Great Again.” The second could mean different things to different people and can’t be measured qualitatively, which made it the perfect campaign slogan.

Building a wall will either happen or it won’t. We’ll know when we see it.

Both, however, are primarily slogans meant to grab one’s attention.

The actual persona that Trump presented to voters, the personality that he hoped would endear him to his supporters were summed up in another phrase, “You’re Fired!” The man who utters these words as easily and frequently as cowboys used to say “Howdy” was going to turn Washington on its heels, make bureaucrats tremble in their comfy sofas. In short, to use another slogan that can’t be qualitatively measured, he was going to drain the swamp—and it would be a good thing.

You’re-fired-Trump also claimed to be deal-maker-Trump who was going to get deals done, by hook or by crook—and if that phrase wasn’t invented by him, it should have been. The point is, if you weren’t working with him, you would be gone.

He’s fired Yates and Bharara from Justice, Flynn and McMasters from NSA, Comey and McCabe from FBI, Spicer, Priebus, Scaramucci and Bannon from his staff, Shulkin from Veterans, and Tillerson from State, not to mention a host of lower administrators. He’s threatened to fire others and many have left before they could be fired. Others have left before their reputations were tattered. Nevertheless, he hasn’t let his supporters down—except for the ones, he’s fired, of course.

Just as big-time department stores are biting the bullet and probably vanishing forever, Trump is re-acquainting a younger generation with the term, revolving door. You’re-fired-Trump is every bit the man that was advertised. Deal-maker-Trump is another story—or maybe it was just a story to begin with.

Making a deal when you have all the money isn’t that great a challenge. It comes down to, “Do it my way, or I’ll find someone else.” Essentially, “You’re fired.”

The challenge to making deals comes when you don’t hold all the cards. Finding solutions to tough or even unsolvable problems, enticing people to do what they don’t want to do, instead of simply finding someone else to do it.

Deal-maker-Trump the must have stayed in New York because we’ve yet to see deal-maker-Trump in Washington. His deals are almost non-existent.

There’s the judge, of course, but that’s more McConnell’s dirty work than Trump. All the heavy lifting was done while the 2016 campaign was still taking place. Had the nation elected a chimpanzee who could sign his name, the result would have been the same.

“Repeal and Replace” was dying a painful death when it was finally taken off of life support, but there was never anything there to begin with.

The only other accomplishment coming out of Trump’s first year was the “Tax Cut, Cut, Cut” bill, as he described it. It rewarded billionaires and the companies that made them billionaires and added another trillion to the deficit. Deal-maker-Trump knew it stunk and even as he signed it into law, swore he would not sign another bill like this again. So much for closing ceremonies.

As for the other challenges facing this administration, all the ones that were there when he took over are still there, and he bears much of the responsibility for that.

DACA, the easiest to solve, keeps dying because Trump can’t leave well enough, alone, or as Senator Schumer says, “He can’t take ‘yes’ for an answer.”

Infrastructure just needs a shove in the right direction, but Trump can’t seem to find his bearings.

About the best we can say about North Korea is that it is always there when the president needs it, but the problem isn’t going anywhere.

His plan for Syria is to lob a missile at them to show he means business and then get the hell out of there before the bills come due.

When it comes to wheeling and dealing, the best he has done is weaseling out of the deals our nation has already made or was about to make.

Paris Climate Accords—“We’ll see. Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll let you know.”

TPP—“No way.”

NAFTA—“Don’t like it. Never have.”

Iran Nuclear Treaty—“A very bad deal. I’m prepared to throw it away, but don’t tell North Korea that...at least not yet.

He’s decided to impose tariffs on the bad guys, but those didn’t require much discussion—certainly none that he had with his own advisors.

He’s turned back the clock on a lot of regulations, a lot of policy, driven away a lot of allies—the people we’ve always made deals with. He continues to hold out hope that relations with Russia can improve, but he has almost singlehandedly sabotaged that effort by his own insecurities or miss-dealing.

“The Art of the Deal” was supposedly ghost-written. Given his reputation for reading and his inability to write anything longer than 144 characters, I believe this. What may also be true is that deal-maker-Trump is also a ghost, and all we have sitting in the Oval Office is “You’re fired-Trump” 

  

One Cold River

 

       The summer trip from our home in Rochester, New York to my mother’s childhood home in Lowell, Massachusetts was an annual event. But the way we went about it was almost never the same.      

       In the early years, we took the train and experienced almost all of the emotions that could be experienced. The joy of continually exhausting the supply of those conical water-cooler Dixie cups that couldn’t provide enough water to keep a gnat alive. The thrill of running up and down the cars, and up and down between the cars virtually—if you believe the stories passed down—turning the train into our own personal playground.

       We’d manage to get sick numerous times in the course of the thirteen hour trip. The conductors were so frustrated by our antics that they’d warn mom the railroad would not be responsible for any injury we sustained. Mom had to be plum tired at journey’s end of both entertaining us and simultaneously trying to keep us from hurting ourselves or anyone else.

       So in time uncle Jack began driving out to Rochester to pick us up, bringing us to Lowell, then returning us home and finally returning home himself.  In 1957, we got our first car, a Ford Fairlane, and a whole new world opened up—and didn’t; because in spite of our new freedom many things stayed the same.

   For one thing, the trip still took about thirteen hours driving—only now it was spread over two days.  We still managed to get sick at some point, and often at many points.  Even though the New York State Thruway opened up in the same year, mom always preferred to take the old roads—routes 20 in New York and 2 in Massachusetts.  These two roads were the reason we could never make up any time on the train.

       There was never any question but that the 400-mile trip would take two days with a stopover usually in eastern New York—more likely than not at the Auriesville shrine in Fultonville, New York. This was the home of North America’s first martyrs, French Jesuits killed by the Mohawk Indians in the 1640’s and the birthplace 10 years later of Kateri Tekakwitha as these same Mohawks had a change of heart. 

       We always enjoyed this stopover but the next day it would be on the road again and an endless succession of small town after small town and a journey that seemed to never end.  There was one other bright spot though.

       Outside of Williamsport in the northwest part of Massachusetts, we’d make our annual stop at what we all believed to be the coldest river in the world—keeping in mind that our world at that time consisted of the states of New York and Massachusetts.  Still the river was cold and we would always stop there and take off our shoes and socks and jump from one slippery rock to another.

       I remember asking mom the name of the river and her replying that it was the Cold River. I have always believed that calling it, the Cold River was quite a coincidence or suspiciously—something she had just made that up because she could get away with it.

       Except that there was more.  Back in the car and on the road again, as I left the river I saw this sign.  Now that’s as good as it gets. Sorry mom for ever doubting you.
 I was in that area recently and stopped at the river, and took off my shoes and socks, and again, for old time’s sake hopped from one slippery rock to the next and thoroughly enjoyed myself and thought to myself that this was as good as it gets.

Except that there was more.  Back in the car and on the road again, as I left the river I saw this sign.  Now that’s as good as it gets. Sorry mom forever doubting you.

Pictures Aren’t the Only Things that Gets Old

      When you’re young, you never think about getting older. Nothing earth shaking there.  

 When I was 20 and in my second year of college, this is how I assessed the previous two decades. I was currently in college and before that, I was in high school, which didn’t go by too quickly. Prior to that, I was in Catholic school for two years, which seemed like forever and in public elementary school for seven years and before that I was doing nothing for about five years and it all just seemed like a very long time. I figured I had at least three more of that time frames ahead of me and if they all went as slowly as the first 20-year span, I would be around for what would at least seem, like forever. If I got a bonus 20 years or some part thereof, which I fully expected, then all the better.
 

When I turned 25 I refigured the numbers to conclude I had two more repeats of that time frame plus a good chunk of a third one, if I played my cards right. I was in the army at the time and time was passing like parade rest. Again, I was satisfied with the way the numbers were panning out.
 

Around this time, an acquaintance asked a favor of me. Rene, a barmaid at The Tiki Girls and a bit of a vagabond, asked a favor.
 

“Could you hold on to this picture for me? It’s the only picture I have of my two daughters and I don’t want to lose it.”
 

I took the picture and put it away in a safe place. A year or so later, she moved to San Luis Obispo and I heard she got married. A short time after this, I was discharged from the army and had to return to Rochester, New York on short notice. The Sergeant Major I worked for stored my stuff in his garage. When I did return to California the following year, it was to Long Beach, not San Pedro.
 

I knew a few people still in San Pedro and would go back every now and then to see if anyone had heard from Rene. No one had.
 

I met a California girl in Long Beach and we were married in 1976. I was 30 years old and a lot of stuff had happened in those 30 years and I figured I had a good shot at not one but at least two more 30-year repeats of what, again, seemed like a slow moving stretch.
 

We moved to the Outer Banks and then to Virginia Beach. By 1986, we had three children, ages 6, 4, and 2. I was 40 and believe me, a lot had happened in those forty years. It seemed like a very long time and if I could somehow finagle doubling that and stealing a few extra years I thought that would be very good, very good indeed. Our family had a professional picture taken one time and it reminded me very much of the picture of Rene’s two girls that were stored away in a footlocker. 
 

Surely, she could never have forgotten the picture. And it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t find me and it wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t find her but somehow it doesn’t seem right that that picture is sitting in a footlocker in my attic.
 

This year I will turn 66 and I’m thinking in fractions now and not multiples. I think Rene might be in her 70’s if she is still alive. She wasn’t taking good care of herself when I knew her, but maybe her second marriage brought a little normalcy to her life. The picture in my footlocker is over 40 years old which means the two girls are almost twice as old as I was when Rene gave them to me for safe-keeping.
 

I tell myself that there are probably other portraits of the girls. Still, the one in my attic is the only first one.
 

How the hell does time get away from us? So many things are repeated over and over, vacations after vacations after vacations; soccer games and softball games and track meets; elementary school graduations, middle school graduations, high school, junior college, regular college, more college; moves—my God, I must have moved or helped someone else move at least fifty times in my life.
 

Yet her one singular request that required but one responding action to close the deal goes unfulfilled for 40 years. 
 

I could—and probably should—bring the picture to the thrift store. I see pictures in antique stores all the time that are homeless and probably shouldn’t be and I bet they all have a story to tell but I can’t do that?
 

I know what else I can’t do. I can’t throw it away. She asked me to hold it for her and that is what I will do. I’m keeping up my end of the bargain but something about that doesn’t feel so good.
 

I also know something else. I know I probably won’t be holding on to this portrait for another 40 years. I’ll never be this young again.