August 31, 2017--Sonic Attack: An Audiological Tale (Part 1 of 2)

"Can you talk?"

It was my audiologist, Dr. Gary Schwartzberg, barely audible on the phone. He had never called and in my usual anxious state I was surprised and worried.

"Is everything all right?"

"I'm not sure." It sounded as if he was calling from a telephone booth.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing like this has ever happened before." I waited for him to say more. I could hear the sound of the wind ripping. "Have you gotten any strange telephone calls?"

"Just occasional robos."

"This would be anything but a robocall. It has nothing whatsoever to do with that." It felt as if he was lecturing me, which was not at all his style.

I said, "I'm concerned about what's going on with you. You always seem so secure and unflappable. But now . . ." 

He snorted. "If only that were true. But, look, I have to call you back. I'm out on the street and can barely hear you. There's another phone booth not far from here. I'll call again in a few minutes."

He did after five minutes which felt like an eternity. He really had me perturbed. I said, "I have an appointment to see you later this afternoon for an adjustment. But I can drive over right now if . . ."

"If it isn't too much of an inconvenience that would be great. I need to talk. Really."

"Not a problem. I'll be there in less than half an hour."

When I arrived he was waiting in the parking lot behind his office, pacing back and forth, gesturing and seemingly talking to himself.

He rushed up to me as I was parking. "I really appreciate this. I mean, you're going to think this is all so foolish. That I'm overreacting. I cancelled my next two appointments so we have time to talk. Let's get some coffee. There's a Dunkin Donut just up the road. Walking distance. It'll be quiet there now so we'll be able to talk privately with no one eavesdropping. You've got to promise you won't talk to anyone about this." He waited for me to nod, indicating I would keep this between us.

When we were seated in a corner booth he looked around to see who else was there--just a very old man squinting at the local newspaper. Elbows on the table, Dr. Schwartzberg leaned closer to me. 

"We know each other for less than a year," he said, "But I feel close to you and . . ."

"I feel the same way," I said, interrupting him.

"And to tell you the truth almost everyone I know would think I'm crazy."

I said, "You can be a little eccentric, that's for sure, but that's part of your charm. You're not even close to being crazy." I smiled, trying to calm him.

"Let me begin at the beginning," I noticed he was trembling, "You know I have a very diverse clientele. Mostly older people, of course, that's in the nature of the audiology business. Almost all of them totally compos mentis. Wonderful people. I'm so blessed to be working with them. And of course you." 

I sensed he might be tearing up, so I lowered my eyes.

"I'm telling you this so you'll understand why this is so strange."

"What's the 'this'?"

"I'm getting to that. Are you sure you have the time for this? It's OK to say no but . . ."

"I'm here for you," I said, "I won't interrupt you again. So, please, tell me the whole story any way you want to." I leaned back in the chair to signal I was not I any hurry and sipped my decaf.

He took a deep breath. "There is this Mr. Anderson. James Anderson.  A client. He's about your age. In his seventies. Early retired for more than a decade. Used to work for the government. High level. Very senior." He paused and looked directly at me.

"And . . . ?"

"You've spent enough time in the area to have heard that there are a lot of retired federal employees living in the Midcoast."

"I heard something about that," I said, "We've even run into a few of them in Pemaquid. Retired . . . ," I paused, trying to figure out where he was leading me.

"Finish your thought," he said.

"Mainly military folks and federal government types. I have in fact gotten to be acquainted with a few. One was a military attache to the White House during the Eisenhower administration. He was an expert on nuclear weapons. A really interesting person. Right out of the history books.

"Anyone else?"

"Well, there's someone who was chief of station in various countries in Eastern Europe. You know what that means? Chief of station?"

"A spy. Intelligence. Espionage. Anything else? I mean about some of your neighbors?"

"Well, among other things, people say there are actually quiet a few ex-CIA types nearby. That they feel comfortable being close to each other. As former colleagues I assume that means they can talk openly with each other."

"Bingo!" Gary said, loud enough for the girls at the counter to look over toward us. The other customer didn't lift his head from the paper. I thought he might be napping or hard of hearing.

"This is about the CIA?" I couldn't believe that it might be but . . .

Gary leaned even closer and I moved toward him so I could hear his whispering, "It looks that way." 

He continued to stare at me as if checking me out. Not saying anything. I managed not to respond, wanting him to share only what he was comfortable with. I took another slow sip of coffee.

"Did you hear about what's going on in Cuba?"

"Cuba? This has something to do with Cuba?" I tried to hide my astonishment but considering what he was saying, this was impossible.

The so-called 'sonic attack'?"

"The what?"

"Sonic attack. It's been in the news and a few days ago there was a piece about it in the Times."

"This somehow involves your patient, James . . .?"

"Anderson, James Anderson. I should confess that's not his real name. It's unethical to talk about patients by name. Are you OK with my need to protect his identity?"

"Sure. Whatever you need to do or say. I'm here for you."

"It does involve him."

"And somehow you?"

"Before I get to that, since it doesn't seem as if you know the specifics of what's been happening in Cuba, let me fill you in."

"I'm all ears."

"I love all your audiological idioms and puns."

"I'm just trying to deintensify this."

As he proceeded to fill in the details I realized I did remember something about this. It had all seemed very weird.

"You know of course that we have an embassy in Cuba, in Havana. Toward the end of his term Obama reestablished diplomatic relations with them. And it seems that despite what Trump said during the campaign he is not breaking off relations with them or going back to the past." I nodded. "But it seems that for at least six months the Cubans for some unknown reason have been using a sonic wave device to disturb, and it seems, physically harm American diplomats. At least 16 of them.

"Our diplomats began to complain about symptoms, including nausea, headaches, balance disorders, and even hearing loss. They were brought back to America and checked out. It was discovered that most had experienced mild traumatic brain injuries and damage to their central nervous systems."


He paused and again twisted in his chair to make sure we were still not being overheard. I thought I heard soft snoring from the man with the newspaper. He was tipped back in his chair and with his mouth open was drooling on the sports section.

"That's it?" I said.

"That's just the background. The context for what happened next. The part that involves me."

"Involves you?"

"Let me bring this even closer to home. So close that you'll see it even concerns you." He shrugged, "That's why it was urgent for us to talk as soon as possible. I didn't want to leave you in the dark." He pointed at me to underscore that I was somehow implicated and then again lowered his eyes.

I couldn't believe this. "Me? With this crazy Cuba business?" He nodded and I detected the hint of an embarrassed smile.

End of Part 1 To be concluded tomorrow--

August 30, 2017--Another Tale

I am working on another Audiological Tale. In two parts again. Hopefully I will have the first part ready for tomorrow, Thursday.

August 29, 2017--Trump's Trap

Democratic strategist and CNN contributor Paul Begala got it right--President Trump set a political trap and Democrats stepped right into it.

The ugly demonstration in Charlottesville more than two weeks ago was about plans to remove statues of Confederate generals Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson  The white supremacist thugs rallied there to protest plans for their relocation. 

Sensing this would be an effective wedge issue that would pander to his alt-right base, Trump generalized efforts to move, even teardown forcefully, what he referred to as "our beautiful statues and monuments."

Trump's call to keep in place these statues were dog-whistle references to those memorials primarily honoring leaders of the Confederacy. All supporters of slavery. This Trump knew would be red meat for his core constituency, including the  K.K.K. and neo-Nazis. 

Trump tweaked the situation by mocking those in favor of removing these memorials by speculating that to be consistent liberals should also call for the removal of statues of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Andrew Jackson since they were slave holders.

Good point, many on the left felt, not noticing the trap set for them. 

On the right, Trump supporters, tongue-in-cheek, suggested that perhaps while we're busy taking down memorials we should also give serious consideration to, say, getting rid of the statue of Christopher Columbus that graces New York City's Columbus Circle. 

As preposterous as this may sound--though Columbus' "discovery" of America ultimately meant that European settlers would over a few centuries "remove" "Indians" from their ancestral lands--as extreme as this might seem, it is reported that NYC mayor Bill de Blasio is giving this idea serious consideration.

Columbus Circle, you may also know, is also the location of Donald Trump's tasteless International Hotel and Tower. A blight on the Central Park landscape, which, in a better world, would be what we would be thinking about taking down.

So we are descending into a paroxysm of political correctness, this time about statues. 

Thus the wedge issue calculated to deepen the division between Trump's people and the rest of Americans, thus the trap to which Begala alerted Democrats.

In Philadelphia there are moves to remove the statue of Frank Rizzo, who in the late 60s was the tough-cop mayor. He was best known, as was Maricopa County sheriff Joe Arpaio who was just pardoned by President Trump, for his heavy-handed, even brutal treatment of the city's minority population.

Instead of talking about Trump's racist comments after the Charlottesville riots and murder, those on the left are in a swivet about all memorials to the Confederacy and anything in any way associated with racism and slavery. 

There were failed attempts to rename buildings and academic programs at Princeton University because Woodrow Wilson was a white supremacist and there is a movement afoot to rename Faneuil Hall in Boston since Peter Faneuil was a slave owner.

George W. Bush's brain, Karl Rove was a genius at thrusting wedge issues into political contests. Rather than talking about the state of the economy or the hollowing out of the middle class, he got Americans to fight with each other about same-sex marriage, support for Planned Parenthood, prayer in school, and evolution.

Trump is employing the same strategy. When he senses political trouble as after Charlottesville or revelations about his possible complicity in encouraging Russians to intervene in the 2016 election, he riles folks up by bashing the media, inflaming feelings about immigrants, and more recently raising the issue of transgender members of the military.

But most effective, surprisingly, is the hot-button ability to get Americans agitated about statuary. 

Trump already figured out that millions of Americans--his base and many more--are affronted by the political correctness and identity politics they feel Democrats promulgate, particularly on college and university campuses.

Things such as costume codes for on-campus Halloween parties and forbidding people from referring to brown paper bags as brown paper bags since that might offend some people of color. Knowing that pointing to faux issues of this kind quickly enflames people who feel looked down upon and directly affected by the self-righteousness of coastal elites, the president keeps picking away at them in an attempt to make things more contentious and distracting.

While struggling to make ends meet, they see spoiled college kids imposing speech codes and driving conservative speakers such as Ann Coulter off campus, as they did recently in Berkeley.

To some this feels like good citizenship. To me it sounds a little too much like the Taliban.

Columbus Circle

August 28, 2017--"This Jew"

According to Gary Cohn, Donald Trump's top economic advisor, he came very close to resigning after Trump, at his intemperate news conference three days after the violent torch-lit march by white supremacists in Charlottesville, equated the counter demonstrators with the neo-Nazis."

With Cohn standing awkwardly next to Trump in the lobby of Trump Tower, the president said, there are "very fine people on both sides," presumably including among the anti-Semites who chanted, "Jews will not replace us."

As one of Trump's highest ranking, most observant Jews (Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump aside), pressed for comments, Cohn had nothing to say publicly for days, though people close to him, the New York Times reported, said he was "disgusted and deeply upset" by Trump's comments.

He now claims he was thinking about what to do. Even, he said privately to friends, going so far as drafting a letter of resignation. 

Finally on Friday, after nearly two weeks of silence, Cohn revealed the results of his struggle--

Citizens standing up for equality and freedom can never be equated with white supremacists, Neo-Nazis, and the K.K.K. I believe this administration can and must do better in consistently and unequivocally condemning these groups and do everything we can to heal the deep divisions that exist in our communities.

He added--

As a Jewish American, I will not allow neo-Nazis ranting "Jews will not replace us" to cause this Jew to leave his job. [My italics]

Cohn also revealed that he spoke directly with Trump about his feelings. Thus far there is no detailed report of this alleged discussion. From the tepid nature of Cohn's formal statement, one can only guess how the meeting went.

The last thing Cohn wants to do, as he said, is to leave or lose his job. Especially since he has another one in mind as the current one awkwardly unfolds--he is looking forward to being named by Trump to replace Janet Yellen when her term as Federal Reserve System chair expires at the end of January.

In the long tradition of Jews serving as counsellors and advisors to princes and men in power (a version of this is Henry Kissinger serving anti-Semite Richard Nixon), Cohn does not want to receive the Reince Priebus/Steve Bannon heave-ho when he has something else of self-interest in mind. 

As skin-crawling as this makes this Jew (me) feel, Cohn doesn't get the prize for the most craven comment of the week by Trump's palace Jews. His other sycophantic Jew, Treasury Secretary Steve Mnuchin--(who my mother, I know, would refer to as Steve Munchkin)--shortly after the events in Charlottesville came to his lord's defense--

While I find it hard to believe I should have to defend myself on this, or the president, I feel compelled to let you know that the president in no way, shape or form believes that neo-Nazi and other hate groups who endorse violence are equivalent to groups that demonstrate in peaceful and lawful ways.

This must mean that Munchkin doesn't want to mess up what he perceives to be a good thing and that the missus has more shopping to do.

After the Holocaust, surviving Jews vowed "never again." They pledged to do all in their power to confront anti-Semitism and prevent future genocides. And to that end committed themselves to not remain silent but to act fearlessly in the face of bigotry and hate. 

Though I am a non-observing Jew, I know this is still my responsibility. To the Jewish people, and more generally to all of humanity. We are required to speak out when we see injustice. And, equally important, to do our part to actively heal the world. Healing the world is Judaism's highest calling. It is called Tikkun Olam. 

Tikkun Olam is not about clinging to one's job. It is not about ignoring the moral implications. In fact, it is all about being guided by moral implications.

For the sake of their souls, Cohn and Mnuchin need to talk with their rabbis. 

Left to Right--Cohn, Mnuchin, Trump

August 25, 2017--Friday Potpourri

Some end-of-week reflections--

On America's declining competitiveness, a quote from Edward Luce's Time to Start Thinking--

"America spends more on potato chips every year than on [scientific and technological] research and development. More than half of U.S. patents are now awarded to non-U.S. companies. And there are now almost as many people (770,000) working in the country's correction industry, mostly prison guards, as there are employed in the auto sector."

*  *  *

A friend, who I had not thought would succumb to eclipse-mania, had a great time on Monday keeping track of it and taking all sorts of truly beautiful photos, including through the dozens of apertures that punctuate a kitchen colander so that it serves as a kind of multiplex pinhole projector. 

I asked her why she thought the solar event had so engaged millions of us. "Easy," she said, "It was the American eclipse, visible in its totality from coast to coast. No need as in the past to travel to Eastern Europe or some remote Pacific island to have the full experience."

Obsessed as I have been this week with reading Time to Start Thinking, which presents a convincing and disturbing picture of America's decline, thinking metaphorically, I wondered if Americans were so intrigued because we are in our own form of eclipse?

*   *   *

Then there is Louise Linton, B-picture actress wife of treasury secretary Steve Mnuchin, who really stepped into her Marie Antoinette impersonation. 

She was caught posting photos of herself on Instagram, stepping off a government jet, shlepping armfuls of shopping bags from designer shops including Tom Ford, Hermes, and Valentino.

To make matters extra vulgar she hash-tagged her purchases in case anyone didn't recognize the designer labels.

Apparently many did recognize them and eviscerated her in their comments. Not phased, as one peripheral to the in-your-face Trump administration, she responded--

Aw!!! Did you think this was a personal trip?! Adorable. Do you think the US govt paid for our honeymoon or personal travel?! Lololo. Have you given more to the economy than me (sic) and my husband? Either as an individual earner in taxes OR in self sacrifice to your country? [My italics]

I'm pretty sure we paid more taxes toward our 'day trip' than you did. Pretty sure the amount we sacrifice per year is a lot more than you'd be willing to sacrifice if the choice was yours.

Three "sacrifices" in fewer than 60 words. Clearly, they must be hurting, though from his financial disclosure form hubby Steve appears to be doing fairly well. He's worth at least $300 million.

*   *   *

Then what about ESPN's madness?

They pulled from the play-by-play booth one of the announcers who was set to call the season-opening football game in Charlottesville between the University of Virginia and William & Mary, Thomas Jefferson's alma mater. 

They did so, as they put it, to "avoid offending" some viewers.

What, I wondered, might be doing the offending? 

The ESPN answer--the announcer's name. It's Robert Lee.

Not Robert E. Lee, but apparently close enough. And no matter that ESPN's Robert Lee is Asian American.

A couple of issues--

How many people who might be offended--and for what reason that might be escapes me--how many do you think know enough about Robert E. Lee to be offended? UofV students? The college is about as selective as it gets and one would think students there would know the difference between a 19th century Confederate general and someone on ESPN of Chinese descent.

White supremacists, though, are another matter, and with ESPN losing money they don't want to offend this part of their shrinking viewership.

Louise Linton

August 24, 2017--Day Off

I will return tomorrow with a Friday Potpourri. 

August 23, 2017--Spectre of Decline

Edward Luce's persuasive but highly disturbing 2012 book--Time to Start Thinking: America and the Spectre of Decline, in just two paragraphs, sets the context for the rise and election of Donald Trump.

About the hollowing-out middle class--

According to the Economic Security Index, which tracks the number of Americans who experience a drop in their annual income of at least a quarter, the rate has almost doubled since Reagan was president. In 1985 just over one in eight Americans suffered an income loss of a quarter or more. By [2008] the time the financial meltdown hit, almost one in five Americans were affected. Since then, that number has grown sharply. . . 

Since one year's casualties are mostly different from the next, much more than one in five Americans now live in semipermanent fear of falling off the precipice. In the decade leading up to the collapse of the subprime market, more than half of Americans experienced an income loss of a quarter or more in one or more years. Think of the General Motors worker with his pension and health care plan. In the 1960s he earned $60,000 a year in today's prices. Walmart, which as the largest employer is the equivalent in today's economy, pays its 1.1 million mostly female employees on average $17,500 a year, most of them without . . . pension or health care benefits.

Further--

In 2009, "Lee Scott, then the chief executive of Walmart, . . . earned more in two weeks than the average Walmart employee does in her lifetime."

August 22, 2017--Steve Bannon: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words

Anyone wondering what happened to Steve Bannon, why Donald Trump fired him after declaring many times in public that Bannon was an invaluable and loyal advisor, need only look at the photo on the cover of Joshua Green's revealing page-turner, Devil's Bargain: Steve Bannon, Donald Trump, and the Storming of the Presidency. 

When it comes to Trump a picture is worth many thousands of words.

If Trump hated the idea that Time Magazine put Bannon on its February cover anointing him "The Great Manipulator: Second Most Powerful Man In the World"--with us left to draw our own conclusions about who was being manipulated--one can only imagine what Trump thought when Green's book is so much more about Bannon and his perverse brilliance than Trump, who is largely described as an intuitive political prodigy.

Bannon is not quite labeled Trump's brain, but Devil's Bargain comes pretty close to asserting that he is. But again, if the cover of the book featured Trump, just Trump, I suspect Bannon would still be in the White House.

It turns out, as Trump put it to the New York Post, "I'm my own strategist. Steve's  just a guy who works for me." And as hired help,  like one of Trump's immigrant golf course workers, he's gone.

When I ran this idea by Rona, she said,"Since we read from left to right, if the image of Trump on the book jacket had been on the right, where our eyes come to rest, I suspect Trump would have less of a problem with the book, since as everyone knows, he doesn't read."

August 21, 2017--Jack: Missing In Action

"I was wondering if I'd ever hear from you or see you again."

It had been a couple of weeks since Jack called or showed up at the Bristol Diner. I had a feeling why that might be, but I didn't want to let him off the hook. So I phoned to give him the business.

Sounding chipper, Jack said, "I've been busy with visitors. You know, it's the busiest week of the summer and, if you can believe it, I had 18 house guests. People were sleeping everywhere--some in the barn where I set up a kind of dorm for the young ones. They had a ball. Still are. About 10 remain. I've been running around stocking up on food and drinks and snacks." 

I let him rattle on. He never brings up domestic matters. All we ever talk about and spat about is politics. Especially how Trump is doing.

"We're having a cookout later today so I don't have a lot of time. I need to get to Hannifords before they run out of chopped meat, hot dogs, and all sorts of accompaniments. Then, over to Reilly's for corn. They have the best corn in the area and I need about a bushel. If I don't get there soon they'll run out and our friends will be disappointed. We do this every year. The corn and Mrs. Chase's pie are the hit of the weekend. So, I have to get three pies. And of course ice cream. People love Gifford's ice cream. Chocolate and vanilla for the pies. And . . ."

Since it was only 9:30 I knew there was no danger of anything being out of stock. So, I said, "I won't keep you, but we know each other well enough for me to see you're vamping."

"Vamping? That's a new one. Actually, sounds funky. I like funky."

"Meaning you're dodging the issue at hand. I would have thought you'd be all over me. What, with everything that's been going on. You of course know what I'm talking about and why you haven't been to the diner. I know about all the guests you have every year in mid-August. In fact, it's during those times that you always come to the diner. To take a break. To hide out for a couple of hours. So don't try to sound so innocent. It's not working with me. If you didn't want to talk you could have ignored my call--I assume you have caller ID. All this bull about hot dogs and corn is a distraction. But then again, you did answer the phone. So what's the story?"

Jack was uncharacteristically silent.

"You have nothing to say about Steve Bannon being fired? Nothing on your mind about Charlottesville? Nothing about what Trump had to say? His initial comments, his phony written statement on Monday and then on Tuesday at that scary news conference when he spoke about what he really believes? About all this you have nothing to say? You, who for two years haven't been able to stop talking about 'your boy' Trump? If you had any integrity you would have been eager to talk about all this. I'm sure, spouting White House spin. Placing blame on the counter demonstrators. Blaming the whole thing on the Black-Lives-Matter people. Maybe even trying to work Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton into the scenario. How it was all their fault that there was violence and murder."

I was furious about what has been going on and Jack's silence.

"So, you're just going to sit there listening to my ranting, pretending you have to go food shopping? The country is coming apart at the seams thanks to the person you helped elect and have been pimping for for two years and you have nothing to say? The world is in turmoil, North Korea hasn't gone away, nor, thank God, has Mueller and his investigators, and you're talking to me about chopped meat?"

I thought I heard Jack groan.

"I'm about finished with you," I said, almost spitting, "Either you start talking or stop coming to the diner and never call me again. I too have caller ID. I'm being serious. You have 10 seconds and then I'm hanging up." I began to count down--"10, 9, 8, 7 . . ."

"I'm also . . . " He was speaking so softly that I couldn't understand what he was saying.

"Speak up, Jack, you know I don't hear that well. I think you mumbled something." I resumed counting--"7, 6, 5 . . ."

In a hushed voice, he said, "My father, bless his soul, was in the army. In combat. The Second World War. In Europe. He landed in Normandy in the third wave. A lot of his comrades were killed even before they reached the beach. They fought their way across France. Pushing toward Germany. Then the Jerries counterattacked. It was the Battle of the Bulge. My father's division was almost surrounded. Cut off. Decimated. More buddies blown up and wounded. 

"He was only 19 years old. I have grandchildren that old. It was a miracle he made it through. Many of his guys were captured and spent the rest of the war in German POW camps. Somehow, the others managed to break out of the trap and kept pushing east. Toward Germany. Along the way, they came to Buchenwald. The concentration camp. Where he learned later 43,000 mainly Jews were exterminated. They liberated the survivors. Who were like living skeletons. More than half dead."

I could hear Jack breathing deeply.

He resumed, "My father, like many GIs, never talked about any of this. Not until he was dying from cancer. When he was 81. That was the first time I heard what he had experienced. The hardest part for him was not what happened to the boys in his platoon. That was hard enough. But Buchenwald, about that . . ."

Jack couldn't finish the story. I waiting for a least a minute, not saying anything, listening to his breathing.

Finally, he said, "Now maybe you understand." Again, he paused.

"I think I do, but I need to hear you say it."

"You're torturing me."

"Not really. I want you to tell me what's going on with you about this."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Yes and no."

"OK. I really need to go shopping, so here goes--

"I hated, yes hated, what Trump said at that so-called news conference. He never even served though he went to military school and fancies himself a tough guy. And I wonder how many of those KKK and neo-Nazis served. My guess, none of them. Not that that's the meaning of life. Being in the army. But you can't pretend to be a warrior and hide behind deferments. Trump, I think, had four or five. But that's a distraction--about who served and who didn't. 

"The problem is," Jack continued, "that you can't, no one can, particularly a president cannot say anything whatsoever good about the Ku Klux Klan and especially the Nazis. Nothing. How are the people on TV talking about this? As Morally equivalent?"

"Equivalency. Moral equivalency."

"There is no such thing as that when it comes to Nazis. There's nothing equivalent. Nazis are evil. Anyone calling himself a Nazi today is also evil. It's that simple. Maybe those guys in Charlottesville didn't have anything directly to do with concentration camps and killing Jews. But if you're a self-proclaimed Nazi that becomes part of your baggage."

After waiting another half minute, I posed the really biggest question--"Does that include Trump? Is that also part of his baggage?"

I let a minute pass. "Does it? He's your boy. Whatever he is or isn't, he's yours. You bear some responsibility for him. I mean for his being president."

" . . . "

"I didn't hear you. As I told you . . ."

Jack rasped, "It does. It does include him."

"So what are you going to do?"

More silence.

"I don't know. I still like a lot of things about him, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Like I said, I don't know."

Buchenwald Liberation Photo

August 18, 2017--What's Really Going On

From Donald Trump's perspective, it's not about white supremacy, it's not about America first, it's not about support for neo-Nazis, nor is it about immigrants. Though he does have hateful positions about all of these. 

As with almost everything about him, it's personal

For most of his followers, including that frightening base of about 25 percent of racist Americans as well as nearly 80 percent of Republicans who still support him, it is about some of these matters; but his appeal continues to derive primarily from his ability to mobilize the anger Americans feel at the eroding quality of their lives and their frustrations about America's diminishing place in the world.

Trump continues to be depressingly adept at exploiting their sense of decline and dislocation. He knows the buttons to push to elicit support when he sees it necessaryto shore up his coalition. Especially those who are at the hard core of his base. The ones he encourages through dog whistle statements and tweets that sanction the ugliest of reactions. The kind of scary hatred and violence we saw on display this past weekend in Charlottesville.

Again, none of this comes from genuine concern about Americans who feel they have been left behind (too many in fact have been). It is all about Donald Trump. Not about America but Donald Trump.

And so what we are witnessing is his latest reaction to what special counsel Robert Mueller is bringing to the boiling point--the role Trump himself played in stealing the presidency and his years of financial dealings with the Russians.

Concurrent with giving sanction to the mobilization of neo-Nazis and white supremacists were reports during the past two weeks about the FBI raid on former Trump campaign manager, Paul Manafort's house; what is turning up in the more than 20,000 documents the Trump campaign turned over to Mueller's people and what their perusal is beginning to reveal about collusion in the election with the Russians; and Mueller's move last week to seek testimony from senior White House aids, including recently-fired chief of staff, Reince Priebus.

Only Donald Trump knows what he did and didn't do. And this is clearly terrifying him.

If his hands are clean, he should have no concerns. On the other hand, if there is clear evidence that he knew and/or encouraged working with the Russians to undermine Hillary Clinton and/or if he has had significant financial dealings with Russians (many of them likely to be dirty), he has a lot to be more than concerned about. He should be feeling desperate.

Feeling desperate would explain much of his recent behavior, most vividly on display in his gyrating reaction to what was perpetrated in Charlottesville.

His desperation about his own, personal collapsing circumstances could be what has been motivating his increasingly grotesque behavior.

Again, it's all about Mueller.

Thus, we should soon see a renewed move to fire him and the offer of pardons to Michael Flynn and Paul Manafort. Both vulnerable to being "squeezed" by investigators in the hope that they will throw Trump under the bus to save their skins and keep them out of jail--which is where both are headed.

Meanwhile, while Charlottesville was blanketing the news, North Korea hasn't been sitting on its hands--expect reemerging threats from moves to launch more ICBMs and even renewed testing of nuclear weapons. This will give Trump the pretext to strike back and thereby clear the headlines of anything having to do with white supremacy or Trump people colluding with the Russians to undermining Clinton's campaign.

We'll see what the generals will say or do about that.

Of course, expect to see Steve Bannon receive his walking papers from the current chief of staff, John Kelly. Assuming Kelly himself doesn't quit before doing that.

Then, there is what Trump's senior advisors who are Jewish will do--treasury secretary, Steve Mnuchin and chief economic advisor Gary Cohen . . .

Son-in-law Jared Kushner might . . .

And daughter Ivanka may . . .

Left to Right--Gary Cohen, Steve Mnuchin, Donald Trump

August 17, 2017--Friends Visiting

With friends here I am taking a holiday from blogging. I will return tomorrow, Friday.

August 16, 2017--Inner Ear (Concluded): An Audiological Tale

Dr. Schwartzberg continued . . .

As I mentioned, Mrs. Caldwell's husband, Thaddeus, what a perfect name for a Harvard professor, Thaddeus, as it turned out also had behind-the-ear hearing devices. After he died, Mrs. Caldwell thought about what to do with them. She did some research and found that there are a number of organizations that accept hearing aids as gifts. That they refurbish them and make them available to low-income people. She choose to do that, but before donating them, as a way of feeling close to and intimate with him, she activated them and inserted them in her ears. She told me that this was not so different than wearing his socks or one of his well-worn sweaters. Something else she did on chilly evenings.

As they were not programmed for her, the sounds she heard, she told me, were oceanic. Not unlike what the water and wind sound like when you place a conch shell over your ear. They had a vacation house in Maine, in Camden, near here, which in part is how she found her way to me, a place on the Gulf of Maine. They would take long walks along the water in the afternoon and she felt that the sounds she was hearing though his devices were, perhaps in her imagination, an evocation of the sounds they loved to hear all those years walking together along the rugged coast.

Mrs. Caldwell so much enjoyed her beach walks while wearing his hearing devices that she delayed donating them. She said, "It was like having him with me on my daily walks. At those times, I lived in a world of the sounds from the enchanted life I shared with him. I missed him so much it was as if the sound of the water and wind brought him back to me. In that way I didn't feel so alone and bereft."

But them something very different occurred--she was reluctant to share this with me out of concern that I would think she was experiencing dementia, or, as a psychiatrist would describe it, a personality disorder. I tried to assure her I would not come to either of these conclusions, and so she took the chance to tell me that through his hearing aids she began to hear not just sounds of the ocean but his voice.

"At first," she said, "I thought I was hearing just his breathing. He had a tendency to wheeze at night while sleeping and I thought that was what I was hearing. But soon there were occasional words and after that full sentences."

I told her this was nothing short of astonishing, which it was, and though I initially felt she was experiencing a version of auto-suggestion, as she revealed more, something else seemed to have been happening to her. To tell the truth, to this day I do not know what to make of it.

She told me that she began to wear Thaddeus' hearing aids all day long, including when she went to bed and slept. I thought, of course, that what she was reporting was from dream material. But when I mentioned this to her as a hypothesis she emphatically denied it, indicating with some upset that as a clinician she knew the difference between dream content and other forms of cognition.

So, without interrupting her further, I let her tell her story.

Mrs. Caldwell's story--

Of course I was confused. As a psychiatrist I had any number of delusional patients and thought I might be experiencing some of the same symptomology. I checked with my own analyst and he assured me that, as incredible at it was, what I was experiencing was more real than imagined. So I set my concerns aside and let the experience unfold.

And it did.

After about a month of wearing Thaddeus' hearing aids, the breathing sounds abated as did the occasional word or two. I began to hear full sentences about mainly mundane matters and after that, a second voice began to become audible.

A woman's voice.

You can imagine my surprise. Who was this person who was now becoming a part of my life? What did she mean to Thaddeus? Hers was the only other voice I heard and so I assumed she must have been--was?--an important part of his life. I began to keep notes. Notes mainly of what she was saying.

It quickly became apparent that they had had some kind of relationship for at least as long as he had hearing devices. It also was apparent that she was one of his graduate students. Much of what I heard between them had to do with her dissertation. He was her advisor. She was working on something about Flaubert.

But then things turned darker. I am embarrassed to share this with you but feel you will understand And I have no one else to turn to. I brought some notes I made after one of the last conversation that they had. Allow me to read them to you. Her name, I learned, was Francois.

Francois' story--

You bastard. You told me you would be leaving that bitch [that bitch is me]. I'm wasting my life waiting around for you. You swore to me you would but that she has a terminal disease and that you would soon be free. But why should I believe you? You've done nothing but lie to me. That's what you are--a lier and a cheat.

Mr. Fancy with your endowed chair and all those frisky undergraduates chasing after you. How many of them have you been stringing along? Diddling them? I should report you to the dean. You know it's not permitted for faculty members to have affairs with students. All I need to do is pass along some of your emails and you'll be out on your ass. Which you totally deserve.

Mrs. Caldwell resumed--

There's more, but what I've shared should be enough. Again, I am not fantasizing this. I've even been able to find some of their emails and love notes and this in black and white corroborates what I have told you.

My life was shattered. He was living a double, maybe a triple life. At first I thought maybe I was having a case similar to the famous one--"The man who mistook his wife for a hat." From Oliver Sacks. But with the emails and notes I have no doubts. As you know, I'm a very old lady and do not have many more years left. But they will be an agony. I don't know what to live for. Everything that gave me meaning feels violated.

To Rona and me Gary said, "This is literally what she shared with me."

"Incredible," Rona said.

"I assume you're not crazy," I said, again to lighten the mood.

"I believe her. I don't know what to make of it but I believe her. Things can be strange and can have no rational explanation. I am feeling that one should, in this case, leave it as it is."

"I have no idea what you mean," I said.

Gary laughed, "To tell the truth neither do I. But I did make one suggestion to Mrs. Caldwell that I think, I hope was helpful."

"What was that?" Rona asked.

"To concentrate on her clients. They needed her almost as much as she needed them. That can give life purpose."

"So, how is she doing? Is she still around? I mean alive?"

"Sadly, no. She died, also in her sleep, about six months ago."

"Yes, sad," Rona said, "But she had a good ending. If there is such a thing. One last question--you must have a dozen clients waiting--did she take your advice? And if so, how did it work out?"

"She did and it did. It worked quite well. The last thing she said to me was that as she looked back on her entire life, with special attention to this last trauma, all things considered, she preferred the truth to the lie."

"I get that," Rona said, "I thrive on the truth. It makes me feel respected and authentic."

"Let's leave it at that," Gary said, "And pick this up in a couple of weeks when you're back for your next session. Let's agree--no more weird stories, just routine adjustments," he winked, "At least for the time being."

Mount Holyoke 1940s

August 16, 2017--SPECIAL NOTE

This morning I will be posting two blogs. The first will be about Charlottesville and the second will be the final part of the Audiological Tale.

Needless to say, Charlottesville takes precedence as our democracy is at imminent risk.

The Tale is a distraction but since I have heard from a number of people that they are eager to see how it ends I will not delay posting it. 

August 16, 2017--Donald Trump's Hostage Tape

Does anyone believe that the statement President Trump finally made on Monday, two days after the violence, murder, and deaths in Charlottesville, came from his heart?

If so, everyone should now know better.

In his initial comments on Saturday, after failing to call out by name the Ku Klux Klan, white supremacists, and neo-Nazi thugs, he was excoriated on all sides, by some Republicans (kudos to Marco Rubio) and most Democrats, for his unwillingness to do so and especially for striking the absurd, moral equivalent comparison when he condemned violence "from many sides."

He tried to clean it up on Sunday by having a White House spokesman release a statement that most still felt did not go far enough because it failed to mention white supremacists by name and included criticism of violence allegedly perpetrated by "other [presumably liberal] hate groups."

Still under immense pressure, on Monday, sticking close to the text on his teleprompter, he called out hate groups by name and restrained himself from making any reference to those from the many sides--

Racism is evil [he forced himself to say]. And those who cause violence in its name are criminals and thugs, including the K.K.K., neo-Nazis, white supremacists and other hate groups that are repugnant to everything we hold dear as Americans.

If he had uttered these words closer to the time of the act of domestic terrorism, he probably could have retained at least some credibility. He could have made reference to his claim on February 16th when he boasted--"I am the least anti-semitic, least racist person ever. [My italics.]

Of course, that would have been suspect based on things he actually said and did for at least the past two years.

On July 8, 2015, less than a month after announcing he was running for president he, defamed Mexicans--

When Mexico sends its people, they're not sending their best. . . . They're sending people that have lots of problems, and they're bringing those problem with us [sic]. They're bringing drugs. They're bringing crime. They're rapists. And some I assume are good people.

He also has failed to explicitly mention Jews even when recalling the Holocaust. On February 27, 2017, for example, critics say, his failure to do so "generalizes" one of the worst genocides in history.

And, of course, his rise to political prominence was based on his five-year racist assault on Barack Obama's citizenship and thus the legitimacy of his presidency.

The list goes on. Stating a version of, "Some of my best friends are (fill in the blank) doesn't work. In fact, it makes his denial sound even hollower.

Monday morning, on Morning Joe, marketing expert Donny Deutsch told it like it is. He said--

He is a racist. Can we just say it once and for all, when we look at his history? When we look at the housing issues [in 1973 Trump was sued by the Justice Department for discriminating against African American renters], when you look at what he said about reverse discrimination against whites, the birther movement. We have a racist as a president who is a man who cannot stand up and condemn the Ku Klux Klan and Nazism is a racist.

From Trump's facial expressions and body language on Monday as he read the comments prepared for him by those trying to "handle" him, it looked as if he was delivering a hostage tape. And he was.

He is a hostage of his own devising. How many more bridges will he burn as he becomes more and more desperate to hold on to his dwindling base of supporters?

Three days ago, David Duke, former head of the KKK and fervent Trump supporter told the truth. He said, "We are determined to take our country back. We are going to fulfill the promises of Donald Trump."

Trump continues to repay that scabrous debt.

And by yesterday afternoon he again reversed himself, saying the counter demonstrators were "very, very violent."

From his fury we knew he was unscripted and speaking from his heart.

It is time to consider implementing the 25th Amendment. He is not fit to be our president.

August 15, 2017--Inner Ear: An Audiological Tale (Part 1 of 2)

Dr. Gary Schwartzberg had my hearing aids hooked up to his computer. By doing so he could see if the adjustments he made during my last visit were still functioning properly.

"Looking good," I think he said. Without them in place I resumed lip reading.

"I'm happy to hear that," I said.

"And I can see that since you were here you used them on average 13 hours and six minutes a day." He said that loud enough so that I could hear the details.

"Really?" I said, "That's calculated by and stored in my devices?" I used "devices" since I know that's his preferred way to refer to my hearing aids.

"That's just the beginning of what I can see."

Feeling a little like my devices were a form of Big Brother, concerned about my privacy, I asked, "OK, I can handle it. What other kinds of surveillance is going on?"

"I can see from this that 76 percent of the time you were in quiet environments. Probably reading, writing, hanging out with Rona." Rona smiled at him. "And it looks as if you averaged less than an hour a day watching TV."

"The Trump news all day is driving me crazy."

"I understand that," he said, "I can tell how little you're watching by how often you activated the gizmo I gave you that blue-tooths the TV sound right to your devices. It doesn't look as if you listened to much music either by the looks of this," he was squinting at the screen, "I can also see you were out walking every day. Which I know is a good thing for you." He smiled at me.

"How does the machine know that?"

"You told me you live by the water and I programmed these to reduce the over-amplified sound of the wind and surf. Pretty impressive, right?"  He tipped back in his chair, rocking back and forth, quite proud of himself.

"One more thing," he was grinning, "It looks as if your breakfasts on average lasted almost 90 minutes a day. Probably because you were spending so much time arguing with Jack." He winked.

"You can see that?" I was incredulous, "You know what this sounds like?"

"1984?"

"Since you mentioned it, yes, 1984. To tell you the truth, this is not my favorite thing. I'm not a privacy junkie--in fact, since computing and big-data, I've basically given up on privacy. What we used to think of it no longer exists. I'm living with that. Not that I have an alternative unless I decide to live off the grid."

"Too late for that," Rona said, "Might as well try to make the best of it."

"So, are you telling me," I swiveled my chair so I could look directly at Gary," that these aids or devices, whatever, are like smart phones and computers--everything is stored forever in versions of hard drives?"

"They're not all the same. I think, yes, computers keep your emails forever even if you delete them. Ask Hillary Clinton about that. But for these," he tapped my hearing aids which he was about to reinsert in my ears, "the kind of information they capture and I told you about, is by comparison quite benign. I don't know what to tell you. If you're so uncomfortable about this diagnostic use of the chip capacity in your very high-tech hearing aids, we can move back to something simpler and . . ."

"I can complete the thought for you--'simpler but much less effective.'"

He was happy to hear that I wanted to keep the ones I've grown accustomed to and which have literally changed my life.

"One thing I can assure you is that the specifics of what you're hearing are not captured and retained. I mean . . ." He began to mumble. I could hear that quite well with the devices back in my ears. "I mean, maybe. If only . . . I don't know."

"Don't know what?" I was concerned about him sounding so confused.

He looked away and then uncharacteristically got up from his chair. "I'll be right back," he said, vanishing.

"I wonder what's going on," Rona said, looking concerned. "I mean, he never . . . I mean, he seemed confused. That's not like him."

"I agree," I said. "I wonder if anything I said upset him." We looked at each other and shrugged.

With that he was back.

He sat down, wheeled closer to us, and, lowering his voice, said, "There was this incident."

"Incident?" Rona and I said simultaneously as if in chorus.

"A couple of years ago. With this woman. A client of mine. A wonderful, much older lady. And she was a lady. Very elegant. Very self-confident. I really enjoyed working with her." He paused and again broke off eye contact.

"And?" I said.

"She had the same kind of devices you have. An earlier iteration of them. This was about three, four years ago. So much with technology changes over that amount of time. But they were pretty much like yours--Starkey Muses."

"That's it? That's what has you behaving so weird?" I was confused.

"There's more. Much more. Though she's no longer around." Gary sounded ominous.

"She's no longer around?"

"Like I told you she's quite old. I mean, she was . . ."

"She's dead?"

"Passed."

"And? That's it? I suspect that with your clientele being on the older side--like me," I tired to lighten things up--"this is not an infrequent occurrence. It's happening to me all the time. It feels like half the people I know are . . .  You know. One of these days Rona's going to need to call you to cancel my adjustment appointment. I mean, all my appointments, if you get my drift."

"I get it," he said, "But you'll be around for a long time. How old was you mother when she . . . ?" He trailed off.

"107."

"A good number," he said, sounding distracted, "As I was saying, my client . . . " Again he looked away. At the ceiling this time.

"She passed? She died? However you prefer to put it."

"I know I'm stammering," Gary said, "But what happened was so strange. Even weird."

"Just tell us what happened," Rona said empathetically.

He took a deep breath. "OK. You asked for it. Here goes."

"It's about time," I said, "If you don't get to it soon my hearing aid batteries will die. Sorry. I didn't mean to put it that way.

He smiled. I was glad to see some of the tension had abated.

Gary's story--

Let's call her Mrs. Caldwell. When she first came to see me, and subsequently, she was alone. Almost the first words out of her mouth were to tell me that though she was 87 she didn't think she needed hearing aids. As you know, this is not unusual. She told me she was here because her niece, who was her closest surviving family member, wanted her to be tested.

From the way she carried herself, walked, spoke, and dressed she felt much younger than 87. She was full of energy, as vital a person as I've ever encountered. I knew from just a brief time with her, when she came in for her diagnostic hearing test, that if she chose to become a client, I would enjoy working with her.

The test showed her hearing loses to be modest but were likely, over the next year or so, to worsen; and so my recommendation was for her to get ahead of the curve and not wait until they were absolutely necessary. I was happy that she, without hesitation, said she wanted to proceed and quickly decided on the Starkey Muse type. Like yours.

As you know it takes a few weeks for the devices to arrive and then over two to three months there are the required monthly adjustments. As I had anticipated, she was not only a pleasure to work with but also, getting to know about her life, among the most interesting people I have been fortunate to encounter.

I learned that she was born in England and her father, who was a surgeon and served in the First World War, was also a member of Parliament. Her parents sent her abroad, to America, where there were more educational opportunities for women. After secondary school, which she attended in Boston, she was admitted to and attended Mount Holyoke College, where she was a premed.

She next went to medical school, back in Boston, and though she aspired to be a surgeon in the family tradition--her brother was a neurosurgeon who was killed in the Korean War--it was difficult for woman at that time to be accepted for a surgical residency. So she became a psychiatrist instead and built a successful practice in Cambridge where her husband-to-be at Harvard was a professor of romance languages. By then Mrs. Caldwell considered herself to be an American and in the 1950s became a citizen.

They opted not to have children and, she felt, were a loving and successful couple. They had numerous friends and a rich social life. They were fortunate never to have economic worries and traveled to all seven continents, all the while managed to avoid most of the stress that is normal in major careers and in most relationships. She described them as having a life, as she put it,"Almost too good to be true."

Her husband died suddenly two years before I began working with her. She said he lived to his mid-80s and never spent a day in a hospital. That was true for her as well, she revealed, almost feeling guilty about her good fortune.

I interrupted--"So far nothing sounds weird. She is clearly amazing and blessed, but when does the weirdness begin?"

Gary continued--

Be patient. It is about to be revealed.

Final part tomorrow . . .

Harvard 1950

August 14, 2107--Fallout Shelters

I was reading about how people who live on Guam received information about what to do if North Korea launches missiles their way.

They were warned not to look directly at the arriving missiles as they will be glowing from the heat of reentry and possibly exploding and thus it will not be safe to ones' eyes to look directly at them. People were also told not to shampoo their hair as radioactive fallout can cling to it. And residents and visitors were urged to seek shelter, to look for below-ground spaces to huddle in.

Then, in Friday's New York Times there was an article about Cold-War-era fallout shelters. I remember them quite vividly. Pretty much every apartment house in the city was deemed a shelter and some even stocked supplies of water and canned food.

The Times article included a picture of a building in downtown Manhattan where the sign designating it as a fallout shelter was still quite visible.

Scrutinizing it, Rona said, "This looks familiar. See what you think."

I stared at it and said, "I recognize it as well."

"Well, you should, she said, "It's our building in the city! The Randall House."

Randall House Service Entrance

"I think some people up here in Maine are stocking up on bottled water and canned goods."

"True," I said, "Saturday, in Hannifords, there was no water left on the shelves."

"But then again," Rona said, "it's Old Bristol Days here and the busiest weekend of the season."

"I wonder if in Manhattan there's any water and canned tuna fish stashed in our basement."

August 12, 2017--Milk & Cookies

It's 3:00 pm.

At a much earlier time in my life, it was when my mother gave me milk and cookies.

Now it's time for meds, my L-DOPA.

Sic transit . . .

August 12, 2017--Messianic Calling

On 9/11, President George W. Bush spoke in apocalyptic terms about how he felt God calling upon him to respond to the terrorist attack on America. And how in this way he found his purpose in life. To combat evil, he said.

He was comfortable with messianic references because they derived, as a born again Christian, from his evangelical faith.

We know how that worked out. We are still, 16 years later, fighting the wars he initiated.

Now we have our current president also talking in apocalyptical terms as he threatens North Korea with old-testimental "fire and fury."

We know that this choice of words did not come from religious belief. As best as we can determine, he lacks any. But, as with Bush, they come from deep within him.

His is a secular narcissistic messianism.

Colloquially, he speaks about North Korea and his calling--

"Bill Clinton didn't get it done. Bush didn't get it done. Obama didn't get it done. Someone has to do it. It might as well be me." As with everything else, between rounds of golf, he shrugs his shoulders and matter-of-factly indicates it will be easy. He tells us and them he is "locked and loaded" with nuclear weapons.

I suspect, if he pushes the button, we know how that will work out.

Among other things we won't any longer be talking about Obamacare or collusion with Russia and, at least initially, his approval ratings will soar.

August 11, 2017--The Art of Trump's Deals

An experienced and successful CEO type might very well have the potential to be an effective president of the United States. Not that we have ever elected that type of business leader. But if an actor (Ronald Reagan) can be a successful president isn't it likely that a Fortune 500 CEO could be even more so?

To many, this was the promise Donald Trump represented--to them he was a big-time businessman whose CEO skills could be effectively transferred to what is required of our best chief executives.

During the campaign Trump boasted that he was a "huge" success and that he wrote the book, literally, on the art of deal making. And as such, he claimed, he would be able to make the same kind of deals for the benefit of the American people.

Here's the problem--

First, Trump was the opposite of a Fortune 500 CEO. His business, which to give him credit in bottom line terms is big, was more a mom-and-pop-and-children operation than anything like Amazon, GM, or General Electric. And we can see how he transferred that small-time way of doing business to the White House when he brought along with him his daughter and son-in-law to serve among his very few trusted advisors.

Then, the kind of deals Trump made were relatively simple transactions. Thus, they did not yield the experience needed to be even a decent president.

Trump, Inc's deals, writ large, are more like those with which we are all familiar--buying a house or apartment. Real estate deals. They did not require any profound negotiation skills and, especially, were not multidimensional nor in any way nuanced or diplomatic.

How does buying, renovating, and operating the (now bankrupt) Trump Taj Mahal Casino in Atlantic City compare with getting Congress to pass healthcare legislation, building an alliance among allies, vying with China about trade, dealing with Russia about what to do in Syria, or confronting North Korea?

With Trump there are no transferable correlates.

The Art of the Deal is largely about the atmospherics and psychology of deal making. How posturing and blustering, bluffing and strategic, even arbitrary walking-out exerts leverage on the other side. There is nothing creative or entrepreneurial about that, nor does it demonstrate or require leadership or complex organizational skills

So the original owner of the Taj Mahal, Resorts International, asks $800 million and Trump counters with a $500 million offer. The Taj people moan at the lowball number but reduce their asking price to, say, $750 million. And so it goes until they mutually reach something like $700 million. Then it's up to the lawyers to draft the contract and for Trump to run around town in search of a money laundering bank to come up with the financing.

Does this in any way sound like what is needed in a president?

Thus, like so much else about Trump, his CEO credentials are inflated and largely fake. And thus we are living with a dangerous mess.

August 10, 2017--Uncle Morty's Tongue Factory

This is the same Uncle Morty who brought me into the world of Yiddishkeit--

The Tongue Factory

Most people think that the tongue sandwiches available at the Second Avenue Deli come from cows. In fact the tongue comes from Tongue Factories. I know because my Uncle Morty owned one in the 1950s. It was in the South Bronx.

He was actually in the "meat processing" business. People in this business, factory like, would process meat products--smoke hams and pigs knuckles, pickle corn beef, cure pastrami from beef briskets, and pickle tongues.

People in this business were always in a tight cash flow situation because products such as tongues needed to be bought and sold on the futures market--in order to assure a delivery of 2,000 tongues for processing and sale in December, one needed to purchase futures for them in July. At a per pound price fixed in July. Since orders for processed tongues were typically not secured so far in advance, Uncle Morty and his competitors needed to speculate that the price they were required to pay in July would be for orders they might receive in September from retail meat stores and supermarkets which in turn needed to be sold at a price by them in December that would enable the processors to turn a profit.

But since they never had the money they needed in July to secure the September futures, they had to borrow the money. Money that was secured only by hoped-for orders. In a way, Morty and his colleagues were not so different from the George Soroses of the world—just a little ahead of the arbitrage curve and of course in a very different sort of business.

As one might imagine, in an industry so unpredictable and where one's "protection" and union relations were provided for and controlled by the Mob it was not always possible (actually never possible) to borrow money from conventional places such as banks. That's where "factors" came into the picture. Factors provided unsecured, very high interest (read usurious) loans to people such as Uncle Morty, and of course to another uncle, Eli< in the garment industry since he too lived with daunting cash flow issues--he needing to buy velvet in March for clothes that would hopefully be sold in September.

Factors were not nice people. Since Uncle Morty could never secure their "loans," he was forced to give them a piece of the business--in fact a controlling piece. Off the books of course, with Eli listed as the sole owner. He lived that way for years, from month to month, eking out a modest living. But basking in the pride of owning his own business--at least on paper.

His dream was to get a big order from the A&P or Food Fair. This would be such a big order that he would at last be released from the futures-factor cycle and in fact reclaim his own business.

This fantasy came true.

One day, out of nowhere, he got a call from the Macy's food buyer (Macy's at that time had the fanciest, highest quality, highest volume meat store in the City right there in its then one flagship store at the corner of 8th Avenue and 34th Street). The most prominent New Yorkers sent their cooks there to buy prime meats; the most exclusive restaurants sent their chefs there every day to buy the most selective meats and delicacies. Macy's at the time was about much more than mass marketing Levi jeans.

So when the Macy’s meat buyer called Uncle Morty and placed an order for a thousand tongues Morty saw it as his way back to prosperity as well as a way to enter the world of "quality"--Macy's meat store after all was the place where the uptown goyim shopped.

But this magnificent life changing opportunity also presented a conundrum--because of Macy's reputation and buying power they told Uncle Morty not only how many tongues they needed but also how much per pound he could charge them. The problem--he had bought the 1,000 tongues via the futures market for more per pound than Macy's was willing to pay! They planned a special tongue event and thus demanded them from him at a price that would allow Macy's to turn a profit even after placing the tongues on sale.

So what to do. Uncle Morty was constitutionally unable to turn down an order of this kind (after all his customers were places such as Willie's Meat Market on Church Avenue in Brooklyn, where a big order was for two dozen tongues) and all he pleas about how much he had paid for the tongues and how much he would lose on every pound did not move the Macy's buyer. He had a sale planned and fixed numbers in his head. So Morty of course said yes and promised them the 1,000 tongues by next Friday.

I was working for him at the time and among my specialties was injecting the pickling liquid into the tongues. I did this by using a huge syringe attached to a pump that was inserted into a vein at the base of the tongue (the schlong—don’t ask) which then pumped in the brine. The factory was of course federally inspected--this meant that the resident inspectors were changed every six months so as to limit the possibility of corruption. Corruption included over-pumping tongues when pickling them. But of course we managed to find a way around this. Cash in blank envelopes was always helpful. That also was one of my specialties--the delivery of such envelopes.

The federal law allowed us to pump up a two pound tongue to double its size and weight. Uncle Morty, though, had something else in mind for the Macy’s tongues. While the inspectors were on a day long break, with their envelopes firmly in hand, he had me pump the tongues up to triple their original size--to six pounds per tongue. This would mean that he could deliver the tongues to Macy's at a net price that would at least allow him to break even. And perhaps more important--to enter into the goyisher world of fine meats.

The following Friday he proudly and personally delivered the 1,000 tongues to Macy's (with me driving the truck). The buyer was there to receive them and to pay Morty--unfortunately by check. He made note of the tongues colossal size--he had never seen tongues like that. Morty told him that they came from a specially bred herd and that he had made an extra (expensive) effort to secure them for the Macy's order. The buyer appeared to be impressed.

The tongues went on sale the next day and I visited to see them on display in Macy's elegantly iced cabinets. Though I was there for just half an hour, there was a run on these magnificent items: no one had ever seen tongues of this gargantuan size nor at such a price. They were selling like hot cakes.

When I reported this to Uncle Morty he was ecstatic, feeling he was on his way to full respectability and financial security. He would be able to pay his loan sharks and recover control of his business and wouldn't Macy's, coming off this great success, see him to be their provider of choice for his full range of meat products--Paramount hams (the company name), corned beef, pastrami, and of course tongues.

All was well until Monday afternoon. Back at the plant, the phone started ringing. The calls were from irate Macy's tongue customers. All complaining that when they went to steam their magnificent Paramount tongues, to prepare them for dinner (needing to stuff them, because of their size, into huge pots), when they uncovered the pots, after just a half hour of steaming, the tongues appeared to be about one third the size they were before the steaming.

The next series of calls was from the Macy's buyer--all not returned. But he did leave a message for Uncle Morty with Phyllis, Paramount's zaftig secretary (she is another story unto herself). In essence, the messages said, Don't even bother to deposit the check for the tongues since Macy's had already stopped payment.

Morty came looking for me. I was hiding in one of the huge meat lockers crouched between racks of hams ready to be moved into the smoking oven. Phyllis had alerted me that Morty was looking to blame me for over-pumping the tongues.

In fact, he was coming to hide with me in the cooler because the factors had heard about the Macy's fiasco and were on their way to collect, one way or the other. I avoided Morty and somehow he managed to fool the factors that day--they never thought to look in the freezer.

But the day of reckoning from another source soon arrived. While struggling to keep his books in balance and to have some money to pay his own apartment rent, he had neglected to pay the U.S. Government the payroll taxes he had been withholding from his employees. You can run and maybe hide from the factors, but the Feds are another matter. Even though he was just the owner on paper, he was held accountable, tried and convicted, and spent a little time in jail (the family's darkest secret).

But while Morty was "upstate" (in a "sanitarium," recovering for TB we were told), Paramount continued and did generate some income that kept his family going. All transactions were in cash; but since Uncle Morty owed the government back taxes, he of course did not want them to know about this small stream of money. Thus that cash went to my mother who kept it in her safe deposit box (along with her engagement ring).

Escorting her weekly with the cash to the Greenpoint Savings Bank on MacDonald Avenue, to stash it and occasionally to withdraw some, was among the best times of my young life. Because at long last I was involved in mobster-like activity--my career plans were beginning to take shape.

But that's yet another story!