September 27, 2018--Glued to the TV

I spent much of yesterday trying to keep up with the breaking news about Judge Kavanaugh and so I didn't get anything written. I expect to do the same today and hopeful will have something unsaid to say for tomorrow.

September 26, 2018--Jack: Freaking Out

"Not me. You." Jack was on the line.

"Huh?"

"Freaking out. You must be freaking out because it looks like the president is about to fire a whole lot of folks, starting with that weasel Rosen-Rosen, or whatever his name is."

"To tell you the truth, I am a little. I mean, freaked out about where this might be headed and maybe how Trump will figure out how to get away with murder."

"You mean like the Clintons and Vince Foster?" He laughed at that reference.

"Not a bad one," I said, "I'm impressed you remember that conspiracy theory with all the ones circulating these days."

"I never forget anything," Jack boasted. From what I know about him, though we disagree about pretty much everything, he does have an amazing memory.

"But to tell you the truth," Jack said, "if Trump fires Rosen and replaces him with some flunky who fires Mueller and while he's at it fires Session and half the senior people in the White House, there'll be a lot to be made crazy by. That's why Hannity and the other Fox people are urging him, publicly begging him not to fire Rosenberg."

"The Fox world is one I don't really know my way around in. Half the time when I tune in for a while to see what they're spinning (and the hosts do seem to get the same talking points every day so if you listen to one it's like listening to them all), I don't know what they're talking about. It's like they speak in shorthand or code with their unhinged viewers. So weren't you also surprised that they were pressuring Trump not to fire anyone? I would have thought after Rosenstein was outed by the New York Times, which revealed that early in his history as deputy attorney general he thought about wearing a wire to gather evidence about Trump that could then be used to invoke the 25th Amendment to remove him from office. Wouldn't Fox want Rosenstein out of the picture?"

Jack said, "One could come to that conclusion. Especially if one doesn't get what's going on." [That someone he referred to being me.] "How firing Rosenthal and the rest of them would be a political disaster for Trump. It would be at least as big a nightmare as Nixon's Saturday Night Massacre. There are a few clever Democrats and they are setting an obstruction of justice trap. If Trump fires Rosenthal it will be viewed as his doing so to get him off the case. To stamp out the investigation of Trump, his family, and his American and Russian associates."

"In other words, to obstruct justice?"

"Yup."

"If you're right about this," I said to Jack, "and I think you may be, those Fox people really do have Trump's back."

"Yes and no."

"Because?"

"Because it may be too late."

"Really? I mean, I hope so."

"By now Mueller has tons of evidence from all the Trump people who have flipped, the people they deposed, and of course Mueller has access to all of Trump's and his people's tax and financial records."

"I suspect this is true, but wouldn't pulling the plug on Rosenstein and reining in Mueller put a lid on things? Bury evidence and documents from public view with Trump slipping out of the noose?"

"That wouldn't work," Jack said, "because I suspect a pretty complete Mueller report has already been drafted with him waiting for the best time to drop it. I suspect soon after the midterms. If he's allowed to do that, we'll all see it then. All the ugly details."

"I can only wish that you're right. But . . ."

"Let's say your Rosenman does get fired and an acting DAG is appointed by Trump. Ordinarily it would need the deputy's approval to release the findings and recommendations. Or not. Mueller or whomever follows him reports to the deputy attorney general. The findings go to the new DAG who could decided to squelch them, claiming they're too sensitive or whatever."

"So there you go," I said, end of story."

"As usual you're forgetting two very big things," Jack said, "First there are the midterms. All signs point to a big turnover in the House. If the Dems take over, and I suspect they will, as of January 2nd they'll begin their own investigations and will have the power to subpoena everything Mueller gathered. Probably even calling him as a witness."

"I'm tracking this."

"And then there's one more even bigger thing." He took a deep breath, "I assume you know all about the Pentagon Papers?"

"I do."

"Hundreds, thousands of pages were copied at a time when the only way to do so was to Xerox it page-by-page. Now, in a few minutes the whole friggen Mueller report can be copied onto a thumb drive, put in a jacket pocket, taken home, and plopped in the mail to the New York Times or Washington Post. In other words there's no way to hide it. To keep it from the public. So the Fox people wanted to help Trump from making things even worse for himself." 

He paused to gather himself, "And that's why I'm freaking and why you shouldn't be."

"Of course I hope you're right. Maybe I'll be able to sleep tonight."

"Really, one final thing--with Trump I could be wrong about all of this. He could just as easily fire Rosen-Rosen on Thursday, in part to distract from the Kavanaugh hearings, and get his replacement to . . . ."

Jack broke off and I was left as confused as ever.

Rosen-Rosen

September 25, 2018--Second Lady

To distract myself from Trump-related agita I flipped around the Internet to see if there were some things we should book to do after returning to New York City in late October. 

Maybe take in a few shows and a couple of concerts.

I checked out Live Nation's website to see what they might be featuring. Among others they represent U2, Miley Cyrus (who I confess to liking), and Beyonce.

Maybe, I thought, we should go to something at the Barclays Center in the new Downtown Brooklyn. We haven't been there for anything, including to see the hapless Brooklyn Nets, partly owned by Jay-Z. It's that hip. 

Something unexpected jumped out as Live Nation's featured attraction--

On December 1st at the Barclays Center Michelle Obama will appear to promote her new book, Becoming Michelle Obama.

Tickets are available but going like hotcakes and so a second night is being added to the schedule. 

All over the country where she will appear in more than a dozen huge stadiums, including the 23,500 United Center in Chicago--home of the Bulls--tickets are selling so fast and the price is so high that the title of the former First Lady's book could be Becoming Rich.

First, there is the astounding $65 million advance the two Obama's received for a book from each of them. And then at the Barclays Center a fifth-row seat will set you back $1,256 (not a typo). A "meet-and-greet" package goes for $3,000, wheelchair seating at the back of the house costs $400 and a perch in the very top tier is only $29.50. For these, remember to bring binoculars.

I should add, as you attempt to assimilate this, about how the former president and his wife who represented themselves as all about reducing inequality while serving in the White House, how these two could so quickly sell their souls to Mammon (and Netflix, where they have a production deal that will yield well over $100 million) , supposedly 10 percent of the tickets to each event (I almost typed "concert") will be set aside for local "charities." Nosebleed seats, I assume.

Quoted in the New York Times, Steven Barclay (not related to the Brooklyn center), a book agent, was "virtually speechless as he checked the Ticketmaster landing page for Mrs. Obama, 'Huh,' he said, 'Wow. O.K. It's like you're looking at a Madonna tour.'"

More, I say, like a Beyonce tour. I've suspected for years that Michelle has felt Barack has an eye for Beyonce. And that she kept him an a short leash whenever there was an event at the White House or Inauguration to which Beyonce was invited. And that slowly, over time, the First Lady morphed her makeup and hair to look more and more like the singer's.

Check out the photo below and tell me I'm wrong.

September 24, 2018--Rosencrantz & Rosenstein Are Dead

Friday afternoon the New York Times, in a bombshell report, revealed that deputy attorney general, Ron Rosenstein, after just two weeks on the job, was so upset by the president's aberrant behavior that he thought seriously about "wearing a wire" to record some off the mayhem. 

He even thought about talking to the vice president and attorney general (his boss) about the possibility of invoking the 25th Amendment, which sets forth the conditions under which a president can be removed from office. Mind you, again, all this after just two weeks on the job.

Not only did Rosenstein contemplate this but he also told work colleagues about his concerns. Hence, the leak to the Times and the revelations.

This may have a devastating affect on the Mueller investigation in that he reports to Rosenstein and could easily wind up being fired by Trump along with the deputy AG, thereby potentially driving a stake in the heart of Mueller's efforts.

From this self-inflicted error, Trump must feel as if he died and went to heaven. 

Just as Trump was reeling from Paul Manafort flipping and the Kavanaugh nomination potentially collapsing he gets handed a get-out-of-jail-free card by his nemesis, Ron Rosenstein.

How stupid is Rosenstein? Let me count a few of the ways--

If he was so upset by what he was witnessing in the Trump White House and needed to talk about it are FBI and Justice Department colleagues the best people to whom to confess? We can only assume that as soon as Rosenstein finished unburdening himself and drifted down the DOJ hall they speed-dialed 1-800-New York Times. They had some story to share!

Doesn't Rosenstein have a wife with whom he could share this? One who would say, "I hear you darling, but one thing--make sure not to talk about any of this in the office. Especially anything about a wire or the 25th Amendment."

I know I'm sounding cynical but Mueller's investigation is as a result more precarious and Republicans now have validation for their conspiracy theories--witch hunt, rigged investigation, Deep State. I wouldn't be surprised to see GOP poll numbers increase for their midterm election candidates.

To be frank, between now and November 6th all I'm interested in is winning. Until then I don't care who's telling the truth or, for that matter, what the truth is. We're in a political life-and-death struggle and everyone has to be persistent, ruthless, and smart.

In other words, behave like Republicans.

September 21, 2018--Still Coughing

I hope to return on Monday.

September 20, 2018--Show Up!

Changing votes among Republicans on the Senate Judiciary Committee is no longer the issue.

All GOP minds are shut tight. Without hearing one word from Dr.  Blassey Ford all are ready this minute to vote to send Brett Kavanaugh on to the full Senate where the weak-kneed and well-named Jeff Flake, the equally well-named Bob Corker, and the ever self-justifying Lisa Murkowski and Susan Collins now have all the rationals they need to fall familiarly in line. All four can now feel virtuous. They will even be able to boast that they don't sound as clueless as Senator Orrin Hatch who called Dr. Ford "mixed up."

Even a few Red State Democratic senators can now justify that they too can vote for Kavanaugh and avoid rightwing retribution this November as they precariously seek reelection. 

And all things being equal (which they are not) holding her appearance before the committee hostage in the hope that the FBI will undertake an investigation is appropriate but in the real political world is a fantasy,  Such an investigation would have to be ordered by Trump and he's the last person to have any interest in seeing more accusations and facts surface. He personally knows how that feels and what that can yield. Just say "Stormy Daniels." 

Then no one in the Senate or political class cares much about Kavanaugh's candidacy. At least six Democrats on the committee have their eyes on another prize--the presidency--and see the committee's hearings to be an opportunity to come off looking nominatable and presidential. Thus far they have been so inept at this as to reduce the little stature they have. Even non-committee White House aspirants (Elizabeth Warren comes to mind) can't speak even one sentence about this without making fools of themselves. They are that desperate for power.

Sadly, it does not matter any longer if Dr. Ford is telling the truth. The committee is not a grand jury, it is not a court of law, it is a place where the essence of truth can become manifest. Hers and also, let's be fair, his.

What then is at issue? What's left is for Dr. Ford to tell her story directly to Congress and, more important, beyond that, to the American people. 

Especially to female Americans who have been fighting for decades to have their voices heard.

Forgive me, but thus far Dr. Ford has offered a tease. To tell her story to 100 million is certainly frightening, particularly while being savaged on social media, including having her life threatened. There are all those Trump crazies out there who are not to be ignored. 

But if Professor Ford is changing her mind about testifying (as of this morning she may or may not be), she should have been certain she was willing to show up to testify before beginning to squeeze out her story to her local congresswoman and the Washington Post.

If she refuses to show up on Monday to tell her story the real losers will be women who find her story all too credible and feel from their own life experience that they have been shused and held silent for too long.

The negative example of backing out, not showing up, will be devastating. And will provide cover for the worst kind of gender stereotyping. 

So please pack a bag and head for Washington. It's big person time.

September 19, 2018--Trump On Thorazine

Whatever meds the White House staff are lacing into Trump's Big Macs I want to get me some.

Last week former Trump campaign manager and money launderer, Paul Manafort went down, pleading guilty to dozens of felonies as part of a flip deal with the Mueller investigation, effectively joining the prosecution team in its probe of Trump's criminal empire.

It is now obvious that shortly after the midterms Mueller will move to indite First Son, Donald Jr, and First Son-In-Law, Jared Kushner, with Manafort, by then Mueller's favorite canary, chirping about the true nature of what went on in Trump Tower and Trump and his family's ongoing dealings with Russia, especially Russian oligarch money cleansed and passed through as bailout loans to Trump through that global financial laundromat, Deutsche Bank.  

One would have expected a torrent or vicious tweets from Trump, savaging everyone from Manafort to Mueller to Jeff Sessions to Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.

But, no, since Friday, there has not been even one hot tweet. Or, for that matter, a cool one. Nothing whatsoever about Manafort flipping. Not even a reiteration of the preposterous idea that flipping should be illegal.

Then there is the response to the accusation that Supreme Court nominee, Brett Kavanaugh, more than 35 years ago, attempted to rape a 17 year-old girl. From a man who devoted so much effort attempting to stifle women from telling their stories about their sexual escapades with him, including by paying them hush money, to say the least, it comes as a surprise that Trump yesterday sounded almost normal when he said that we should respect Kavanaugh's accuser's right to tell her story, "to be heard," even if it delays by a week or so a vote to confirm his lifetime appointment to the highest court in the land.

There is one single truth that is revealed by both of these responses--Trump is scared. Terrified. As he should be. The circle is closing, the end is near, and he knows it.

Anything is now possible. Including this semblance of reasonableness which to Trump proceeds political self-imolation or surrender.

September 17, 2018--More Sick Days

I need another day or two to get my strength back. I hope to be posting again tomorrow.

September 14, 2018--Sick Day

If the sniffles stop, I'll be back Monday.

September 13, 2018--Lobsta Rolls

Here's the first of the Midcoast stories. From 10 years ago--

Sharon said, when you get to Maine, be sure to look for those hidden-away lobster shacks. You’ll find them in most harbors in unexpected places. Not the fancy versions for tourists passing through or just there for a weekend, but the places the locals go to during the summer. To get away from the tourists.

That turned out to be good advice since this was the first time we were taking up residence in Maine, albeit for just three weeks, but we certainly didn’t want to either act like or look like tourists. In fact, even before settling in in the house we rented on Clark Island, not far from Thomaston, we drove around looking for the place the locals were likely to go to in the morning for coffee, a place not far from the lobster boats in the Thomaston and Rockland harbors which opened at 6:00 a.m., a sure sign, even though we would not be up and out at anything like that hour, that there we would be not be mixed in with the latte and cappuccino set.

We did in fact find what we thought was such a breakfast place but wouldn’t you know it that when we went there at 8:00 a.m. the next morning we wound up sitting at a table right next to Brian Lamb, C-SPAN’s founder and host of “Booknotes.” So instead of listening in on how the lobsters were running this summer (if this is the correct way to put it), I couldn’t resist pushing my way into his conversation about the future of books. What, he was wondering, would be their fate now that Amazon has come out with Kindle, its version of an online electronic book. 

I thought I was being quite clever when I said Kindle might be a convenience when traveling in that you wouldn’t have to schlep along a bag of books (though I didn’t use schlep with Brain Lamb—I was trying to blend in) without real books how would it be to take a nap with a Kindle on your chest. His wife quipped that the battery would run out. A bookbinder friend of his said that without walls of books insulating one’s house heating bills up here would double.

So you see, we quickly have found a version of a place for us to fit into. Until I meet some real fishermen, Brian Lamb will just have to do.

But back to the advice Sharon gave us: how to find the freshest, most authentically prepared and served lobsters.

It seems this will turn out not to be so difficult. This whole coast is of course lined with rock-bound bays and coves and harbors. It is Maine after all and that’s what the coast of Maine is all about. No such fishing harbors, no Maine. And yes situated in literally every one of them there are lobster shacks and places called Fishermen’s Co-Ops where local lobstermen bring their catch and I presume the women members of their families boil them up and serve them on paper plates on weather-battered picnic tables. They do include melted butter for dipping the delectable meat but no nutcrackers to shatter the shells. In their place, we discovered by observing a couple of regulars at the next table at Millers, they provide a rock. A hunk of Maine granite to smash the claws. 

With the lobster juice dripping out of our mouths and through the seams in the cobbled-together table and onto our pants, who cares? It doesn’t get any better than this. And the sunset over Norton Island quickly wipes out memories of the endless seven-hour drive from New York.

                                                        * * *

By the next day we quickly noticed that travelers who want the true Maine experience, the culinary part of which of course centers around lobsters, do not have to look far. Yes, getting off the main roads, such as they are, leads one to Millers here on Clark Island or Cod’s End on the wharf in Tenants Harbor or the Dip Net in Port Clyde, but if while inching your way up Route 1, the same one that passes near us down south in Delray Beach, Florida, you can get your lobster, usually in the form of lobster rolls, almost anywhere and in the most unexpected places.

For example, in almost any convenience store. Or, no kidding, in the place where you have your hair done. For that matter, the sign at a nearby wine shop advertises a good deal on Maine wines, there are quite a few wineries here, and also for $11.95 lobster rolls. And if you are willing to shell out $4,19 for regular gas at the local Exxon station, you can get lobsta (sic) rolls there for only $10.99.

As a kid I always wondered why on its license plates the state of Idaho emblazoned Famous Potatoes. That is until I finally got there. Or why Florida, the Sunshine State, had an orange on its. But now, after just three days here, I know about the Vacationland state and why on its license plates a lobster is so prominently embossed.

September 12, 2018--9/11 at 17

That morning, 17 years ago, before heading to the office, Rona went out to our terrace to check the weather. Would we need something warm to wear?

It was a clear day, not a cloud in the sky. Shirtsleeves would do.

At that moment, flying at very high speed, the first plane roared right overhead. Much too low.

"I think it's in trouble," Rona said. 

Two minutes later we heard a explosion less than a mile south of us. 

And when, within five minutes, there was a second, even louder explosion, we knew that the world had changed.

Here is something I wrote about that day and posted in October, 2013--

We had a few hours to kill after we drove at dawn to Frosty's in Brunswick for a donut orgy.

We were waiting for the Bowdoin College Museum to open. It was the next to last day of the Maurice Prendergast show. I especially like his work on paper--watercolors, pastels, gouaches, mono prints--and didn't want to miss it.

Thinking about what to do, Rona remembered that our friend Al Trescot was planning to berth his boat in a nearby marina at the end of Mere Point. He plans a book of photographs of the waters of Casco Bay. "Let's drive down to Paul's Marina," she suggested, "From our GPS it looks as if it's only five miles."

We took our time as the historic town of Brunswick gave way to clusters of suburban-looking ranch houses before quickly turning into the more familiar look of rural Maine. The turnoff to Paul's came up quickly and I had to brake hard not to glide past the dirt road that lead down to the marina.

It turned out to be more basic than the yard where Al had been mooring his boat the past two years as he worked on a soon-to-be-published book about the Sheepscot and Kennebec Rivers. But I agreed with Rona who felt it had much more charm huddled among cabins and cottages that lined the shore facing the bay and Merepoint Neck.

We parked next to one of the cottages, maybe a bit too close; but we thought that would be all right since we intended to take a brief look around to get a visual fix on where Al would be moored early next spring.

"Let's get a quick cup of coffee," I proposed, "Just as Al said, there's a general store, over there, Judy's," I pointed toward the dock, "And maybe something to . . ."

"After what you ate at Frosty's an hour ago you want more . . ."

"Maybe some lobster?" Rona said.

I was confused. "See what that sign says."

"The Lobster You Buy Here Today,'" Rona read, "'Slept Last Night in Casco Bay.'"

"This is a perfect place for Al," we both laughed, "Let's just get a cup of coffee. More to see the shop than for the coffee or . . ."

"Good idea."

The coffee was hot and full flavored. We took it outside to a small deck and sat on a bench, passing it back and forth, looking into the half-risen sun and staring languidly out to the first of the more than 300 islands of Casco. More than enough for Al to find subject matter.

"Time to head out," I said, "By now the museum's open and I don't feel comfortable leaving the car so close to that house."

And with that, the door to it eased open and an elderly but seemingly physically vital man with a severe Amish-style beard began slowly to lumber down the few steps, heading toward our car.

I whispered to Rona as we trotted toward where we had parked, "I don't like the way he's looking at it or us. In fact, I don't like the way he looks. Let's just get into the car and not say too much. I'm in too good a mood to get yelled out for where we parked. Maybe I'll just signal a brief apology and move on."

"I see you're . . ."  I couldn't make out what he was saying but from the tone he seemed friendly. I also noticed that our car was not really encroaching on access to his garage.

I relaxed. He sensed I didn't hear him and repeated, "I see you're from New York." I nodded, by then half seated in the car. "What parts?"

"Manhattan," Rona said. "Downtown."

"Not my kind of place," he said. "All these islands right here are enough action for me." With his hand he swept the horizon.

"Where you there on 9/11?" He didn't turn to look at us.

"Yes, we were," Rona said. "The first plane flew right over our terrace. I went out there to check the weather. To determine what to wear when it flew by just above the roof, going full speed. I thought it was in some sort of trouble. Not of course what was really happening."

"Terrible day. Terrible. Terrible time. Then and since."

"I agree with that," I said, "Things haven't been the same."

"We've lost our way," he said. "That's why I hardly ever leave this place. What more do I need? I got all my wants taken care of. I don't need any of that other nonsense."

"I understand," Rona said. "When we're here we feel the same way."

"From then on things have been different," he said, still looking into the sun. "They'll never be the same."

"I agree with that," I said. "It's awful, just awful."

"Do you know what happened the day before?"

"You don't mean yesterday?"

"No, September 10th. That day before."

"Your asking about that reminds me that two of the hijackers started that day near here in Portland."

"That's right, they came to Portland on the 10th, stayed overnight, and then flew from Portland to Boston the morning of the 11th when they got onto the plane that they hijacked and crashed into the first building."

"The one I saw," Rona sighed.

"No one seems to know why they came to Portland on the 10th," I said. "Do you have any idea why?"

"I have my theories," he said. "Before I retired I used to be in law enforcement."

"Your theories?"

"That's for another day." He waved the thought away. "But I'll tell you something I bet you don't know about."

"What's that? I've tried to read a lot about the hijackers."

"In your reading did you see that they came to this here marina?"

"Really?" I exclaimed. "Here? Why would that be?"

"Don't know about why, but I do know they came right here the day before. Was a beautiful day just like today."

"To do . . .?"

"As I said, I don't know. But I do know it was them. Atta, the leader, and that Abdul fella."

"I think it was Mohammed Atta and Abdulaziz al-Omari. For some reason I seem to know the names of all 19 of them."

"They sat down right there on that dock." He pointed to a small float directly behind me. "For more than an hour."

"My God," Rona said.

"As I told you I was in law enforcement and they didn't look right to me. They didn't look like they were from here."

"What did you do?" I asked hesitantly, not wanting to probe too deeply into what might be a terrible memory.

"Well, I had my suspicions. Of course not about what they did. Who could have imagined that. Though I should have . . ." His voice trailed off.

"No one could have imagined what they were plotting," I said. "No one." And that was the truth, not something I said to make him feel better.

"But I did write down the license plate number of their car."

"And, if I may, what . . ."

"They sat down right there on that dock." He pointed to a small float directly behind me. "For more than an hour."

"My God," Rona said.

"As I told you, I was in law enforcement and they didn't look right to me. They didn't look like they were from here."

"What did you do?" I asked hesitantly, not wanting to probe too deeply into what might be a painful memory.

"Well, I had my suspicions. Of course not about what they did. Who could have imagined that. Though I should have . . ." His voice trailed off.

"No one could have imagined what they were plotting," I said. "No one." And that was the truth, not something I said to make him feel better.

"But I did write down the license plate number of their car."

"And, if I may, what . . ."

"I was at a meeting the morning of the 11th and just as we were about to get started someone rushed in to say something terrible just happened in New York, that we should come out and watch on the TV. So just like millions of others we were glued to the screen. When the second plane hit we knew it was an attack. We were all from law enforcement but no one could guess the extent of the damage or if there were other attacks all over the country. Or if we were bein' invaded."

"You're bringing that time back to me," Rona said.

As if not hearing her, he continued, "Two of the men who were at the meetin' had family working in those building and they raced to the telephone. Of course all the lines were tied up and they couldn't get through. So they came back to join us and we moved in close to them to help them get through what might turn out to be a tragedy for them too.

"At that time, horror-struck, I wasn't puttin' any pieces together. The two men who sat on the dock out there and what was happening in New York and Washington, D.C. too. Over the next few days we all went through pretty much the same thing. Fear, anger, wantin' to get even. No matter our politics we were one nation, indivisible. Just like the Pledge says we are, but for the most part we've forgotten."

"True. True," Rona said.

"A few days later--from your reading," he turned toward me but still looked out over the glinting water, "you probably know how many days--they released the names of the hijackers. The murderers."

"It was about three days," I said.

"Then a couple weeks after that they began to show pictures of them. Passport photo types. I forgot how many. 'Bout 20 of 'em.  And that's when it struck me--two of 'em (the Atta one and that Abdul fella) who took over the first plane were the same men who were here that day before. Spent an hour looking up at the sky and all them planes flyin' high overhead on the great circle route from Europe toward Boston and New York. 'Oh my God,' I thought, 'I had 'em here and let 'em get away.'"

I could hear his raspy breathing.

"There's no way you could of . . ."

He waved me off. "I let 'em get away. I'm from law enforcement. I even took their license number."

"What could you have done?" I asked, wanting to reach out to him, touch him. "Even if you had notified the police it's unlikely they would have done anything at all right them. Though they knew you and you had justifiable suspicions as it tragically turned out, it would not have been a priority for them. No one would have connected any dots and assumed they were up to such evil."

"I know what you're sayin' makes sense, and though I did talk to the FBI as soon as I saw who it was, thinking there might be more to learn about them and who was behind this, still I have trouble sleeping at night."

"I do too," Rona said. There are many nights when we're in the city and I hear a plane overhead heading for LaGuardia, my heart stops. As you said, things will never be the same."

"One more thing."

"Anything."

"You remember," for the first time he looked directly at me, "You remember where the president was? Bush?"

"I do. Somewhere in Florida at a school."

"In Sarasota. At an elementary school. And you remember what he did? Or what the Secret Service had him do?"

"I do. Until they knew the nature of the attack they flew him around from Florida to an air force base in Louisiana and eventually to the Strategic Command Center in Nebraska where he would be safe."

"Well, my son at the time was in the Marines. With everything goin' on I was worried about him. I couldn't reach him. I was real worried. Like I said, no one knew the full story of what was happening. There were all sorts of rumors."

I was confused about why he was talking at the same time about President Bush and his son.

"Then when Bush returned to the White House later that evening--he was eager to get to there--they showed him landing in his helicopter on the south lawn. Like they often do. But this time it felt more important to know he was all right."

"I remember feeling relieved about that," I said. "Even though I wasn't his biggest fan."

"And then I knew my son was also all right. You see, he was one of the pilots for the president's helicopter. Marine One it's called. And I saw him there when the president got off and turned to salute him."

With that, he turned toward Judy's General Store. "Gotta get me some of her muffins," he said sounding cheery, "before they run out."

In silence we drove back toward Brunswick.

At the museum, Rona said, "He never told us about his theories."

September 11, 2018--Midcoast: The Lindbergs

Another Midcoast story. This one from three years ago.

"But you are the Linddbergs," she insisted.

We were having dinner at the Anchor Restaurant in Round Pond. It was Rona's birthday and we were celebrating, well into a bottle of sparkling rosé.

"I'm sorry to be interrupting your dinner."

To this I mumbled something.

"But you look like them to me."

"Well, we're not," I said, not looking up.

"What you're eating looks delicious," she said, leaning closer to get a better look at Rona's soft shell clam appetizer. "But, again, I'm sorry to be interrupting."

"In truth you . . ." I trailed off.

"I need to find the Lindbergs," she pressed on. "I met them, I think you, a couple of times. Once at a tag sale at our house. We're the ones who used to own the Bristol barn. Do you remember that?"

"I think I remember," Rona said, friendlier and more welcoming than I.

"And then at a concert. I think the DaPonte string quartet. At the Walpole Meeting House. Where they perform in candlelight."

"We're really not . . ."

"It's OK," Rona said, hushing me.

"We're really not them," I said, hoping Rita--she had by then introduced herself--would return to her table and let us enjoy the food, the view of the harbor, and the occasion.

"How could that be?" she said. "I met you at least twice."

"That may be true," I said, trying not to sound exasperated, "But that doesn't make us the Lindbergs."

"We actually know them," Rona said, "Which makes this quite a coincidence. To be confused for them, I mean."

"If you're not them, then who are you?"

Rona gave her our names and reached across the table to take her extended hand. "I'm so mixed up," Rita said.

"Tell me about it," I said under my breath.

"I need to find them," she paused, smiling. She shrugged, indeed looking mixed up.

"Did you make arrangements to meet them here?" Feeling badly for her now, I was trying to be helpful.

"No. But I thought I would run into them here or somewhere else. This is such a small town." Her smile now fading.

"If it's important to see them, meet with them, why don't you call them and arrange something?"

"I could do that," she said. "If you're not them, I guess that's what I should do. They're supposed to mentor me."

I looked at her skeptically since she appeared to be about 60 and wondered what would constitute mentoring for a 60 year-old.

"What would they do with you. I mean, help you with?" I said.

"Bees."

"Bees?"

"Yes, they agreed to help me get started. With a hive of my own."

"They are quiet experienced," Rona said, "They gave us a bottle of their honey last year and it was so delicious I finished it in a month."

"So that's why I have to find them."

I nodded, now empathetically.

"I wish you were them," she said with an edge of sadness.

"I understand," Rona siad.

By then our entrées had arrived, and noticing that, she said, "I'm so sorry to be interrupting you." Then, perking up and, more playfully, added, "But you really are the Lindbergs, aren't you?"

From her renewed smile I knew she was having fun with us. An unexpected birthday treat.

September 10, 2018--Midcoast: At Moody's Diner

My Audiologist, Gary Schwartzberg, respected up and down the east coast, said the other day--"I really like your stories. I could go for some more." He was being indirect and gracious. I know he meant--"Enough with all these political pieces," though he's very political and well informed, "We need more stories."

So, here's one from about two years ago. Sorry, Gary, though it qualifies as a story somehow Trump managed to slip into it.

More stories to follow this week.

Down at the end there were two seats at Moody's counter. Moody's in Waldoboro is a Maine diner legend. In season, a slice of their blueberry pie is worth a detour.

And so is the turkey salad, at least according to Rona. I agree as long as we also order some well-done French fries.

It was perfect timing, therefore, to find ourselves in the vicinity when in the mood for a turkey salad on rye and maybe a slice of pie.

"Let me make room for yuh," a bulky man who looked about 45 said, "I'll move down one seat and cozy with Shauna here. My lady," he winked.

Excited just to be there, I uncharacteristically said, "No need for that. It's chilly out and you look like someone good to cozy with."

"You mean I'm fat?" he said, pretending, I happily saw, to be offended.

"No, only . . ."

"It's OK. I just playin' with yuh," he said to assure me, deciding to stay perched on the stool next to where I lowered myself. "Truth is, I am fat and a lot older than I look." He pulled his tee shirt up to show me his considerable belly. "Shouldn't be eating this corn bread." He held it up for me to see, crumbles falling onto the countertop. "But they give it to yuh if you order the chili. Which I recommend."

"We're here for the turkey salad," Rona joined in with an extra-friendly smile.

"And the French fries," I said, "Well done."

"And a slice of blueberry pie," Rona added to make sure he understood we weren't dieting and that he wasn't the only one eating a lot.

"I know what you're thinking," he paused then added, "A grease monkey."

"No, I . . ."

"That's OK. No need to pretend with me. 'Cause that's what I am. No shame in that." He held up his hands so I could see the full extent of the grease that covered his hands and forearms like a second skin.

"Workin' on his transmission," he said nodding toward another over-size person at the very end of the counter. He too was woofing down a huge bowl of chili and didn't look up in acknowledgment. He kept stirring the bowl to distribute the corn bread he had crumbled on the chili as a topping.

"Where you guys from?"

"From three places really," I said. But for the next five months we have a place down at the Point, Pemaqud Point."

"Nice out there," he said, "What about the other two?"

Rona looked at me as if to say, "You need to be talking about this over-privileged lifestyle to someone who's an auto mechanic?"

Picking that up, I stammered, "Well we . . . I mean . . ."

"I'm cool with that," he said with a wave, "Shauna and me are thinkin' about our version of the same thing. I'm doin' pretty well and we have a nice house here in Nobleboro and a little place not far from the water--a lake actually--in Kissimmee."

"Florida?" I said, "Not that far from Orlando."

"Right you are," he said, and slapped me hard on the back. "For the winters. It gets real cold up here and I have no love for snow. Never did, never will. But all my family's here. Been here nine generations. One of the first families. I mean of white people. When my great, great, great whatever showed up from England there were plenty of other families around. But not white ones, if you get my meaning."

"I do," I said, "There were lots of Indians around. From what I've read, they had no problem with feeding themselves what with giant oysters that you needed two hands to lift and, standing on the shore, fish you could scoop up out of the water. No need for nets or anything."

"There are lots of stories about that that were passed down in my family. Some been written down in dairies from the early 1600s. One so extensive and detailed that it's down there in the Smithsonian collection."

"Wow," Rona said.

"Pretty good for a grease monkey," he said thumping his now puffed-out chest. "And if you're wonderin', there are two governors, Maine governors in my family--Benjamin Ames and Joshua Chamberlain. You wouldna guessed that about me, would yuh?"

"I wouldn't have thought that about anyone," I said, feeling good about taking what he said in stride and not stereotyping him. "I mean, how many people have two governors in their families?"

"Mitt Romney's kids, for example," he said, "And to be fair and balanced, Mario Cuomo's."

"And that dopey Brown family in California," the fellow at the end of the counter mumbled, still shoveling in his chili. "Governor moonbeam."

"I guess it's not so rare," I said.

"You're being silly," Rona said, "Even though these are good examples it's still very unusual."

"No need to give him a hard time, ma'am. We're just getting to know each other. By the way, my name's Dana," he said, thrusting his right hand at me. As I reached to take it, he pulled it back, "Look at me, covered all in transmission fluid and I'm thinkin' to shake hands with you who are about to eat a sandwich." He began to wipe his hand on his shirt. I kept my hand extended toward him and finally he took it and we shook hands, smiling broadly at each other.

"I guess that makes us friends," he said looking me straight in the eye.

"I'm Steve," I said, "And this is Rona."

She reached across my chest with an extended hand and without hesitating Dana took it, saying, "Nice to be your friend, Ro, Ro . . ."

"Na, Rona," she said.

"Like Jaffe and Barrett?" he asked.

"Yes, but hardly anyone knows them anymore," Rona said.

"The novelist and gossip columnist," he said. "I seem to remember readin' some of her stuff. Rona Jaffe, I mean. Wasn't she ahead of her time? Wrote a lot of racy stuff from a female perspective?"

"I'm ashamed to say," Rona said, looking down, "that I've never read anything of hers. But, yes, I think you're right. Sort of a Helen Gurley Brown type."

"I think better than that," he said, "She was a real writer. More like an Erica Jong."

"Sounds right," Rona said.

"Changin' the subject," he said, "You folks followin' the election?"

By then our sandwiches and fries had arrived and rather than risk spoiling our lunch and the thus-far warm conversation, not wanting to get into a harangue or argument, we both took big bites to fill our mouths so we couldn't be expected to talk.

"Minimally, whatever you think, it's been entertainin'. Seems these days no one pays attention to anythin' serious unless it's entertainin'. I mean Trump, hate 'em or love 'em, is fun to follow. I mean, to tell you the truth, I'm more in the 'hate 'em category,' but almost every night when I tune in to Fox and MSNBC he's good for some laughs."

Releived, still with a full mouth, I nodded.

"He's like one of those fools in Shakespeare. He speaks his mind and because no one in the media at least takes him seriously but  have to admit that some of what he says is true, politically incorrect, he gives folks permission to laugh at things they don't feel comfortable saying out loud or in public. It's kind of embarrassed laughter. You feel a little guilty admitting you are paying any serious attention to him but can't help yourself and laugh at what he has to say. Which I suppose is what a lot of entertainment is about. Comedy at least."

"I agree with all of that," I said after swallowing my half-chewed turkey salad, "So, who . . ."

"Can't say I have a dog in that fight. At least not yet. Maybe never. Sad, but I'm feelin' I don't trust any of 'em. I mean, you can't believe a word Trump says. He sometimes contradicts himself twice in the same sentence. I've seen him do that. And, he's not wrong to call her Crooked Hillary 'cause that's what she is. I mean she's smart and all that and has a big resumé but tell me one thing she's said about herself that you believe?"

"She does have that problem," Rona said.

"Forget all the stuff when she was the First Lady. That's old news, though there's plenty of smoke from that time. I'm talking about where her and Bill's money comes from. Goldman Sachs? Give me a break. And all that hanky-panky with their foundation--forget her continuing to put up with his philandering--and the email business. To me that's a big deal. A very big deal. Everyone knows she's lyin' about that. She knew what she was doin' and put a whole lot a people at big risk. Then I fear if she wins she'd be looking' for an opportunity to show how macho she is once she's commander in chief. I have problems with all of that. Also what Trump would do with the military really scares me. So . . ."

"So what about Bernie?"

"Another liar. Different kind. I agree with him about the rigged economy and government but the lies he tells are about not being able to carry out any of his policies if by some miracle he gets nominated or, God help us, wins. He knows practically nothin' about the world. Less than Trump, and there is no chance of getting Medicare for all through Congress much less free college tuition. First of all the federal government doesn't have any power to tell the Univeristy of Maine what to do and even if he could get all he wants it would, what, double the deficit. I'm not antigovernment like most of the knuckleheads around here, like old Jim over there, but I do care about controlling spending and worry about the deficit. What is it, 19 trillion?"

Jim had finished his chili and was now listening to what Dana had to say.

"So, like I say, I have no one to vote for. If Ralph Nader was running' maybe . . . But he's a jerk. 'Cause of him we got George Bush. W, not HW. That puppy has a lot to atone for."

"At the moment, I'm with you," I said with a shrug and sigh, "At the moment, I'm not planning to vote in November. Maybe that'll change. Maybe there'll be a real miracle and Hillary will be indicted and someone like Joe Biden would get in the mix and somehow get nominated and . . ."

"Now you're talkin'," Dana said, "He's my man! Flaws and all. He can also be a jerk. But that sort of makes him authentic. And wasn't he right about the Middle East? Iraq for example? Let it become three separate countries? But that's for another day. Got to get back to Jim's transmission. Next time we're all here, I'll tell you about my meetin' Ronald Reagan."

"Really? Where?" I really wanted to hear about that.

"At the White House."

"Fantastic!"

"I was among a group invited there to get our Silver Stars from the president. I told you I'm older than I look. It was one of the highlights of my life. Not that I thought that much about Reagan. Irangate and all that. Hey, I'd love to hang out more with you guys but a transmission awaits. I'm here with Shauna every day. Down at the end of the counter. So if you and Miss Rona want to stay friends, you know where to find me."

With that, he hoisted his considerable body off the stool and shuffled toward the cashier. Rona and I got up as well and ran after him so we could get in a couple of more handshakes.

September 8, 2018--Blackout

We had a small but intense storm with a micro blast and thus lost power and Internet connectivity for about 20 hours. I was thus unable to get anything ready for posting. Power's now restored and all is well. 

September 6, 2018--Duh

So with the imminent publication of Watergate hero, Bob Woodward's long-awaited book about the first year-and-a-half of the Trump presidency, Fear: Trump In the White House, what are we eager to learn that is new, that we didn't already get from Michael Wolff's Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House, or Omarosa's Unhinged: An Insider's Account of the Trump White House?

From what has been leaked--and a lot has been--it appears not that much. 

Thus far the juiciest tidbits tell of things like Chief Economic Advisor, Gary Cohen, snatching from Trump's Oval Office desk documents he was about to sign out of fear that if he were to do so the global economic consequences would be catastrophic. 

But most of what we learn from Woodward are a spate of new insults either directed toward Trump by senior staff and advisors as well as others that Trump came up with, especially those directed at poor Jeff Sessions.

Trump is an "idiot," a "liar," "dumb," a "little baby," while Session and others are "little rats," "mentally retarded," or a "dumb Southerner."

The president is also revealed to mock Session's Alabama accent--even imitating it--claiming he can't understand the Attorney General because he talks like he has "marbles in his mouth." 

Good luck to Trump with securing the solid-South's electoral votes if he runs for reelection.

From Nixon to Obama we turned to Woodward's six-foot shelf of inside-the-White-House books. Now, before he could get his latest to Amazon and then they to us, most of the good stuff is already on the record.

Oh, there is one thing--

In Wolff's book Trump staffers are quoted as saying he's like a "six-year-old." In Woodward's he's compared to a "fifth or sixth grader."

In "Crazytown," (Woodward's phrase for Trump World) I suppose this represents progress. 

So duh? Is this business as usual? Nothing much new? In many ways yes. But then again, with his well-deserved stature, because Woodward pretty much plows the same field as the others he legitimatizes their gossiper books. 

And thus the picture of Trump and his White House is becoming complete. What remains, to quote Woodward again, are the Final Days.

September 5, 2018--Boooooring

Mika got it right yesterday morning.

I dosed off Morning Joe for a couple of weeks, needing respite from all-Trump-all-the-time, but with the onset of the new season (the "year" starts up again the day after Labor Day) I felt the atavistic compulsion to reconnect to what is going on. Including trolling for subjects to write about that do not have anything to do with Trump.

Lots of luck with that I realized on Tuesday as early as five-after-six, with the first five minutes of MJ devoted to Joe and Willie exchanging barbs about the crumbling fate of the Yankees and the Red Sox's historic run.

Just two minutes into their joshing you could see Mika cringing. Up to their old schtick. If looks could wound her look would draw blood.

"Can we get on with things?" exasperated, she said. They ignored her. "There's lots going on and we need to talk about that."

"Yes, John McCain. His funeral," Joe said without enthusiasm, still more interested in baseball gossip.

"It's over," Mika said, cryptically.

"Not until it's over," Joe said, he thought slyly, quoting Yogi Berra, winking at Wille, with baseball still more on his mind than McCain.

"Not the funeral, but the presidency."

"Over?" Joe said, paying attention to his cohost and fiancée for a rare moment. 

"This show is so boring," she said. 

I grew excited, expecting a family spat. Mika pops off a few times a year and videos of her meltdowns usually go viral. I thought--what an inventive way for her to launch the year. Trashing her own show.

Having the floor she pressed on. "Nothing is new. In fact, nothing can be new. Everything is predictable. We know exactly what he is going to say. Or tweet. His whole presidency depends on a steady stream of surprises. In there own way, excitements. Engaging outrages. He's the producer of his own reality TV presidency and it's about to be cancelled."

"You know, Mika's half right," one of their panelists, off camera, said. You could sense he was worried that the "half right" could be misinterpreted, come off as patronizing. Which it did. Though smacking of enough truth that she and the others let it go. She was happy just being paid attention to.

As a result there was no more sports talk. They were off and running, making being boring interesting. 

"If his people start to get bored with him," Sam Stein of the Daily Beast said, "he's cooked. Don't mishear me, they believe him, more important they believe in him. They are also there for the show. If you live in some, forgive me, godforsaken place like Fargo, North Dakota, where the most exciting thing is the Charley Pride concert, it doesn't get any better than going to one of his rallies after standing in line for hours to get a seat for his political standup spritz. But before we get giddy about this, at the Fargo rally Trump people claimed 6,000 turned out, though the local press had the number much less than that."

"Like the ongoing numbers game about the size of the crowd at his inauguration," MSNBC's Kasie Hunt chimed in.

"One thing Trump knows for certain," this from WAPO columnist and editor Eugene Robinson, "Is how to pay attention to ratings. The Apprentice didn't go off the air because Trump was running for president but because the ratings were heading south. If the ratings and demographics had continued to be strong NBC would probably still have it on the air. I don't believe the Emoluments Clause in the Constitution forbids that. Making money from a TV show. Look, he's still getting away with making a killing from his hotels and resorts. I'm not hearing about anyone giving up their Mar-a-Lago membership or the Trump hotel in Washington offering weekend discounts."

Willie said, "There are reports that attendance at his rallies is declining. It's not such a hot ticket anymore. And more than a few who show up appear to filter out before his act is over."

"You're right," Joe jumped in,"politics is all about numbers. And enthusiasm. He could be slipping in both realms. If he is, as Mika said, it's all over."

"Well," Mika said, now all smiles, "at the beginning of being over."

Glancing at the clock, also smiling, Joe said, "We made it to six-thirty without being boring. I think we're off to a good start for the year."

September 4, 2018--Negative Partisanship

This weekend's series of tributes to John McCain caused me to wonder again why so many conservatives and, especially, Donald Trump feel animus toward the late senator from Arizona. 

It wasn't because he was such a maverick and voted solidly against Trump's agenda. In fact, with notable exceptions (among a few others his thumbs down vote not to repeal Obamacare) he voted for at least 90 percent of the legislation supported by Trump.

And, I recalled, Trump savaged McCain early in the 2016 campaign, well before it was known who would win the nomination. He mocked McCain for what can only be viewed as heroism during the Vietnam War, a war that Trump did all he could to dodge. Perhaps, I thought at the time, Trump was jealous of McCain's unstinting courage. Trump knew in his heart that McCain was a hero while he was a blowhard coward.

I also thought at the time, well before Trump loomed as the frontrunner, that taking on McCain in this gratuitous way would doom his changes. Candidates traditionally drop out of contention for doing a lot less. But not Trump. There is little that is political traditional about him. His people stuck with him and he rolled inexorably toward the White House.

More surprisingly, it appears that the vast majority of Republicans detest McCain and are even comfortable mocking his service.

So I continue to be puzzled about why Trump is so bulletproof. A recent article in the Washington Post, "Republicans' Anger at McCain Speaks Volumes About Tribal Politics," offers some additional insights.

From the article--

Over the past few decades, Americans have fled to the political poles, leaving fewer in the once vibrant and decisive middle. Increasingly, those partisan voters are being driven more by fear and loathing for the opposition party than admiration for their own party’s leaders--a phenomenon that political consultants call “negative partisanship.” 

Today, partisanship has a “stronger influence” on voters’ behavior than at any time since the 1950s, Alan Abramowitz and Steven Webster, two Emory University political scientists, wrote recently. One result: Any act of compromise with the enemy--or opposition party--is greeted with anger and derision.

The article includes a few quotes from conservatives who hated McCain. They offer a glimpse of the intensity of their fury--

“Sorry, phony, fraud and a traitor,” Shawn Halan, a Southern California real estate agent, wrote in a social media post. “He was a pathetic egomaniac bent on fighting conservatism and did it as a pretender!” 

“Faux conservative,” added another supporter of President Trump. 

“We can admire his service in Vietnam, but also realize he was a scoundrel and backstabber as a politician,” wrote a photographer based in the New York area. “I don’t mourn.”

Negative partisanship it is.