April 9, 2020--Birds Behind the Barn

My friend John Allan, from up in Bristol Maine, sent me this after a long call Tuesday morning--

Glad to hear you're settled in and prepared for the duration. 

I've assembled a library of books "to read sometime" and so has Boodie. We're set for months. 

Not set so much on squaring our time with daily news. 

Mask? No mask? Schoolwork for grandchildren or not to worry? 

Hoping I don't forget to listen to the birds behind the barn when the sun rises.

And how about that full moon last night! It was so impressive I took a selfie of me with it over my shoulder in the back field. 

OK, so I'm stretching my desire for some normalcy but can 

you blame me? 

What do I tell these grandkids when they look at me with concern about this unsettling turn of events. I can see the fear in their faces. I wonder, despite offering comforting words of assurance, whether I have won any confidence with them at all. 

So, on a brighter note, the granddaughters and I went to Pemaquid Point Lighthouse after our phone call and collected flat, smooth rocks to paint in cheerful colors which we'll bring back there and hide hoping to surprise and delight someone. You just never know what might bring someone solace and comfort in these crazy times. 

Hope your friend has a successful recovery from surgery. 

Sorry we missed speaking with Rona.

Stay safe.

John

October 8, 2019--John Allan: Any Sense At All

John Allan said, "You make me sound smarter than I am."

We were having breakfast together at the Bristol Diner.

"You mean in the blog I wrote last week about Trump's Australian connection?"

"That's the one. I was the one who posed the question that got us going but you put words in my mouth. Not that that upset me. I liked the words and thoughts you assigned to me."

"He does that all the time," Rona chimed in, "He claims it's the way he gets closer to the essence of a situation."

"I didn't make stuff up the other day. You said almost everything I attributed to you."

"'Almost everything?' I'm not sure I see that as journalistic."

"It isn't," I said, "I'm not a journalist. I see myself as an essayist."

"What pray tell is that?" playing with me, John said.

"I know this will sound pompous but I seek the truth in things. Which means I often have to extract it from ambiguous and incomplete information."

"I get that," he said, "So tell me how that worked the other day when we were talking about Australia because it still sounds as if you make stuff up."

"First of all, you're not the best witness as to what was said, what even you yourself said. No one is. I mean about what they say. No one is a human tape recorder, capturing  exactly what they said. And then there are the subtle inferences that are often best communicated via body language and gestures and nods and winks. You're really good at the latter. You're about the best winker and shrugger I know. It's like a private language of yours."

"That makes sense to me, "John said, "And I do like that, but still I'm a little uncomfortable with your methodology. Particularly when it comes to me." He sent me a broad wink.

"Let me tell you a story--"

"Not another story!" This time John didn't wink.

"I know. I can be tedious with some of my stories. But I think you'll like this one. It's about finding truth in discourse. Though putting it this way makes it sound more profound than it is."

"Actually," John said, "this story sounds promising."

"It was told to me by a colleague and friend, Sir Claus Moser, who I worked with in some of the Ford Foundation's work with expanding higher education opportunities for low-income students. He led that effort for Great Britain but before that was head of development for the British Museum and before that was the secretary to the British cabinet. In that role, among other things, he was responsible for preparing the minutes of cabinet meetings."

"Where is this headed?" John asked, "I've got to get to the office."

"I'm almost done," I said. This time Rona rolled her eyes.

"He told me there are three ways to prepare the minutes. 'Since recoding devices weren't allowed, first, you can do your best to capture as precisely as possible exactly what members said. Then, you can do that and add a little editing. For example, to clean up the grammar and syntax. Finally, you can do what I did--write what members would have said if they had any sense at all.'"

"I do like that," John said. "And I take your point. Now I have to get to work."

October 2, 2019--What's Up With Australia?

Before we could sit, John Allan said, "What's up with Australia?" His face with his new beard made him look cherubic. His eyes were as lively as I had seen for some time. He looked as if he had shed ten years since we had coffee with him just a few days ago.

"What's up with you?" I asked. 

"I was taking a shower and listening to NPR and they seemed to be talking about Australia. Is anything going on down there?" He was grinning and winking.

"I think I know what you're referring to," I said, "Trump."

"Right you are," John said, clapping his hands, now smiling playfully, "Remember George Papadopoulos? A low-level Trump operative who was stirring around looking for dirt about Hillary for the 2016 election? He somehow managed to meet with a high-level Australian diplomat in London who told him the Russians had stuff that could undermine Hillary's campaign. Including, I think, that the Ukrainians had their hands on a server that held thousands of her emails."

"I'm with you," I said, sliding into the booth.

"So, according to NPR Trump recently asked his cultural conservative pal, the Australian prime minister, Scott Morrison, who rose to prominence by leading the effort to close Australia's borders to refuges and immigrants, Trump asked him if he would help Attorney General, Trump's poodle, Bill Barr, who was traveling the world to gather information about the origins of the Mueller probe."

"He can't give that up," Rona said, "Even though he dodged the Mueller bullet, he's still obsessed with it."

"He never can let go of anything, especially anything critical of him," John said. "Even the smallest things. But that's just the beginning of the breaking news. All afternoon on Monday, beginning about 4 o'clock, there was one bombshell after another. First, we learned that Rudy was subpoenaed by three House committees to turn over to them documents about his Ukraine-related dealings."

"Next," Rona said, "we heard that Secretary of State, Mike Pompeo, was on the line during Trump's call with Ukraine president Zelezney. The 'do-us-a-favor' call that may turn out to be the smoking gun that brings Trump down."

"Then," John said, "there was the breaking news that Barr is on an undisclosed worldwide trip to gather dirt about his own FBI and the CIA. Specifically what they did to undermine Trump and help bring about the Mueller investigation. Barr's in Italy now."

"From the look of him," I said, "he's spending most of his time in trattorias."

"Nasty, nasty," John said, enjoying every word and tidbit of news and gossip, "We could go on," he said.

"I think it's the beginning of the end," Rona said. She's not prone to be optimistic about these matters.

"That's why you're looking so energetic and youthful," I said to John, "It's not just your beard." 

"I got some sleep and woke up at two in the morning, not as usual to anxiasize, but to see if there was any new news since I had gone to bed."

Rona said, "Speaking of sleep, I heard from my sister that my brother-in-law, for the first time in more than two years, had a good night's sleep."

September 12, 2019--Bolting

We were having breakfast together and John Allan said, "With John Bolton no longer the National Security Advisor--whether he resigned or was fired not withstanding--unlike most other high-level changes in the Trump administration, this change will make us feel safer."

"How's that?" Rona asked.

"You remember, don't you, that when Rex Tillerson resigned or was pushed out as Secretary of State and Jim (Mad Dog) Mattis, among many others, quit as Secretary of Defense, we felt more vulnerable as they were supposed to be the adults in the room who would restrain Trump from unilaterally implementing policies that would endanger us, that would make us less safe. Like attacking Iran or North Korea." 

"And?" I said.

"And then," John said, "Trump brought in Bolton to be his third National Security Advisor, the first of whom, Michael Flynn, on the same day Bolton was exiting was in New York facing sentencing for admitting to committing perjury while serving in the White House."

"Yeah, Bolton was a five-year-old to Trump's seven-year-old self. That was our foreign policy team. Two impulsive children, with Bolton being the real mad dog--clinically crazy and in that way making Trump look good by comparison."

"Right," Rona said, "by comparison he would make Trump look reasonable."

"But Bolton," John said, "wasn't happy being anything other than in charge of foreign affairs. He saw himself as a version of Henry Kissinger--Bolton fancied himself the preeminent one in the Trump administration, making foreign and even defense policy." 

"The joke, though, turned out to be on him," I said, "Bolton underestimated how much Trump sees himself as the all-knowing expert on global affairs. And everything else."

John said, "Then there is the actual Secretary of State, Mike Pompeo, who has his own Kissinger-like ambitions."

"With Trump," Rona said, "He will learn, there can be no Kissinger. Except Trump himself. I think as word leaks out about what happened it will turn out that Pompeo did Bolton in. And then of course, Pompeo will be the next to go."

"I wouldn't be surprised," John said. "But back to my point--how Bolton's leaving makes us safer. Unlike, as I said, when, for example, Mattis left we felt less safe. This is because Bolton is a genuine menace. He really wants to start wars all over the globe. Look at the mess he already made in Venezuela. And we know what he had in mind for Iran and North Korea. Wars. With us right in the middle of them. With North Korea, which has atomic bombs and intercontinental missiles."

"These are all good points," Rona said. "With Bolton skulking around the Oval Office and Trump crazier by the day with regard to his reelection chances, we could easily have had a wag-the-dog situation with Bolton urging Trump to start a war to distract the public and to gin up support for him as he faces a tough reelection battle."

With a wink, John said, "I couldn't have said it better. Though, I worry, a war could still happen."

October 25, 2017--Audiological Tale: Previous Life (Part 3 of 4))

Very early Sunday morning, before dawn, John Allan and I were on route to Uncasville, Connecticut. To the Mohegan Sun hotel and casino where we suspected our audiologist, Gary Schwartzberg, was likely at a professional workshop. "Suspected" and "likely" because we weren't sure of anything. 

Friday afternoon, while driving home from his office, we heard from his assistant, Angie, who sent me a text message indicating his family said he was well and that there was nothing to worry about. But she didn't include any details about what he was up to or where he was.

But I'm a worrier; and though I was relieved to hear this from Angie, I was concerned about Gary and must confess was still curious why he had disappeared Friday afternoon after luring us (that, I feel, is the right word) up to Rockport to see him urgently and then, unceremoniously, without a word of explanation, vanished.

After hearing from Angie, while I drove, John did some searching on line to see what he might learn about a possible workshop for audiologists in Uncasville. It took little time to determine that there was in fact something of that sort scheduled for the weekend at the Mohegan Sun. It appeared that attending helped audiologists acquire some of the continuing professional education credits that are required for them to maintain their licenses. 

John said, "Why not go? He's apparently OK but we're eager to learn more about what he's up to in his professional life and, who knows, maybe we can even find out a little more about what he refers to as his previous life. My guess is that these kinds of meetings are where some of the covert stuff is arranged. If the CIA, for example, needs audiologist operatives--as with the Cuba sonic attack business--what better place to recruit some?"

"I'm not busy this weekend so I agree--why not have a little innocent fun? It seems the workshop runs through late afternoon Sunday. Sunday morning would be a good time for me to go there and do a little playful snooping around."

"Sounds like a plan," John said.

"One thought," I said, "maybe in the spirit of having some fun and trying to be covert, why don't we get into the spirit of things and go undercover? I mean, see if we can observe Gary and keep an eye on him and what he's up to but try not to have him recognize us. You know, we can wear dark glasses and caps and lurk around in the shadows. Not during the workshop sessions of course, but when they're taking a break and are free to wander around, get food or drinks, and of course do some gambling."

"I like it," John said, "But of course this all assumes he's really OK and there."

"If he's not attending, it still will be fun to take the drive with you."

So, we finalized Sunday plans. I was to pick John up at 5:00. The drive to Uncasville looked to be about four hours. We'd reconnoiter, have lunch, see what we could see, then return home. On Sunday, the traffic both ways should be manageable.

*   *   *

After a easy drive, arriving at the Mohegan Sun, we took to drifting around the casino and checking out what was going on at the many restaurants that surrounded the playing floor. Gary thus far was nowhere to be seen though we had already determined that the formal sessions of the workshop had ended. The meeting rooms where they had been held were empty and staff were busy cleaning them and removing the audio-visual equipment, chairs, and tables.

Inconspicuously as possible we approached the gaming tables where I suddenly pulled up short and poked John in the shoulder to get his attention and steer him in a different direction. 

Turned around, nodding toward the Blackjack tables, I whispered, "I've seen that guy before," though there was no need to talk softly because even if one shouted on the floor of the casino it would be difficult to be heard over the din of canned music and slot machines. Isn't it ironic, I thought, how this is the perfect place for an audiological worksop, where it's impossible to hear anything above the cascade of silver dollars being disgorged to slot machine winners accompanied by the clang of bells and flashing lights when on occasion someone wins a jackpot. 

"I don't remember from where, but I'm pretty sure I recognize him. The elderly man with dark glasses in the blue shirt. Let's loop around behind him so I can get a better look and not be observed, making sure to keep our eyes diverted in case he's who I am beginning to think he is. I know him from either the waiting room at Gary's office or somewhere else connected to Gary. I'm pretty sure he's a Gary person."

"If so," John said, "I think we may be on to something. To spot someone associated with Gary but who isn't an audiologist attending the workshop. If it were otherwise, that he's not linked to Gary, it would be too much of a coincidence to find him here four hours from Maine on the very same day as Gary. Assuming, of course, that Gary's actually here."

I was pleased to see John getting into the intrigue. For months I had been the only one of the two of us to be drawn directly into those strange events. It felt good to have a coconspirator to validate some of what I had been experiencing and feeling.

During the time we had been there, we had wandered around in the casino and checked out what was going on in the many bars and restaurants that surrounded the playing floor. There was still no sign of Gary though it appeared from their badges that many of the audiologists who had attended the workshop were still hanging out, mainly taking their chances at the craps and roulette tables.

"I've got it," I shouted, forgetting my own admonition to speak in whispers. John wheeled in my direction and glared at me for my carelessness. I shrugged an apology and said, softly this time, "He's the one who was spying on Gary and me when we met to talk in late August at the Dunkin Donut in Rockport. The day Gary filled me in about having been recruited to help with the sonic attacks in Cuba. It was the first time he confided in me about the other aspects of his life. His covert activities."

"I remember you're telling me about that," John said.

We ducked back into a dark alcove by a nearby cocktail lounge so as not to be observed or overheard. "He's the guy who pretended to doze off while we talked, and to make it seem more authentic, drooled on his newspaper. Quite a nice touch when pretending to be incognito. After Gary and I were finishing and he had to get back to the office, this guy, quote/unquote, woke up and while fumbling with his cell phone I felt sure took a few pictures of the two of us."

"You're certain that's him?" John asked.

"A hundred percent," I said, "I recognize the scar on his neck. He must have had his thyroid removed."

"What is he doing here? And if he's involved with Gary, where's Gary? This guy came all this way to play Blackjack? There are closer casinos in Maine where he could go if he just wanted to gamble."

"You got me," I said, "All of this is a big mystery."

Now John pulled on me to get my attention. "What? What's up?" I said.

"He's gone."

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

October 12, 2017--Not-So-Smart Phone

I know that more and more things are only accessible with a smart phone. Like calling for an Uber car. 

Even though I realize I'm being left behind, here's why I still do not want one. It all became clear to me over breakfast the other morning with John Allan. 

As usual we were having a wide-ranging discussion. Somehow, the film Clockwork Orange came up. John, Rona, and I remembered it vividly. But for quite some time none of us could remember who directed it. I thought it was Richard Lester, who I recalled was thought of at the time as a filmmaker who was influenced by Mod style. 

Neither John nor Rona remembered him and I wasn't sure I even knew his name. And of course, I couldn't remember the titles of any of his movies. 

John reached for his iPhone and began entering Clockwork Orange. Before he could get too far with that, I asked him not to do so, saying I wanted to challenge my memory and didn't want to get right to the answer. 

He put the phone down, smiling at my desire to test my memory. At my age, I like to do that as much as possible, though often I get frustrated and think I have Alzheimer's. John understood that as he struggles with some of the same issues.

I continued to play around with Richard Lester's name, spelling it various ways--Lester, Lister, Lesnor--in an attempt to spur my memory, thinking that if I could do so I'd also be able to confirm that he was in fact the director none of us could remember.

We struggled with this for some time before Rona blurted out, "Stanley Kubrick. He's the director. I'm sure of that." She leaned back, feeling proud of herself. 

"I'm not so sure," I said, "I still think it was Richard or John Lester."

Quickly aggravated, Rona said to John, "I think it's now OK to look it up on your phone. No reason to struggle anymore with that since I'm sure . . ."

Before she could complete her thought John confirmed the director was Kubrick. 

In the meantime, though I reluctantly agreed, I felt certain that the director I was thinking about was Lester, Richard Lester. "I think he made the film Bedazzled and something with Julie Christie."

John had proceeded to look him up, "Yes he did make a film with Julie Christie, you were at least right about that; but, how could we have forgotten, the Beatles' Hard Days Night."

"I loved that movie," I said. "When it came out I was with my ex-wife in Dublin and it was playing across from a pub we had turned into our 'local.' We got on line with hundreds of kids and saw it. It was a terrific film and Lester was the director. But what about Bedazzled? Who made that?"

Looking at his phone, John said, "It was Stanley Donen, who also made a lot of musicals including Singin' in the Rain."

"Amazing," Rona said, "How a simple reference to Clockwork Orange has us thinking about the Beatles and Singin' in the Rain.

"And Julie Christie," I said. "Don't forget her. Did I ever tell you my Julie Christie story?" Rona rolled her eyes. She has heard it at least 100 times. John indicted he was interested.

"This goes back to 1967. My ex-wife, again, and I had driven cross country to San Francisco where Lisa was enrolling in the Art Institute. We rented a houseboat on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge in the houseboat community in Sausalito. It was quite a time to be there. The Summer of Love, the year Sargent Pepper was released, Haight-Ashbury. All that. And if you can believe it, also on a houseboat, just across the dock from us, living there were Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, and the rest of the Grateful Dead."

No," John said.

"Really. We'd hang out with them when they practiced and smoked together. They had the best stuff in the marina."

"You're making this up," John said.

"Not at all," I said, "You can check it out. In your phone, type in Grateful Dead, 1967, and Sausalito. It'll come up."

He did and it did. "Amazing," he said, "And Julie Christie?"

"You can look that up too. Just enter her name and also Sausalito. Then click on 'Images' and a picture of her houseboat will appear. It was a big yellow ferry. It was also near our dock, on the San Fransisco side. She was there having just made Petulia with George C. Scott. Richard Lester was the director. I'm sure of all to this. I remember it." I was happy to report that. That I remembered it."

"Sounds like it was fun," John said.

"It was. And if you can believe it, Julie Christie and I became friendly. She was living with a French guy, a so-called artist, I think in fact more a boy-toy. But we became friendly and then over the years when she was in New York she'd occasionally call and we would get together. Once, she took me on a 'date' to see Hamlet on Broadway. An actor friend of hers, whose name I can't remember, played Hamlet. He wasn't that good, but we had fun."

"I get your point," John said. "Not looking things up prematurely can jar the memory. And is a good antidote to feeling you have dementia. That is, until you have it."

"Now you're sounding just like him," Rona sighed.

"I could look that up," John said, getting his smart phone ready. "The actor who played Hamlet." He looked at me to see if I was inclined to want him to do so.

"Let's leave that for another time." Rona was itching to leave.

Sausalito--The Yellow Ferry