July 30, 2020--Follow the Sex

When prosecutors or investigative reporters are closing in on a subject, it is often said, "Follow the Money." Al Capone comes to mind.

This is certainly true about Donald Trump. District attorneys in New York, among other things, are looking into the finances of the Trump Foundation while others were given the go ahead recently by the Supreme Court to have access to eight years of his tax returns.

Also, while seeking explanations for Tump's cozy relationship with Vladimir Putin, it is speculated that it's all about money, Trump's obsession with building a Trump Tower in Red Square in Moscow.

While all of this and more are likely true, there may also be other powerful forces at work. Sex, for example.

Remember Stormy Daniels? She's the porn star with whom Trump had an affair and attempted to hush up by slipping her $130,000. Trump's fixer lawyer, Michael Cohen, wound up in jail for serving as the intermediary for this transaction. 

Then there is the notorious BuzzFeed Dossier, which, if it exists, may include evidence that Trump, when in Moscow in 2013 for the Miss Universe pageant cavorted with Russian prostitutes. If true, it is not hard to imagine that former KGB agent Putin has a dossier of his own that includes incriminating evidence of a sexual nature. Enough to buy Trump's silence about Russia's meddling in the 2016 election that swept him into the White House.

And, recently, we are hearing more about Trump and Jeffrey Epstein, who for years in Palm Beach provided the famous and rich with access to teenage girls.

Epstein's girlfriend and procurer, Ghislaine Maxwell, was recently indicted and jailed in New York without bail on a range of sexual trafficking charges. Prosecutors can't wait to get their hands on her little black book. At least two presidents--one retired, one current--are likely to be found therein. 

Thus, at a covid briefing last week, when Trump, to everyone's surprise, was asked about her, seemingly totally rehearsed, matter of factly, he indicated he knew her and, three times, said he hoped she was "doing well." Code to her--if she gets rid of the address book and doesn't implicate him she'll get the Roger Stone treatment--a commutation or pardon.

And finally, the reporter who asked Trump about Maxwell, as if out of the blue, was Steven Nelson, from, of all places, Rupert Murdoch's NY Post, which hardly qualifies as a newspaper.

Conspiracy theories welcome.

Hint--follow the sex, not the money.

November 20, 2014--NY, NY: Sleep Like the Dead

"This is more like a hammock than a bed," Rona said, "I think it's time we look for a new mattress."

"We didn't get this one that long ago," I said, trying to avoid having to go through the process of testing dozens of mattresses and, knowing us, having to pay at least $5,000 for a new one.

As if reading my mind, Rona said, "We can go to Macy's and Bloomingdales. They have large bedding departments and they're both having sales. So it won't cost us a fortune to buy a new one." And to add urgency, knowing my tendency to procrastinate about such matters, "I'll bet we find one we both like in a few hours. Then there's next day delivery and--"

"And I know your back's been bothering you," I said, trying to sound empathetic

"A new mattress will also help you sleep better. You have so much on your mind these days that sleeping on this old thing only makes it worse."

"How long has it been since--?"

"Ten or eleven years." Looking at me lovingly, she added, "And it will also make other aspects of our life more enjoyable. We--"

"You mean when watching TV in bed?"

"That too," she smiled.

*   *   *

And so later that day we found ourselves in Macy's mattress department. The first of three visits. It's taking us that long to make up our minds. It's one of those things couples who sleep together, as we do on a queen-size bed, have to agree about. Or, spend enough time shopping that one or the other capitulates and agrees to get a mattress with or without a pillow top or with or without Tempurpedic-type memory foam or . . .

"Let's try the Stearns & Fosters again," Rona suggested, sounding tired. We were at Macy's for a second time and, feeling we'd made progress, having eliminated most of the Beautyrests and neither one of us could quite get used to being enveloped in beds made of high-tech foam. "I liked the ones without the pillow tops--I think from the Euro line--but you seemed to prefer the ones with them."

"True," I said, "Though, like you, I also liked the Stearns & Foster Beckinsale without the pillow top. To be honest, since I sleep mainly on my side, the softness of the pillow top on top of the ultra-firm mattress feels a bit more comfortable to me."

I emphasized the bit more since about beds I'm prone to compromise and was setting the stage to capitulate from my slight preference for pillow-tops.

"You know, though we've spent a lot of time here already, maybe we should go home now before we confuse and exhaust ourselves more and--"

"I did almost fall asleep a few minutes ago," I said, "On the pillow top Beckinsale," I wasn't capitulating yet, "So maybe, as you say, let's go home, take a nap, and then come back tomorrow and go right back to our two top choices. To avoid confusing ourselves further. After a while all the mattresses start to feel the same to me. The good news is that they also all feel good to me. Except for the Tempurpedics. Astronauts may like memory foam but I feel as if I'm being swallowed up in it."

*   *   *

The next day, on our third visit, we did avoid any further searching and went right back to the two Beckinsales. Rona to the one she was inclining toward and me to my pillow-top. Across the selling floor, with couples sprawled in all the beds between us, which in itself was an interesting experience, we called back and forth to each other, sharing our third impressions.

"I'm good with both," I said to reassure Rona that the selection process wouldn't go on forever. "Though--"

"I know," she called back across the Beautyrests, "You still prefer the pillow-tops. Why don't you come join me so we can see again how this one feels. With the two of us in bed together. To see how we experience it when one of us rolls over to change sleeping positions. How much the other feels. I think mattress stability is something we should consider since both of us do quite a bit of tossing and turning."

"And getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I don't want to worry that my doing that will cause the bounce on your side to be so strong that you'll wind up on the floor."

"Good point," Rona said.

So when I slid in next to her we both did lots of intentional tossing and turning and discovered, to make things more unsettled, that the mattress did do a bit too much reciprocal bouncing. Enough to make neither of us feel certain the Beckinsale without the pillow-top would work for us.

Maybe," I suggested tentatively, "we should try the pillow-top to see if maybe--"

"Let's go to Bloomingdales," Rona said, cutting me off, "We're back to square one. Since none of the ones here at Macy's are quite right for either or both of us I think we should look further. A bed is a big deal--we spend so much time in bed. watching TV, listening to music, and--"

"Reading, a lot of reading, not to mention sleeping. And also we shouldn't rush into a decision considering how expensive they are."

"Forget the money," Rona said, beginning to get aggravated with me. Even $2,000 for a bed and box spring spread over ten years amounts to only a couple of hundred dollars a year. Less than we pay for electricity for the TV."

*   *   *

So, wouldn't you know, the first mattress I tried at Bloomingdales was one made by hand by Kluft with a list price of $36,000. Thirty-six thousand dollars.

I called to Rona who was across from me trying one of the Shifmans. "You'll never believe this."

"What?" From her tone I knew the Shifman was not working for her.

"How much these go for." I patted the Kluft mattress. "Take a guess."

"The way you're posing this, probably quite a lot. I never heard of Kluft before. It must be a Bloomingdales' exclusive. OK. I'll say $15,000." She look over at me exasperated.

"Try more than twice that." I was in a state of shock.

"Welcome to the world of one-percenters," Rona said. "Look, if people are shelling out $50 million or more for an apartment, what would you expect them to spend on a mattress? 'Only' a few thousand like this Shifman?"

"But $36,000?"

"Take a look. Maybe it's on sale."

I looked again at the price tag and sure enough it was. "They're asking 'only' $22,000," I said. "But it probably includes free shipping." I was being facetious.

"That doesn't sound that bad to me. Hey, you only live once." I made a face. "At that price it must be amazingly comfortable."

"To tell you the truth it doesn't feel that much better than the Beckinsales at Macy's. But let's see what else they have."

"Lots of Stearns & Fosters," Rona noted. "Since we thought we liked them at Macy's maybe there are some special models they make for Bloomingdales that won't cause a tsunami when one of us gets up to go to the bathroom."

"Like the old waterbeds," I said. "Though back in the day they were pretty sexy."

"Speaking of that," Rona said, "I wonder how much people buying beds think about that."

"About what?"

"About sex, silly. Beside sleeping and watching TV that's probably what people do most when in bed. At least when they're young." She winked affectionately at me.

"Good point," I said.

So after trying about a dozen more mattresses we agreed that one of the Bloomingdales' Stearns & Fosters, their version of, I think, the Beckinsale we sort of liked at Macy's, was our new favorite.

"Again,"Rona said, "rather than deciding today, let's go back to Macy's one last time--"

"For old time sake?"

"No, to be sure. But then let's come back here tomorrow to see how this one feels and then decide." Sensing my exhaustion with the process, she assured me that we would make a decision the next day.

"One more thing," I said. "The salesman here has been very nice and since it's not busy, I have one more thing to ask him about."

"What's that? We've already peppered him with questions about all the different kinds of latex and foam and the advantages of each coil being hand wrapped and--"

"True, but tag along. You'll see. Just one more question."

Before I could signal to him that we had still another thing to ask he noticed us looking his way--good salesman technique--and walked quickly toward where we were once again hoisting ourselves off the Stearns & Foster. Causing no ripples of movement--a good sign.

"I don't exactly know how to ask this," I said, glancing toward him.

"No problem. Anything," he smiled.

"Do people ever ask you about how this or that mattress is for, well, sex?" I lowered my eyes but sensed Rona tensing.

"All the time," he chirped. "Especially younger customers. Though people your age," he meant me, "also ask."

"And you tell them?" I felt Rona punching me in the back.

"I tell them, like everything else about beds, it's all about how they feel."

"That's it?"

"And, yes, I do direct them to a website that compares mattresses. About all sorts of things, including what you're asking about."

"That website would be?" Rona asked, half hidden behind me.

"It's called Sleep Like the Dead."

"I love it," I said.

*   *   *

Back home, as soon as we hung up our coats we raced each other to the computer to look up Sleep Like the Dead.

"I of course am interested in durability and how cool the mattress feels," Rona said, as if I would believe her.

"At the moment I'm more interested in the raunchy stuff," I said. "I can't wait to see how they test mattresses for sex. Maybe sort of like the way Masters and Johnson did their experiments? In a lab or something?"

"You're being silly again."

By then I had clicked on Sleep Like the Dead and found that the website indeed focused on comparisons between air mattresses and futons and mattresses with innersprings as well as those made of latex or memory foam and even my old water beds.

There were ratings from consumers about pillows--down versus feather versus foam versus polyester; and sleeping pill reviews that compared Ambien with Lunesta and Melatonin.

And sure enough, the category I was searching for--Mattress Types and Sex Suitability Ratings and Comparisons.

"Suitability?" Rona wondered.

"A bit odd sounding to me too," I said. "But check this out." Rona leaned closer to me to get a better look at the computer screen. "To me the ratings and comparisons seem very thorough and professional. But see how on the top line of this multi-colored chart they rate mattresses types for Active Sex Friendly."

"Air mattresses get a C+," Rona read, "while Memory Foam gets only a D+, Water a C," she poked me again, "Latex a B-, and our good-old Innerspring a B-. Not bad."

"We can look at all the intimate details--forgive me--later. But take a look at the Many Positions ratings. Air gets a C+, Memory Foam a C, Water a surprising C- . . ."

"That shouldn't be such a surprise. When you had your famous, sexy waterbed, you were 50 years younger and --"

"Thanks for reminding me. But let me finish. Latex gets a B- for Many Positions and our basic innerspring a straight B! Very cool."

"You remember that old commercial for Dial-A-Mattress?" Rona asked.

"Yes, their jingle, 'Dial 1 800 MATTRESS and leave the last S off for Savings.'"

"For this it could be 'Dial 1 800 MATTRESS and leave the last S off for Sex!"

*   *   *

Later that night, on our old hammock of a Serta Perfect Sleeper, we . . .

October 9, 2013--Virgins in Paradise

This must be the week for passing along quotes from my reading. 

Monday, from Woodrow Wilson, I shared A. Scott Berg's description of the leaders of the Four Powers, victors in the First World War, literally redrawing the map of the world while on their hands and knees on the floor of the president's office in Paris.

Today I offer one from Jess Walter's powerful 2006 novel, The Zero, set in the days right after the destruction of the World Trade Center at what became Ground Zero. Largely through the eyes of a policeman who was there that day, Walter takes readers on a harrowing tour of a city and a country shuddering through the aftershocks of that devastating terrorist attack.

His hero cop, Brian Remy moves through the dreamscape narrative in a state of heightened awareness and simultaneous dislocation, encountering "The Boss" (a slightly fictionalized version of Mayor Giuliani), first responders, government agents who inhabit an Kafkaesque world of mystery and half-truths, and U.S. and foreign nationals living double and and at times metaphoric lives.

One of the most vivid characters is peripheral to the main events--Walter calls him "the old Middle Eastern man"--but is an important truth-teller. At one point, he says to Remy--

"The way people here mock a religion that promises virgins for martyrs in the world after this one. Your own culture would seem to indicate that there is nothing more profound than sex, nothing more humbling or graceful or suggestive of the mystery of creation. And yet the idea of virgins in paradise somehow seems to draw your greatest scorn. Do you honestly imagine yours is a sexless heaven? What kind of paradise is it that has harps and angels but no orgasms?  

". . . You're always convincing yourselves that the world isn't what it is, that no one's reality matters except your own. That's why you make such poor victims. You truly can't know suffering if you know nothing about rage. And you can't feel genuine rage if you won't acknowledge loss. 

"That's what happens when a nation becomes a public relations firm. You forget the truth. Everything is the Alamo. You claim victory in every loss, life in every death. Declare war when there is no war, and when you are at war, pretend you aren't. The rest of the world wails and vows revenge and buries its dead and you turn on the television. Go to the cinema. 

". . .  Entertainment is the singular thing you produce now. And it is just another propaganda, the most insidious, greatest propaganda ever devised, and this is your only export now--your coffee and tobacco, your gunpowder and your wheat. And while people elsewhere die questioning the propaganda of tyrants and royals, you crave yours. You demand the propaganda of distraction and triviality, and it has become your religion, your national faith. In this faith you are grave and backward fundamentalists, not so different from the grave and backward fundamentalists you presume to battle. If there are barbarians knocking on the gates with stories of beautiful virgins in the afterlife, then aren't you barbarians too, wrapping the world in cables full of happy-ever-after stories of fleshy blondes and animated fish and talking cars?"