You know who you are. Please pay attention:

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/2/26

When Shakespeare’s Juliet asked that question, she was contemplating the feud between her family, the Capulets, and their bitter enemies, the Montagues — the family of her lover, Romeo.

Today, the name to be heard and seen everywhere is equally contentious, but hardly associated with nobility: TRUMP. And its standard-bearer, the omnipresent Donald, is seeing to it that it’s plastered everywhere there is a blank space anywhere in the country: on buildings (often along with a Big Brother-sized poster of his face), highway signs, coins (the face again), new paper currency (the Sharpie signature), countless crappy souvenirs — and now even an airport.

As to that last item, after being turned down by New York in his bid to steal John F. Kennedy’s name for a second time, he got Ron DeSantis, the boot-licking governor of Florida, to sign off on renaming Palm Beach International Airport instead.

Normally, places are named for presidents as honorifics after they’re dead. But Trump — possibly beginning to realize that his post-mortem tributes will more closely resemble those of Benito Mussolini than JFK — wants to ensure that he won’t be forgotten too quickly. And besides, he likes looking at images of himself . . . though God alone knows why.

There is, however, one memorial to themselves that sitting presidents plan in advance, though they are not built until after they have left office: their presidential libraries. Since the time of Franklin D. Roosevelt, our leaders have created repositories for their personal papers and other important memorabilia, leaving a bit of themselves to history. The designs have varied from the modest to the more stately, but have always been in good taste. For example:

President Joe Biden’s library is a work in progress.

And so, apparently, is Donald Trump’s. With nearly three years left to his term, he has already reserved the site and shared this initial rendering with the public:

It is unclear whether Trump will, according to tradition, wait until he is out of office before beginning construction, or jump the gun in an effort to ensure being around to see it to completion in his lifetime.

It is also difficult to imagine anyone having enough possessions of historic interest to fill a phallic symbol of this magnitude.

Perhaps, at long last, we’ll get to see all of the unredacted Epstein files.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/2/26

The following words were written on March 31, 1776 — 250 years and one day ago — by the wife of the man who would become the second President of the brand-new United States of America.

We weren’t even officially a nation yet when Abigail Adams urged her husband, John Adams, and the other members of the convening Continental Congress not to overlook the women of the country when declaring our independence from Great Britain. What she said, in part, was this:

“I long to hear that you have declared an independency. And, by the way, in the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the husbands. Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.”

– “This Day in History,” History.com, March 31, 2026.

Abigail was more than just the “little woman” offering moral support to her husband. She was a person of considerable intellect and clearly ahead of her time, giving forethought to a document — the Constitution of the United States — that would not be completed for another eleven years, or ratified for two years after that.

And it would be 150 years before Abigail Adams’ plea on behalf of American women would be codified as the 19th Amendment to that Constitution. But in the 18th century, she became the second First Lady of the United States, and later the mother of the sixth President, John Quincy Adams — clearly, the kind of FLOTUS this country needed, at exactly the moment she was needed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/1/26

You probably thought I was going to name Donald Trump, didn’t you? Well, in all honesty, it was a close call. But this year’s “April Fool Award” — which I just invented, by the way: sort of like that FIFA Peace Prize, but without the medal and the chintzy faux-gold knick-knack — goes to the guy waiting anxiously to move into the Oval Office as soon as the 25th Amendment is invoked against his boss: none other than JD Vance himself.

Because surely he was pulling our collective leg when he said on a recent podcast that he doesn’t believe extraterrestrials are aliens from outer space, but are actually something quite different. What he said was:

“When I came in, I was obsessed with the UFO files. … I’ve already had a couple of times where I’m like, ‘All right, we’re going to Area 51. We’re going out to New Mexico. We’re gonna sort of get to the bottom of this.’ And then the timing of the trip just didn’t work out. But trust me, anybody who’s curious about this, I’m more curious than anybody, and I’ve got three years of the very tippy top of the classification. I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.” [Ryan Coleman, Entertainment Weekly, March 29, 2026.]

(Hmm . . . “From the “very tippy top . . . to the bottom of it.” Why does that sound like a man describing a premonition of his own future?)

But, as I tend to do, I digress.

So, just as I was envisioning him clad in his aluminum-foil body suit, carrying a portable Geiger counter or whatever UFOlogists use to detect aliens, he clarified:

“I don’t think they’re aliens. I think they’re demons.” [Id.]

Oh, well, then . . . that’s a whole different ballgame. He doesn’t need a Geiger counter; he needs to take along a priest who specializes in exorcisms.

I expected the next words from his mouth to be, “April fool!” But they weren’t. Instead, he told podcaster Benny Johnson that he believes “celestial beings, who fly around and do weird things to people” are not necessarily E.T.-type aliens. Rather, he said:

“I think that the desire to describe everything celestial [as] otherworldly, to describe it as aliens — I mean, every great world religion, including Christianity, the one that I believe in, has understood that there are weird things out there. And there are things that are very difficult to explain. And I naturally go, when I hear about sort of extra-natural phenomenon, that’s where I go to, is the Christian understanding. … There’s a lot of good out there, but there’s also some evil out there. And I think that one of the devil’s great tricks is to convince people he never existed.” [Id.]

(One further digression: I happen to think one of the devil’s great tricks is the current administration in Washington. But what do I know about the devil? I’m Jewish.)

Sadly, though, JD has been too busy with other things — more Earth-bound matters like a war, a tanking economy, and keeping his job — to pursue this particular interest. As he said, he has “not been able to spend enough time on this to really understand it.” But he is “more curious than anybody” about aliens, demons and such; and luckily:

“I’ve still got three more years as vice president. I will get to the bottom of the UFO files.” [Id.]

Really? Well, the way things are going, I wouldn’t count on that, JD.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
4/1/26

I just had to toss this out to my blog buddies and Facebook friends, because we need every bit of encouragement we can find in today’s world.

In an order just issued from the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia, Senior Judge Richard Leon has granted the request of the National Trust for Historic Preservation to temporarily stop work on the construction of Donald Trump’s 90,000-square-foot ballroom at the east end of the White House pending Congressional approval. In the Judge’s words:

“No statute comes close to giving the President the authority he claims to have.” [Lydia Wheeler, Wall Street Journal, March 31, 2026.]

Judge Leon went on to state:

“It is not too late for Congress to authorize the continued construction of the ballroom project. The President may at any time go to Congress to obtain express authority to construct a ballroom and to do so with private funds.” [Id.]

In other words, Trump is free to dream up all the crazy schemes he wants . . . but in order to implement them, he must follow all relevant Constitutional and other legal protocols.

The Justice Department — i.e., Pam Bondi — has already filed a notice that they will appeal Judge Leon’s ruling, which is their legal right. It will then be up to the U.S. Court of Appeals to consider and issue a ruling on the merits, presumably after the filing of written briefs and an oral hearing. That is what is known as due process . . . a concept with which too many people in Washington appear to be unfamiliar.

It is a process that takes time. And if it doesn’t pander to Trump’s childish, narcissistic need for instant gratification . . . well, that’s just too bad.

Thank you, Judge Leon, for honoring your oath to abide by the laws of the nation, and for reminding the unfaithful what this country is really about.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/31/26

Throughout my years of travel, I found much to love in every city and every country I was privileged to visit. Yet I always held tight to my U.S. passport, considering myself the most fortunate of people for having been born under the greatest political system ever devised by man.

Today, that democracy — or republic, if you prefer — is under attack by destructive internal forces never before experienced in our 250-year history. I believe those forces will fail, due both to their innate rot and to the will of the people to prevent them from stealing what is ours.

Is the United States a perfect country? Of course not. Countries are comprised of people, who are themselves inherently imperfect. Perhaps a fellow advocate of democracy — not an American, but a great British friend and ally — expressed it best:

“Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.”

– Winston S. Churchill, 11 November 1947

Imperfect people have yet to devise a perfect form of government. And until someone does, we Americans will continue to fight for the survival of our democracy. We will tolerate no tyrants, no dictators, no fascists.

And NO KINGS.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/31/26

In the 20th century alone, Hungary’s political fortunes fluctuated nearly as often as the weather.

Following the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the wake of World War I, Hungary lost some 71 percent of its territory and 66 percent of its population to surrounding nations. Seeking to regain its former territory and status, the government aligned with the Axis powers of Germany and Italy, carrying it head-first into World War II.

Following that devastation, which included the deportation and slaughter of hundreds of thousands of Hungarian Jews, there followed a brief period of quiet beginning in 1945 (Renaissance #1) . . . until the Communist Party seized power, creating the Hungarian People’s Republic in 1949.

A popular uprising in 1956 brought hope of renewal, but was quickly crushed by Soviet troops. And Hungary remained under the control of the USSR as part of the Soviet Bloc of nations until the fall of Communist rule in Eastern and Central Europe in 1989 (Renaissance #2).

When I visited Budapest in the fall of 1990, Hungary was in the throes of a great recovery: reinventing itself, yet again, as a free and democratic nation with a prosperous future.

Then along came Viktor Orban, who has served as Hungary’s Prime Minister on and off since 1998, and as head of its leading Fidesz Party since 2003. And in that position, he has become an ally and puppet of Vladimir Putin, using Hungary’s position in the EU to further Russia’s interests — even feeding information directly to Kremlin officials from strictly confidential EU meetings through Hungary’s Foreign Minister, Peter Szijjarto.

Orban’s autocratic governance of his country also mirrors that of Putin. But in the lead-up to parliamentary elections on April 12th, even Moscow’s blatant interference is failing to overcome the Hungarian people’s growing disaffection for Orban and his Fidesz Party. And a documentary film, aired last Thursday at a Budapest movie theater and on YouTube, has publicized the results of an independent six-month investigation, accusing Orban’s party of mass voter intimidation and corruption, even involving regional governments and police administrations. [Nick Thorpe, BBC, March 26, 2026.]

Recent polls show Peter Magyar’s center-right opposition party, Tisza, leading by an ever-widening margin. And for the first time in 16 years, it appears that Viktor Orban may be headed for the unemployment line. At a recent rally, he was met with boos from his supposed supporters, with some chanting Magyar’s name.

But nothing is certain in politics; and the EU is taking no chances. Well aware of Orban’s double-dealing activities, they are discussing steps to limit his influence within the bloc in the event he does win the election, including possible changes to voting rules, an increase in financial pressure, and — in extreme circumstances — possibly going so far as to suspend Hungary’s rights within the bloc altogether. [Julia Struck-Feshchenko, Kyiv Post, March 30, 2026.]

And when Orban’s power at home is gone — either through his loss of the election, or the diminishment of his authority within the EU — how long do you think his friendship with Putin will last?

I’m betting, about a Moscow minute.

And that would hopefully usher in Renaissance #3.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/31/26

The word is out: The Kremlin has banned the Academy Award-winning documentary, “Mr. Nobody Against Putin.” To the surprise of . . . well, absolutely no one . . . it will not be available for viewing in Russia.

A little thin-skinned, are we, Mr. P.? Worried about the people’s reaction? Maybe a popular revolt in the offing?

If so, you might want to get together with your good friend Donnie for a little one-on-one pity party — things aren’t going so well for him, either.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/30/26

There are two quotes from the writings of Umberto Eco that, when taken together, strike me as being particularly relevant to the actions and the psyche of someone you may recognize:

“[L]earning does not consist only of knowing what we must or we can do, but also of knowing what we could do and perhaps should not do.”

– Umberto Eco, “The Name of the Rose”

. . . and . . .

“I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”

– Umberto Eco, “Foucault’s Pendulum”

What do you suppose Umberto Eco would have said about a man who, having lived nearly 80 years, has learned nothing about right or wrong, cares nothing about learning, and whose “mad attempt” at interpreting the world has been designed and carried out through the narrow lens of his own totally selfish interests?

Or what happens when such an individual holds a seat of absolute power?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/30/26

While reading the daily update on Trump’s war against Iran yesterday, I got to thinking about the pre-Ayatollah history of that country, during the reign of the last Shah. And my thoughts turned to his widow, Farah Pahlavi, now 87 years old and living in the Washington, D.C., area.

I was going to write about my one interaction with her, but then I recalled already having done so, very briefly, as part of a longer blog post dated July 6, 2024. So I re-read that article, found myself chuckling again over some of my less-illustrious life experiences, and decided to share them once more, for any new readers or those who may have missed them the first time around.

And in the process, I realized that it’s not my imagination after all: life — or at least, my life — really was more fun 50 years ago. So here it is, updated ever-so-slightly:

*. *. *

7/6/24: THE BEST OF MY LIFE

People are forever talking about their “best” this, or their “favorite” that. Or they’re asking you about yours. And a lot of those are easy enough to answer (though often there’s a tie and you just can’t decide). For example, my favorite . . .

Broadway show: “Les Miz” — no contest.
Movie: “The Russia House” — know most of the dialogue by heart.
TV Series: “The West Wing,” “M*A*S*H,” “Downton Abbey”
Meal: Either the stuffed baked lobster at Mattakeese Wharf in Barnstable, Cape Cod, Massachusetts; or the Dover sole at a little restaurant downhill from the Royal Palace in Stockholm, Sweden.

Book: “The Charm School,” by Nelson DeMille.
Color: Blue. Or green. So, I guess . . . teal.
Vacation: Baltic Cruise on Holland America Lines, 2009.
Concerts: Paul Simon in Prague, 1991; Neil Diamond in Washington, D.C., around 1980.
Summer: Prague, May – August, 1991.
Desserts: Tiramisu. And coffee ice cream (not together).

Compliment: “Wow!” (It was the strapless gown. I was 18 and cute.)
Popular song: “The Sound of Silence,” by Simon & Garfunkel.
More recent popular song: “Hallelujah,” by Leonard Cohen.
More recent than that: None. Not a single, solitary one.
Classical composer: Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Beethoven . . . so many.
Popular composer: Paul McCartney, Simon & Garfunkel. It’s a tie.
Older popular composer: Irving Berlin

*. *. *

You get the idea. But these are pretty straightforward, to the point of being somewhat boring. The memories I prefer are the more, shall we say, unusual ones. Some are funny, some not so much . . . and some were red-faced-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here embarrassing. But they were memorable. Such as . . .

Best trip to Emergency Room. Picture it: Around 20 years old, monthly cramps, pitcher of whisky sours, sundeck on a hot day, cool shower, passed out, hit wood floor face-first, split chin open, no car, called EMTs, went to ER, got sewn up, had to return home in taxi . . . in cotton robe, nothing underneath, bare feet, big white dressing across chin, through crowded lobby of apartment building. My only comment: “You should see the other guy.” Talk of the building for weeks.

Best fender-bender. There’s really no such thing as a “good” accident, but this one was worse for the other guy than for me. In the usual bumper-to-bumper evening rush-hour traffic around the Jefferson Memorial in D.C., everyone had stopped except the driver behind me, whose front bumper French-kissed my rear bumper, audibly shattering something made of glass (turned out to be his headlight). We were exchanging insurance information when another car pulled over, a man and a woman exited the car and began walking toward us. The other driver — typically for people in larger cities — looked concerned, but I told him not to worry, as I knew the couple. In fact, they were a partner and a paralegal at the law firm in which I worked and they had obviously spotted me and were just making sure I was all right.

You could see the poor guy (the offending driver) deflate on the spot; he heard “lawyer,” and figured his life had just gone down the drain. I’m sure he had a couple of sleepless nights until I informed my insurance adjuster, who informed his insurance adjuster, who then informed him that I wasn’t injured . . . and in fact, my Datsun’s rock-solid bumper was barely even scratched. No damage, no law suit. He got lucky; but judging from the expression on his face when a lawyer showed up at the scene, he had already suffered his punishment.

Best breach of protocol. I can’t go into detail, but my firm at one time (in the ‘80s) had been retained to represent the widow of the last Shah of Iran in some commercial business matters. I never did meet her, and our representation of her was kept strictly confidential; but I was super impressed to be even indirectly connected to a royal family. Answering the phone one morning — just one of the dozens of calls I fielded during a typical day — I was stunned to hear a lovely, friendly female voice say, “Hello. This is Farah Pahlavi.”

Now, I was accustomed to dealing with people at high levels of industry and government, but was taken aback by the fact that an Empress would, first of all, place her own calls, and second, be so down-to-earth. At that moment, all of my years of training went out the window, and I heard myself replying, “Oh, hi. How are you?”

What the hell was wrong with me??!!! Did I think I was talking to my best friend? But before I could grab the scissors and kill myself, she stepped right in and said, “I’m fine, thank you. You must be Brenda. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Wow! That beautiful lady was and is the very soul of graciousness, and though I never did have the privilege of meeting her face-to-face, I have never forgotten her. And when I think of that conversation, I still do this:

Best funeral. My mother’s, actually. Okay, I know that’s beyond weird. But, to begin with, she died on my sister’s birthday, which should have served as a warning of things to come. The funeral was in Rhode Island, so there were travel and other arrangements to be made, and all as quickly as possible since we’re Jewish and that means no embalming and . . . well, you get the point.

There were a few little incidents that broke through the misery: my daughter packing seven pairs of socks and no toothbrush for the four-day trip; the rainy day that turned bright and sunny, as if on cue, just as we reached the cemetery; the man arriving at the cemetery whom my sister and daughter didn’t know and who gave me the biggest bear hug ever, leaving them wondering about my secret life; and swapping growing-up stories late that night with our aunt, my mother’s younger sister, all three of us breaking down in tearful, therapeutic laughter.

But the best moment occurred on the day before the actual funeral, when the Rabbi came to my aunt’s home to pay his respects. When he walked into the living room, where my sister and I were seated next to each other, we took one look at him, turned to each other, and in unison blurted out, “Mottel.” That Rabbi was the absolute image of Mottel the Tailor, from “Fiddler On the Roof.” And we both burst out laughing, leaving the poor man thinking he’d walked into an insane asylum. This was, after all, supposed to be a household in mourning. But sometimes you just need a good belly laugh, and apparently the previous night’s wasn’t enough.

Best time almost getting shot in a Russian museum. Well, the only time, really. Back in the day (1993) before smart phones and digital cameras, while living and working for a few months in Moscow, a good friend from Washington was staying with me for a couple of days on her way to meet up with her husband, who was in one of the former Soviet republics on business. With her was her teenage son, whose only request while there was to visit the Military Museum. As it happened, my next-door neighbors were a military family, and the husband offered to take us there. So the five of us piled into their little car; stopped for lunch at McDonald’s on the way (a real treat for the Russian couple); and headed for the museum, where the admission was free but I was required to pay one ruble for the privilege of taking pictures with my own camera.

Well, as I said, it was a film camera, and after snapping away for a while, the camera told me it was out of film by beeping at me — quite loudly, and repeatedly. “Beep! Beep! Beep!” And, like a scene from a Chevy Chase movie, everyone in the room froze as two armed Militia officers — the kind that are absolutely everywhere in Moscow — came running into the room, hands on holsters, ready for action. Instinctively holding the camera up in the air where they could see it, I shouted, “Nyet! Nyet! Fotoaparat! Fotoaparat!” (“No! No! Camera! Camera!”) (I couldn’t think fast enough to say “Don’t shoot!” in Russian.) Mercifully, their hands still on their holsters, they heard me, saw the camera up in the air, and came walking slowly and cautiously toward me as I turned off the beeper. They examined the offending device, decided it wasn’t a bomb, and everyone finally relaxed; in fact, we all had a rather hearty laugh in the end, once my neighbor identified himself as an army officer and vouched for me. Just another bizarre day in Moscow.

Best time passed out in 5-star restaurant. Nope, I’m not going through this whole story again. But it was hilarious enough to warrant its own blog post (6/13/24: “The Trauma of Turning Thirty” — check it out.)

*. *. *

My point, after all of this, is that it’s not the routine and mundane side of life that we value or remember throughout the decades. Nor is it necessarily just the good things. For me, at least, it’s the unusual, the bizarre, the quirky, even the embarrassing. Maybe I have a strange sense of humor, but it works for me. When I need to lighten up on a not-so-great day, I just call out to the universe, “Fotoaparat! Fotoaparat!” . . . and I recall once again that much of this life has, after all, been great fun.

You might want to give it a try. “Fotoaparat! Fotoaparat!”

Just sayin’ again . . .

Brendochka
3/30/26