Sisters have complicated relationships that many people find it difficult to describe. But I can sum it up in one sentence: “I can call her a bitch, but don’t you dare ever say a word against her or you’ll have me to answer to!”

Tomorrow — September 18th — would have been my sister Merna’s 90th birthday.

Six years ago, on this date in 2017, I was at one of the lowest points of my life. Merna was dying — not of the “traditional” plague of our family, cardiovascular disease, but of the thing we always said our family “didn’t do”: cancer. She had fought it once, suffered through six months of chemo, enjoyed a year and a half in remission, and then . . . WHAM! . . . it metastasized. And when the doctor told her that a second round of chemo would only buy her an additional couple of months — and miserable months at that — she chose to stop fighting the inevitable. And now we were in a holding pattern, with me trying to take care of her as best I could, with the help of some wonderful home health care folks. I cooked her favorite foods, even though she had little appetite; and I appointed myself her entertainment committee — a committee of one — to try to keep her spirits up. Which isn’t easy, when there’s no one around to do the same for you at the end of the day.

I’ve written about Merna before, so you know that she and I were BFFs. Not for our entire lives, but since the death of our mother back in 1991, when we finally came to realize that the lady who was supposed to have had our best interests at heart before her own . . . hadn’t always. Now, without her constant presence, we were able to enjoy each other’s company. And we did. We frequented Washington’s outstanding theaters, sampled a wide variety of foods at dozens of restaurants, shopped at every mall within a 25-mile radius, toured the countless museums, saw movie after movie, and discovered cruising on Holland America’s big ships. And, though we lived just a block apart from one another, we spoke on the phone a dozen times a day. Little things, silly things, meaningless things. And I still do that.

Well, not actually, of course. I mean, her number’s long since been disconnected, and I haven’t completely lost touch with reality. But I still think about reaching for the phone several times each day, and oh, how I miss those conversations. So when things pop into my mind that she would have wanted to know about, or there’s a name I can’t recall, or something I think she needs to be reminded of — then I imagine the talks, playing both roles, and wishing . . . well, you know.

So what do we talk about in my imagination? Well, mostly details from the past, because there’s no one else left now who can remember the things we shared. Like . . .

Me: Hey, what was the name of the actor who played opposite that actress . . . oh, who was she? . . . you know, in that movie we both hated? Merna: Well, that’s helpful. How the hell should I know?

Or . . .

Me: Don’t forget, it’s a pint of sour cream for the cheesecake, not half a pint. Merna: Yes, I know! You’ve only told me a thousand times.

Or (agonizing over a Sunday crossword) . . .

Me: What’s a four-letter word for a “piercing implement,” beginning with “f” and ending with “k”? Merna: It’s “fork,” you idiot!

Sometimes I really got on her nerves. But then there would be the funny reminiscences . . .

Me: Remember when Mother had a couple of drinks and dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor? Merna: Yes . . . and it was already cooked!

And . . .

Me: Remember how embarrassed you were when you fell off the bar stool at the Jockey Club? Merna: Yeah . . . Well, that really wasn’t funny, you know! Me: Not funny for you, but watching it was hilarious. I do remember the bruises, though. Merna: Bitch!

Or, wistfully . . .

Me: Remember that Mother’s Day in Richmond at the “choo-choo” restaurant near the train station? Merna: Oh, yeah, when the kids were little and so cute. (Both sigh.)

And . . .

Me: Remember Mother’s reaction when she found out you’d been in Vietnam instead of Bangkok, and that I knew it all along? Merna: Boy, was she pissed! She swore she’d never trust either of us again. Me: Well, she never did anyway, so what kind of threat was that? Both: (Laughing together.)

Or about shopping . . .

Me: Did you see that three-piece outfit in the Lands End catalogue? I think I’m going to order it. Merna: Seriously? I just did, in blue. Just be sure to get it in a different color. Me: Never mind, then. I’m tired of people asking if we’re twins.

Or remembrances of things like surviving Hurricane Agnes in 1972, and the blizzard of ‘83; old boyfriends and disastrous blind dates; binge-watching Downton Abbey together; the time we were so angry we didn’t talk for weeks over something we couldn’t even remember later; flying to Rhode Island for our mother’s funeral, with her (in her casket) in the cargo hold on the same plane; and the countless times I embarrassed my poor sister by saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right moment. Little things, all funny now.

*. *. *

These days, I even miss hearing — for the 100th time — stories of her adventures in Vietnam in the late ‘60s, and me retelling mine from Russia in the early ‘90s. And even the no-longer-funny jokes and catch-phrases from decades past. And ending our last call of each evening with a repeat of the Huntley-Brinkley News sign-off: “Good Night, Chet; good night, David.”

And I miss something I’ve never actually had: the one person who would unfailingly have read every single chapter of my blog, word for word, from beginning to end, and would always have said they were great, even when they weren’t so hot. But she didn’t live long enough to see them.

Or maybe she still can. I hope so . . . especially this one, because it’s for her. Happy birthday, “Merner,”* wherever you are. I miss you way more than I ever thought I would.

Love,
“Brender”*
9/17/23

* New England pronunciation: always drop the “r” at the end of a word, or add one where there is none.

Viktor Bout. Not exactly a household name, unless you happen to have been, say, an African, Middle Eastern, or almost any nationality rebel, terrorist or militant mercenary trafficking in large quantities of assault weapons, missiles and the like. Then you might have known him well, a dozen or so years ago. Because he could possibly have been your go-to guy for those weapons — though he’ll deny it, of course.

Now 56, Mr. Bout (pronounced “Boot”) was once at or near the top of the world’s “most-wanted” list, ignoring sanctions and evading capture while he and his people flew his fleet of planes around the world to deliver his deadly “goods” to his customers, thus earning him the nickname of the Merchant of Death. He was finally caught in a U.S. sting operation in Bangkok in 2008, extradited to the U.S., and convicted in 2011 on four felony charges including conspiracy to kill U.S. citizens. He was sentenced to 25 years in federal prison. That’s a long fall.

But he had only served about ten years of that sentence when his luck changed. A foolish young professional basketball star, on her way to her off-season tour in Russia in February of 2022, was arrested at the airport in Moscow for transporting a small amount of cannabis oil into the country in her luggage. Her name was Brittney Griner. She was sentenced to an outrageous term of nine years to be served in a penal colony in the middle of Russia’s vast nowhere.

And here is where Viktor Bout got lucky. The details of the negotiations between the two governments have, of course, not been made public; but in December of 2022, a swap was agreed upon: a basketball player with a little bit of cannabis oil for personal use, in exchange for an arms dealer who provided weapons for terrorists and other killers.

What the hell . . . ??!!!

Now, please don’t get me wrong. I’m very happy that Ms. Griner is safely at home. She did break the law; but I think ten months is more than enough time for her to have been incarcerated for her minor offense; in fact, a fine probably would have been sufficient. The problem I’m having is trying to understand why we would release someone like Viktor Bout under any circumstances? Do we really believe he’s been rehabilitated? Is he now a harmless old man who will simply live out his remaining years in lonely seclusion? Seriously? Ms. Griner has come home to resume her life as a law-abiding, tax-paying, family-oriented citizen. Can we expect the same of Mr. Bout?

Well, let’s see. He’s only 56 years old, with presumably a good many active years to look forward to. His background is that of the worst kind of criminal. He’s been at home in Russia for eight months now. A mere four days after returning home, he became a registered member of the LDPR, the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia — a party that in reality is neither liberal nor democratic. He was in attendance at the Russia-Africa Summit meeting in St. Petersburg in July, indicating that he has already resumed connections both in the Russian hierarchy and with some of his former “business” contacts in Africa. (And by the way, perhaps coincidentally, that was the same summit meeting at which the controversial Yevgeny Prigozhin was photographed in a rare, and brief, public appearance before being disposed of in a plane crash barely a month later.)

And now, Mr. Bout is running for office. What a surprise! It seems to be a popular choice among Russians who have been caught serving the Kremlin in nefarious ways in foreign lands and who later need a means of re-entering the mainstream at home. Dmitri Kovtun and Andrei Lugovoi, for example, evaded capture by U.K. authorities for the fatal poisoning of Aleksandr Litvinenko in London in 2006; Maria Butina was released and deported back to Russia in 2019 after serving 14 months of an 18-month sentence in the U.S. on charges of having served as an unregistered foreign agent. Today, both Lugovoi and Butina are members of the Russian State Duma. Welcome home.

In Mr. Bout’s case, he is starting small, running for office at the regional level in Ulyanovsk, a city located on the banks of the Volga River, with no apparent claim to fame other than having been the birthplace of one Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov — better known to the world as Vladimir Lenin. Do I sense a touch of irony? Or is it, again, simply coincidence?

We shall see, as we observe the speed with which the Merchant of Death rises in the political arena of his native land. Or perhaps he will better serve the Kremlin in a different, behind-the-scenes capacity. Whatever the answer, you can be sure it will be decided and carried out at the pleasure of Tsar Putin.

And it was all made possible by a grant from the United States Government. Not, in my opinion, one of our better decisions.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/16/23

Before you start sending me referrals to anger management classes, let me assure you that this is not about deep, soul-searing hatred. Certainly I’ve disliked a few people throughout my life, as we all have, but not to the point of committing any sort of mayhem. No, I’m just thinking about the little things in life — annoyances, really — that catch you in the wrong mood one day so that you unwittingly emit a low, throaty “Grrrrr,” or just blurt out “Oh, I hate that!” Things like . . . oh, say . . .

Circular voice mail: Probably No. 1 on nearly everyone’s hate list, right? Not all phone systems are evil, and they do serve a useful purpose. But when the options don’t include one for your particular need, and you keep pushing “0” or yelling “Operator” and “Representative,” all to no avail — well, that’s when you really wish you could reach out and touch someone . . . hard. Very, very hard.

Manicures. I’ve never had a professional manicure. (And I would never, ever have something called a “mani-pedi,” simply because I think it’s a stupid name.) But why not the manicure? Because I don’t like the way most manicurists shape nails these days, and they’re not very good at deviating from the current trend. I like my nails oval, not straight across with corners. I hate those corners. And I hate cuticles, because they have to be pushed back and sometimes it hurts. And nail polish just chips after a day or two, so it’s a total waste of time and money anyway. I’d rather spend it on a nice chai latte and a cranberry scone at that very expensive coffee shop. At least that will stay with you for a while . . . though unfortunately on your hips.

Compound Names. You know the ones I mean: the famous couples who are given nicknames that will forever link them to each other, long after the romance has ended. Think about Bennifer, Speidi, Kimye, Brangelina and Tomkat, to name just a few. (OMG, spellcheck actually recognizes Kimye!) And there are the people who mix together their own first and last names, like J-Lo and A-Rod and K-Fed. Didn’t their parents give them perfectly good names? What’s wrong with Jennifer, or Alex, or Kevin? Although I do have a good one for Elon Musk, whose first name isn’t all that great anyway. How about “E-Mu”? Unless, of course, that insurance company’s big feathered mascot has any objection.

Online Scrabble. I like it, actually; I play regularly with three people (one of whom I even know). But when it won’t recognize a word that Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary confirms is a real word, or when it will accept some proper names but not others . . . well, then, it becomes the enemy because you can’t freakin’ argue with the computer. Grrrrr!

Auto-correct. Don’t tell me what I meant to say! I hate it when you do that!

Bad grammar. If you’ve been reading me for a while, you’ve probably figured out that I am really, really compulsive about English: the grammar, spelling, sentence structure, the whole nine yards. Not that I expect people to obsess over every word they speak; a little bit of slang and a few regional expressions add pizzazz and personality to a conversation. And who really cares about split infinitives any more? But the written word . . . ah, that is something else entirely. And the absolutely worst offenders, in my view, are the writers and reporters who bring us the daily news. These are supposedly educated, intelligent people; but if they can’t tell an adverb from an adjective, or a possessive from a plural . . . well, then, they need to go back to school or start looking for a different job. Or maybe just hire a proofreader who knows what they’re doing. (I am available, by the way, but I’m very expensive and only work from home.)

Pop-up tissues that don’t pop up. Digging down into the box to try to grab a single tissue when you feel a huge sneeze coming on . . . nobody likes that.

Emails. All the ones that are just trying to sell you something you will never want or need. And especially the ones that start out offering you “Congratulations!” But at least those are easy to deal with: Delete.

Misrepresented foods. Have you ever paid $6 or $7 for a small pre-made salad that looks delicious until you get it home and find that all the good stuff — the meat, cheese, hard-boiled egg, whatever — is in a thin layer on top, and the other 90% is wilted lettuce? Did you not want to go back to the store and throw the remains at the produce guy? The same goes for that cute container of cubed cantaloupe that was just the ticket for tonight’s low-cal snack — except that the clown who prepared it couldn’t tell a ripe melon from an unripe one if you jammed his face down into it . . . Oh, sorry. Maybe there is a bit of an anger issue here after all.

And finally . . .

Online ads. Not just any ads, but the same ones, over and over and over and over . . . especially the ones for stupid computer games, like that obnoxious little emperor who keeps finding himself in life-threatening situations. I really hate that one! Sometimes I want to play it just so I can let him DIE.

Oh, dear . . . I seem to be getting a little worked up here, don’t I? Anyone got the name of that anger management group handy?

(Deep breaths.)

I’m okay now, thanks. See you tomorrow.

Brendochka
9/15/23

“Et tu, Brute?”

Supposedly, those were Julius Caesar’s last words as he saw his trusted friend, Marcus Brutus, raise his arm to administer the final, fatal wound on that infamous day, the Ides of March in the year 44 B.C.E.

And, quite possibly, they are now also the stuff of Vladimir Putin’s nightmares in this year of 2023 A.D., since — according to those in a position to know — he hasn’t been sleeping well lately.

In 1988, then PLO leader Yasser Arafat revealed in a Time Magazine interview that he never slept in the same bed two nights in a row because of his fear of assassination by Israeli forces. It seems that Mr. Putin has been thinking along the same lines, and taking similar — if not identical — precautions.

A former officer of Russia’s Federal Security Service (FSO), Vitalii Brizhatyi, recently gave an exclusive interview on the independent Russian TV channel Dozhd, about his observations while he was responsible for security at the secret Crimean residences of Vladimir Putin, Dmitry Medvedev (Deputy Chairman of the Russian Security Council), and Aleksandr Bortnikov (head of the FSO) — all located in close proximity to one another on a remote promontory overlooking the Black Sea.

According to Mr. Brizhatyi, Putin no longer trusts even his own security personnel. He may, for example, tell the guards he will be working or resting in one location when he is actually somewhere entirely different. When traveling to Crimea, he will announce his scheduled arrival at two different airports, where his security teams will be waiting for him, while he chooses a third, completely different means of transportation. One can only imagine the precautions that are taken at mealtime to ensure that his food hasn’t been poisoned!

In addition, Mr. Brizhatyi said that FSO personnel at the Crimea location were “strictly prohibited from communicating with Ukrainian relatives, citizens of the United States, the European Union, or anyone opposing the war, under the threat of criminal prosecution.” Those who might attempt to quit and leave were threatened with deployment to the front lines. Ultimately, Mr. Brizhatyi was somehow able to secure foreign passports for himself and his wife along with residency permits in Ecuador, where they now reside. Details of his departure were not made available in the recent report of the interview.

So it seems that Mr. Putin’s deeds may finally have caught up with him . . . emotionally, at least. I doubt that he has suddenly grown a conscience; but surely he understands human nature, and realizes — or perhaps simply imagines — that his enemies are out there, waiting to strike. Is it paranoia? Only if it’s not true. In either case, it makes him an even more dangerous foe. Look at what it did to Josef Stalin and those he came to distrust.

Mr. Putin may or may not be familiar with the biblical passage, “. . . all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.” (Matthew 26:52). Or maybe he’s simply heard this more updated version: “What goes around, comes around.” In any case, it appears that he is shaking in his proverbial boots. Too bad, Vlad. You should have thought of all the possible consequences before you started down your personal road to perdition.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/14/23

It’s early fall in far eastern Russia. The huge, heavily-armored, puke-green train chugs into the railroad station, where a seriously overweight man named Kim disembarks and enters a waiting limousine for the ride to the Vostochny Cosmodrome — the Russian space station not far from the city of Vladivostok. There, the fat man is greeted by a much, much smaller man named Vlad. They smile broadly; they shake hands; and Vlad speaks first.

Vlad: Greetings, President Kim; long time no see. Welcome to our glorious motherland and our beautiful Cosmodrome. We are delighted that you were able to join us here before our upcoming economic conference in Vladivostok. I hope that your journey was comfort . . .

Kim: Uh-huh.

(The handshake ends as they walk toward a nearby building.)

Vlad: And here we have our elegant conference center, where we can meet in comfort and privacy, and perhaps enjoy a repast . . .

Kim: Uh-huh.

(They enter the building and are seated, surrounded by interpreters and security guards.)

Vlad: I know you are most anxious to view our very advanced space program and an actual rocket ship, as well as our nuclear . . .

Kim: Uh-huh.

Vlad: But first, perhaps you would like to discuss our agricultural program . . .

Kim: We take food. Much food.

Vlad: Da, da. Of course. I understand. And we are in a position to provide whatever you need. We can iron out the details . . .

Kim: Uh-huh.

Vlad: And of course we are also willing to share with you our advanced technology for our nuclear missiles . . .

Kim: Yes. We take.

Vlad: Khorosho. Good, good. Of course, we would also like to discuss the matter of the excellent North Korean weapons that we need for the furtherance of our Special Military Operation in Ukraine . . .

Kim: Yes, yes. We eat now.

*. *. *

There followed what must have been one hell of a lunch, because they reportedly remained together for a total of five hours. Both men are surely adept at speaking with their mouths full of food (on top of the voluminous ration of bullshit that usually flows from those gaping maws), because it is reported that the following was achieved during the historic exchange:

“Practically, Russia gets artillery shells and missiles. North Korea, in exchange, gets food aid and possibly technology that can help develop its nuclear and missile programme.” [BBC News, September 13, 2023.]

*. *. *

This is where my head drooped and I woke up, my hands still positioned on the keyboard — which never seems to leave my lap these days. I really must stop obsessing over the daily news; my dreams are becoming weirder and weirder . . .

Kim: Uh-huh!

TTFN,
Brendochka
9/13/23

Mwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!!

Good. Now that I’ve got that out of the way, maybe I can actually think, and write, coherently.

It’s hard to stop laughing when you’ve just read an article about Vladimir Putin — in a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black — speaking about the “rottenness” of the U.S. political system because (according to him) “Everything that is happening to Trump is a politically-motivated persecution of a political rival,” which “. . . just exposed their [America’s] internal problems.”

Okay, then. A lot of people — even a lot of Americans — would tend to agree with that; and a lot would argue the exact opposite. That’s fine; as Americans, we are free to do that. But I’m not here to discuss Donald Trump. It’s just that, coming from Vladimir Putin, it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .

Mwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!!!!

Oh, I’m sorry. I just can’t get past the image of that lying, scheming, murdering little criminal, sitting on his throne and signing decree after decree robbing his people of every single human right they’ve ever had; having his detractors imprisoned or murdered for speaking against him; sending tens of thousands of young men to their deaths in a war that he started for his own narcissistic purposes; wiping out entire cities and slaughtering civilian populations without a second thought; starving innocent people in other countries by cutting off their food supply from Ukraine . . . and at the same time having the cojones to call someone else “rotten.” Please tell me: What parallel universe is he living in??

I suppose it’s all part of the narcissism, and his paranoia, and perhaps even a minuscule bit of deeply-buried, unacknowledged regret, that are now causing him to look at his mirror image and think he’s seeing someone else. I know I’m not a psychologist, but that’s the best I can come up with at the moment. Does he really not know what he is, or what he’s done and is continuing to do? Is he so deeply mired in his own delusions that he just keeps digging himself deeper and deeper into his self-made hole? Isn’t that the very definition of psychosis?

And what if, one day, he should wake up and have an “aha moment”? What is he likely to do when he realizes how desperate he is to find a way out of that hole, and that he’s just about run out of options? I’m not sure I’ll be laughing then.

*. *. *

In the meantime, though, there are immediate consequences being observed among his own people. Aside from the mass exodus of men of military age, there is also the start of a “brain drain” — the departure of increasing numbers of professionals, scientists, technical experts, academics, and others so vital to a country’s continued advancement.

And, to me, the most disturbing sign of all was a small article in Monday’s news. In a school in Rostov Oblast, Russia, 15-year-old Grigory B., wearing a Guy Fawkes mask,* got into a confrontation with a janitor. Grigory pulled out a kitchen knife he had brought to school with him, other adults intervened, and three people were stabbed (not fatally) before security forces were able to bring the boy under control. While being arrested, he shouted that he was being attacked by “Ukrainians” and “Poles.” It turns out that he is a member of a pro-Putin youth movement known as Yunarmiya (“Youth Army”), considered to be the equivalent of the Hitler Youth, “engaged in brainwashing Russian schoolchildren with various fakes about the ‘terrible’ countries of the West and the ‘greatness’ of Russia.” [New York Times, September 11, 2023.] I’m hearing echoes of the Cold War years, and it scares me.

The power of propaganda — particularly when directed, day after day, at the minds of the youngest and most vulnerable — is terrible to behold. We’ve seen what it did for Hitler, and for Stalin. Are we about to see it again?

Not laughing now . . .

Brendochka
9/13/23

* Guy Fawkes (1570-1606): A member of a group of provincial English Catholics involved in the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605, a plan to assassinate King James I and restore a Catholic monarch to the throne.

I wonder why it is that we always seem to remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when tragedy struck, and perhaps not so clearly when the news was good. Maybe it’s because the tragedies are the events that we tend to commemorate with anniversaries: Pearl Harbor Day, the day John F. Kennedy was killed, and 9-11, to name just three. It’s that last one, its anniversary recalled just yesterday for the 22nd time, that started me thinking about this. And so, into the past . . .

Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941: Yes, I was alive the day the Japanese bombed our base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, bringing our country into a war that had already been raging in Europe for two years and that we could now no longer avoid. But I was just two years old, so I have no actual memory of it. It was a Sunday, and I would have to assume that I was at home with my family, or visiting grandparents as we often did on Sundays . . . all of us blissfully unaware of the four years of horror about to descend on our peace-loving nation and the world.

Death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, April 12, 1945: I was a precocious six-year-old by this time, and I do recall sitting by the radio with my family, listening to the news that our beloved President had passed away at his “Little White House” in Warm Springs, Georgia. I remember it because I don’t believe I had ever before seen my mother cry.

VE Day (Victory in Europe), May 8, 1945: This one was actually the end of a tragic period, and thus a happy day. I was outside in our front yard with my sister when our mother called out the window that the war was over! My sister, who was 5-1/2 years older than I, was excited and began dancing around our apple tree. Never one to miss a good time, I joined in. I’m not sure I fully understood the significance of the moment, but it was fun. Although this was good news, there was sadness in realizing that President Roosevelt had missed — by less than a month — living to see the end of the war through which he had guided our country for four long years.

VJ Day (Victory over Japan), August 15, 1945: Although the official document ending the war in Japan wasn’t signed until September 2nd, it is August 15th — the date on which Japanese Emperor Hirohito announced his country’s surrender — that is celebrated as VJ Day. Again, I was at home, as it was summer vacation from school; and I vaguely recall this being a more subdued occasion than VE Day had been, because we were still digesting the horror of the two atom bombs it had taken to finally declare victory for our side. For me, it was the beginning of many years of nightmares featuring mushroom-shaped clouds of death and destruction.

Assassination of John F. Kennedy, November 22, 1963: No one who was alive that day could ever forget it. I was at home, feeding lunch to my four-month-old son and listening to a music program on the radio, when the announcer broke into the programming with a news bulletin. I felt as though my heart had stopped, and for a moment I couldn’t move. Then I grabbed for the phone to call my husband, but I couldn’t get a dial tone for the longest time. Finally, he got through to me. I somehow managed to finish my baby’s lunchtime, but the next few days passed in a total blur, with everyone glued to the TV programming about the unimaginable disaster, followed shortly by the on-camera murder of the accused assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, by some guy named Jack Ruby. It was, not just one day, but a week never to be forgotten.

Assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., and D.C. Race Riots, April 4-8, 1968: A little over four years later, another week of horror. I was at work that Thursday when the word spread that MLK had been shot and killed in Memphis. And, in what seemed like an event of spontaneous combustion, whole sections of Washington erupted in flames and rioting that did not stop for four days. That Friday evening, I sat with friends in their high-rise apartment in suburban Arlington, Virginia, watching the distant flames reaching toward the sky, and trying to get drunk enough not to feel anything. It didn’t work.

Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, June 5, 1968: The younger brother of JFK, against the advice of friends and family, was running for the presidency that had taken his brother’s life. At a rally in Los Angeles, he too was shot and killed. At the time, I was working for a small law firm that included Bobby Kennedy’s California campaign manager, Fred Dutton, who was in L.A. with Kennedy at the time. I heard the news at home in the morning, but dutifully went to work anyway. I was the only one there, and soon received a call from one of the partners telling me to close the office and go home. The Kennedy family — the closest thing the United States had to royalty — had once again been struck by unimaginable tragedy. But not for the last time.

Resignation of President Richard M. Nixon, August 8, 1974: This was a first, and we prayed it would be the last. It was the culmination of two years of what had become known simply as “Watergate.” And half a century later, we still haven’t stopped talking about it, or comparing it to current events. It invaded our lives and monopolized our thoughts and our conversations from the time of the break-in at Democratic National Committee (DNC) headquarters in the Watergate complex on June 17, 1972. And then, finally, it came to a climax when a president gave in to the threat of impeachment, resigned, and waved goodbye from the doorway of a helicopter. And, like most of America, I was watching his departure on television. One more day never to be forgotten.

The Fall of Saigon, April 30, 1975: The end of a 20-year fight in South Vietnam against the communist regime of the North (as backed by China and the Soviet Union), it became known in the history of our country as the only war America had ever lost, and it remains a dark stain on our record. My sister had been in Saigon in 1966-67, as a civilian member of a team with a government R&D contract, and I spent a good bit of time trying to console her when she heard the tragic news. For her it was personal, and she was devastated; but I was just glad she had returned home safely, well before the chaotic end.

Berlin Wall Breached, November 9, 1989: Another piece of good news to be remembered, and seemingly too good to be true: the beginning of the end of the communist regime in Eastern Europe, when an East German Communist Party spokesman erroneously announced that the citizens of both East and West Germany were free to cross into each other’s territories. And the wall came a-tumblin’ down. As usual, I was at work, sharing the startling news with friends and predicting — incorrectly — that it wouldn’t last; “walls can be rebuilt, you know,” I told people. Ever the skeptic . . . and I still am, 34 years later.

End of the Cold War, December 25, 1991: It had been coming for two years, but on December 25, 1991, Mikhail Gorbachev officially resigned as head of the Russian government, and Boris Yeltsin plopped himself into Gorby’s chair. It was Christmas day, and like most people, I got to share this event with my family. My mother had just passed away in September, so Christmas felt strange that year and we needed some good news. The Cold War was finally over . . . officially. But sometimes appearances and reality are very different things.

9-11 Terrorist Attacks, September 11, 2001: Unless you’re very, very young, you don’t even have to think about this one; you know where you were. I was in my car, on my way to work, listening to the radio as usual. When the announcement came of the first tower being hit, I thought only of what a horrifying disaster it was, and wondered how it could have happened on such a bright, clear, sunny day. When the second one was hit, the whole world knew it was no accident. I continued on to work, where I heard about the third plane striking the Pentagon, and ran to the window to see the smoke rising from across the Potomac River. And the first word to cross my mind was “war.” I went home shortly afterward, and stayed there for two days, shaken to the core.

All of those earlier events of which I have written here were just practice for this one.

*. *. *

Of course, I have many happy memories too. And the ones that leap immediately to mind are the ones that followed each of these monumental events: memories of the way the people of this incredible country — without any urging or need for encouragement — came together as one, to fight, to survive, and to heal. We got through the worst of times with a renewed spirit of patriotism, of love for our country, and respect for one another.

But why should it take a war, or an assassination, or a terrorist attack to remind us of who we are and what we stand for? There must be a way to keep that spirit alive . . . today, tomorrow, and always.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/12/23

I don’t pretend to understand it, which is probably why it terrifies me.

And doubly frightening is knowing that our enemies do understand it — altogether too well, apparently.

I’m talking about China this time. Not that I’m surprised at the extent of their scientific knowledge and abilities. Quite the contrary. What worries the hell out of me is what they might do with all of that knowledge. And this is not a “some day” problem, because “some day” is now.

A headline from CNN’s Sean Lyngaas caught my eye the other day. It read: “Suspected Chinese operatives using AI generated images to spread disinformation among US voters, Microsoft says.”

As my sainted grandmother would have said: “Oy, vey!”

My reaction — much less restrained — was a very vocal: “Holy crap!”

To quote just the first paragraph of Mr. Lyngaas’ report: “Suspected Chinese operatives have used images made by artificial intelligence to mimic American voters online in an attempt to spread disinformation and provoke discussion on divisive political issues as the 2024 US election approaches, Microsoft analysts warned Thursday.”

He goes on to explain what is known about their methods, which, as I’ve said, may as well be written in the language of another planet as far as I’m concerned. To me, the most worrisome (to put it mildly) part of the article is this: “The concern is that foreign operatives will amplify an already-ripe domestic information environment. 69% of Republicans and Republican-leaners still say Biden’s 2020 win was not legitimate, according to a CNN poll in July.”

And I say: Don’t we have enough freakin’ problems already??!!!

You know we do. It’s nearly impossible to bring up any political issue these days without fear of starting a riot. People become angry . . . violently so. We haven’t yet gotten past the January 6th D.C. riots of almost three years ago, and there’s another election on the near horizon. Our American citizenry has become positively uncivilized — driven by anger and hatred so all-consuming we’ve forgotten how to be decent to one another. And we need this meddling from another country like we need . . .

Hey! Wait just a damned minute! (Slapping hand against forehead.) This is nothing new — it’s just an updated version of an old story. Four years ago, it was the Russians who stuck their noses into our election; now it’s the trolls from China. There’s no real difference . . . it’s just geography.

Surely, if China has the technology to create the problem, then we have the technology needed to combat it. We just need to be on the ball, and thanks to Microsoft and others of their ilk, it appears that we are. At least, I hope so.

*. *. *

But thinking a little outside the issue of the coming election, it’s not only politics that brings out the anger in people these days — it’s practically everything. A little fender-bender, someone cutting in line at the checkout counter, or your child calling my child a hurtful name. Things that, in a more civilized time, would have been shrugged off, or settled calmly and reasonably. But now, someone pulls out a gun and 14 people become collateral damage. What is causing this mob-like mentality?

Could it possibly be that our already stressful lives are exacerbated via the seeds of discord being spread on social media . . . by who-knows-whom? China? Russia? North Korea? It’s not new. In the mid-1900s, it was person-to-person propaganda. The “Red Scare,” while greatly exaggerated by the McCarthy witch hunt, was not the product of someone’s imagination. It was real. Now, it’s just faster and easier to disseminate the disinformation through electronic means.

But it’s our reactions that are the bigger problem here. We have become animalistic, gnashing out at anyone or anything we perceive as being — not just threatening — but simply different from our way of thinking and doing and living. What has happened to “live and let live,” “to each his own,” or the right to free speech for every individual . . . not just you?

*. *. *

Once more, I’m guilty of presenting a lot of questions for which I have no solutions. If I did, I’d be a hero. But I can do my part by practicing what I preach: perhaps being the first candle to be lighted in the dark night.

P.S. It is no coincidence that I am writing this on the 22nd anniversary of one of the darkest of our country’s days: September 11, 2001. Let us never forget what our enemies have tried to do to us before, and how we have always pulled together to show them what we’re really made of. Let us once again be proud to be Americans.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/11/23

As told by Otter #841, a.k.a. Laverna:

Hi. My name is Laverna, although the nice folks at the otter hospital call me 841. You see, I am an otter, and I guess to you people, we all look alike or something. I get that. I do.

Anyway, I live in the beautiful waters of Monterey Bay, off the coast of California, where the incredible ecosystem is perfect for us otters and all kinds of other water creatures. It’s our happy place, where Mother Nature meant us to live out our lives. I believe that. I do.

Of course, life has its problems, and sometimes one of my relatives will get sick, or maybe get in the way of a shark or something. And that’s where the otter hospital really helps us. They even saved my mother’s life once. Her name is 723, and they fixed her up when she was hurt. So I love them. I do.

But now there’s a big problem. It’s the people — not the ones from the otter hospital, but the ones who think it’s okay to invade our home and mess things up, just like they do on land. They come in big groups with their surfboards, and they make all kinds of noise, and they feed us food that’s not good for us, just because they think we’re cute or something. And they leave their trash in the water. And I get really, really upset about that. I do.

So I thought and thought about it, and one day I had a really cool idea. Maybe if I made those people stop liking us, they would go away and leave us alone. So I did a bad thing: I snatched one of their surfboards away from them. And I practiced and practiced until I figured out how to ride it. And it was fun. It was.

But those people weren’t very smart, because they didn’t take the hint. So I had to keep doing it, and those stupid people just thought it was funny and they told their friends, and more people kept coming, and I only made things worse instead of better. So now I’m in trouble, and the folks at the otter hospital are trying to catch me because they say I need protection and something called rehoming or something. And now I’m really, really scared. I am.

‘Cause I don’t understand why my family and friends can’t be left alone, and why we have to move somewhere else and let those people take over our water home. We don’t mess up your land homes, do we? I just don’t think it’s very fair. I don’t.

So now I have another idea. Why can’t the people who make the rules just make one that says no people in the otters’ homes? I mean, there’s lots of other beaches in California, right? I think that’s fair. I do.

‘Cause “otterwise” pretty soon there may not be any more otters for you people to look at. And I think that would be a really, really bad thing. Don’t you?

I do.

Love,
Laverna (841)
9/10/23

Pinch me — I know I must be dreaming. Is it possible that what I just read is true?

I’m looking at a news article right now that says if I fly out to California with another idiot . . . er, person . . . by September 30th, and show up at the right place and the right time somewhere in Costa Mesa, we can — for only $23,000 — not only hear Donald Trump rant . . . er, speak . . . but can also attend a VIP reception and — GASP! — get our picture taken with him. Oh! My! God! I’d better start packing now. What will I wear? Gotta get my hair done. Need plane tickets, hotel reservation, rental car. Where the hell is Costa Mesa, anyway?

Oh . . . and a quickie bank loan. Mustn’t forget the money.

*. *. *

Wait . . . wait. Calm down. Breathe in. Exhale. In. Out. Okay now, relax. Take it easy. And listen to yourself.

What in the name of all that’s holy could I be thinking? Is there a person on earth — dead or alive — worth paying that kind of money to see? Much less the one who’s auctioning himself off in this instance? Seriously? I don’t care how much money you have — that’s just a stupid way to spend it. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I’m really into having my face photographed alongside the face of a famous person, be it a politician, an actor, or a rock star. In this case, for only $34, I can just buy one of his mug-shot t-shirts and take a selfie. And, assuming that I’ve still got the $23,000 just lying around, think of what else I could do with it.

Examples: Help some of those poor victims of the earthquake in Morocco. Or the Ukrainian war survivors. Or the starving people in drought-stricken Africa. Or, right here in my own country, people made homeless by floods, wildfires, and other disasters. Or sick children . . . abandoned and mistreated animals . . . wounded veterans . . . There’s no end to the list.

Bottom line: Why in hell would I want to throw out that kind of money — or any amount of money — to benefit someone who already has billions of dollars of his own? And for what? For the sake of his Political Action Committee? His inflated ego?

Sorry, Donnie. Enjoy the rubber chicken dinner and the adulation of your misguided followers. I’m too smart for that s**t.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/10/23