Blog Archives

Day 190

7/28/2017

The Very, Very Bad Place Donald Trump Is Taking Us

July 28, 2017

THIS IS CAT. I’ll be handling today’s blog, and I should explain why.
Like many news organizations, we at On Trump’s Trail start off the day with a morning meeting to decide what we’ll be covering in the next blog, what’s trending, what can we cover that other outlets aren’t emphasizing, what graphic support we’ll need and which staffers are available.
Usually, the meeting breaks up with a decision to take the rest of the day off. I know that this sounds like the kind of slacker-welfare-state attitude you expect of a lefty news operation. But the real explanation has nothing to do with bias, but biology. Phoebe and I are, after all, animals, and we need our sleep, generally about 23 out of the 24 hours available. and I usually try to get a little more.
But today, we decided that the week has been so action-packed that we should rush to put up a “Special Edition.” However, Phoebe objected strenuously about doing the write-up, saying that her image as a “sweet dog” was likely to be damaged by the substance of today’s post.
You can imagine that I was more than a little insulted, since, if Phoebe opted out, Cat, - that would be me - would have to step up to the keyboard (We aren't exactly the size of the BBC or the Associated Press, here).
And if a story is too torrid for Phoebe, what does that say about me? Am I some sort of alley cat, running with dumpster-diving lowlifes, scrounging decaying food, and looking for easy hookups? But Phoebe was adamant: “Not Going to Happen!” she said, as she stalked out of the meeting to lie on the sun-splashed back deck. To do what? Wait for her personal masseuse, someone to do her nails, an etiquette session with Miss Manners?

ANYWAY, we decided Phoebe would take care of graphics, and you’d be stuck with me as the narrator.
My problem is where to start?
Should I begin with Trump’s coarse, boastful, politicized, crowd-size-obsessed appearance at the Boy Scout Jamboree, at which he led the Scouts in booing the country’s first black president, or Trump’s vanquished opponent?
Begin with the Commander-In-Tweets' attempt to goad Attorney General Apparently-Not-Mean-Enough Jeff Sessions into resigning, so Trump can shut down the investigation into whether his campaign was involved in Russia’s attack on our election process?
Or Trump’s bully tactics to get Senators to kill Obamacare, which failed, thanks to the vote of Sen. John McCain, whose heroic service in the Vietnam War was mocked during the campaign by Five-Deferment-Don?
Maybe with Trump’s attack on transgender people by declaring on Twitter that transgender men and women would no longer be allowed to serve in the military, adding to his growing underclass of Lesser Americans he wants the rest of the country to turn on?
Nope. Phoebe and I decided I should focus on a relatively minor episode of the past week, the “communication” that spewed from Trump’s new communications director, Anthony Scaramucci. Go ahead and criticize us for opting for shock value over substance. That’s true enough. But we also have a serious purpose.

HERE'S some background:
A writer for the New Yorker magazine, Ryan Lizza, Tweeted something that strikes this cat as a truly boring item: that Trump was having dinner Wednesday night with Scaramucci, Mrs. Trump, Fox commentator Sean Hannity and a former big cheese from Fox News, Bill Shine.
Scaramucci later telephoned Lizza with a demand that Lizza, as a “patriotic American” should tell him the source of the “leak,” so Scaramucci could fire him. Then, Scaramucci speculated the “leaker” was Reince Priebus, Trump’s chief of staff, whom he described this way:
“Reince is a fucking paranoid schizophrenic, a paranoiac.”
The communications chief turned his attention next to another White House pal, Stephen K. Bannon, Trump’s “chief strategist:
“I’m not Steve Bannon. I’m not trying to suck my own cock. I’m not trying to build my own brand off the fucking strength of the President. I’m here to serve the country.”
Lizza writes this up for the New Yorker’s Website, including Scaramucci’s threats to fire practically everybody in the West Wing, and the New Yorker leaves nothing out, not the word “fucking,” not the word “cock,” as it applies to anatomy, as opposed to visitors to the chicken coop.
Lizza’s account becomes part of a front page story om the New York Times, although you have to turn to Page A-20 to get to the good parts.
And the Times does not mince words, either, which is a departure for not only the nation’s paper of record but most newspapers, which usually “protect” their readers from uncouth breakfast reading with a variety of devices that sometimes make it impossible to understand exactly what was said.
They’ll say that “Mr. Scaramucci used barnyard language,” (inaccurate in this case). Or papers will run the quote, minus the interesting words: “Reince is a (expletive deleted) paranoid schizophrenic.” Another way out is a fill-in-the-blanks quiz: “Reince is a f-----g paranoid schizophrenic." And sometimes papers will go clinical: “Reince is a (crude term associated with a frantic act of reproduction) paranoid schizophrenic.”
Indeed, broadcast outlets took their usual way out, explaining that Scaramucci used “language that we cannot repeat over the air” – knowing that those viewers and listeners who cared were already at their smart phones, finding more complete accounts online.

BUT WHY, CAT, you ask, is this our subject today?
Phoebe and I think its blogworthy for two reasons. For its shock value, just like the rest of the “respectable” media. But also, because we think this sequence tells us something important about how far the nation has moved since we elected Donald J. Trump as our 45th president.
It tells us how far we’ve traveled from where we used to think we were as the world’s greatest democracy and the world's richest economy, and from our aspiration to be the world’s beacon of progress and justice.
You are saying: “No news here, Cat. We’ve known this since the campaign, since election night, since the inauguration.”
“We know about the cruel, cynical, anti-democratic things that Trump has said and done and hopes to do, taking us to this new place, a place where we believe lies, think only of ourselves and where we turn on one another, having learned to hate everyone who Trump hates: immigrants, foreign allies, attorneys general, judges, certain members of the House, transgender soldiers, political opponents, the poor, the sick, John McCain and eventually the people next door.”
But sometimes it helps to understand where we are now by listening to the language, the actual words that are spoken in this new place.
And yesterday the words were coming right from the sewer.

Day 186

7/24/2017

RAINY DAY NIGHTMARE
WHERE ARE THE DEMOCRATS WHO'LL RUN AGAINST TRUMP IN 2020?

July 24, 2017

IT'S BEEN ONE of those rainy summer days when all you want to do is curl into a tight little ball on the couch and wait out the storm, which is something that probably only Cat and I can do, given how we don’t have regular jobs.
It’s only nice up to a point, speaking for myself, since Cat doesn’t say much about what he's thinking.
And thinking is the bigger problem on a day with nothing to do, because I inevitably end up ruminating about Trump.
Predictable, you say. But if you are reading this blog, predictable is kind of your own fault. I mean, it is called On Trump’s Trail – where do you expect it to lead?
But lately, that’s not where my mind has been. The majority of my brain, given its limits since it's that of a simple, sweet dog, is about 86.7 percent occupied by Democrats.
Democrats are not only keeping me awake at night, they are doing it as well as on a rainy day.

YOU SAY: Which ones, Phoebe? Which Democrats are you talking about?
And I say: Great question.
You persist: Who, Phoebe? Who are you talking about?
Indeed, I say to you: Who are the Democrats? Who are the leading contenders to run against Donald Trump in 2020?
Have you seen any lists of leading candidates? In normal times, there's an entire wing of the political press dedicated to who’s running for president, a process that starts, if not on Election Day, at least the day after.
But so far, I haven’t seen any lists.
Correction, I did see one. It was compiled for an opinion poll for the purpose of finding out how many potential voters had heard of the names on the list. Result: Not many.
So I turn the question to you: Can you name any Democrat who will make one heck of a candidate to run against Trump, and, once elected, will turn out to be a great president?
Stumped, or Trumped?

WAIT, YOU'RE telling me: Bernie Sanders hasn’t ruled himself out. Same with Joe Biden. Those are guys, who in hindsight probably could have beaten Trump before the New Dark Ages began Nov. 8, 2016.
But in election year 2020, Bernie will be 79, and by the end of his first term, running for reelection, he’ll be 83. Joe is a year younger, as in 78, when the next election rolls around and 82 when the second term election would be scheduled.
But Phoebe, you say, that kind of talk makes me think you’re nothing but a disgusting ageist. Bad dog.
Wrong, Pal. I’m a realist. By the time those guys end their second term, Cat and I are likely to be reincarnated (Hopefully, not as Republicans).
And let’s take the case of Joe-the-Younger.
Joe’s abut the same age as the Nice One and the Grouchy One, two Humans whom Cat and I love dearly. But they go to bed at 10 o’clock, sometimes even 9 and then sleep ‘til god knows how long in the morning, and these days, the Grouchy One barely can get his kayak onto a car’s roof rack.
You say: the Grouchy One still goes kayaking, and he’s 75? Amazing.
I say: You think it’s wonderful that someone who’s 75 can barely paddle a kayak? Trust me, you don't want someone like that steering the Ship of State.

WHICH LEADS US back to the nightmare: Who are leading Democrats for 2020?
Who are household names? Who are the men, the women with genuine charisma?
   Which ones have been mayors, governors, attorneys general or vice presidents, served in the House of Representatives or the Senate and otherwise demonstrated that they’ve learned a thing or two about how government works?
   Who are the ones with enough relentless, over-the-top ambition and stamina to make it through the primaries and the general elections? Who are the Democrats beloved by both camera and microphone?
   Which Democrats capable of rounding up the best ideas to save the environment, energize the economy, do battle with job-stealing robots, prevent nuclear war, fight bigotry, promote universal health care, champion democracy and choose right over wrong?
  The Democrats on that list are?
Present your list of names, please. Any names? One name?

   SO, YES IT'S a rainy day, the kind of day that makes a girl want to stretch out on her couch and forget about the bad weather and the terrible president.
   But, instead, she lies awake, terrified by the more frightening nightmare, the recurring one about the Democrats falling, falling and falling, with no one to run against Donald Trump, no one in sight who will be a great president, the kind of president a country deserves and truly needs.
At least I can’t think of one.
Can you?

Day 180

7/18/2017

Looking for Friends in the Time of Trump

July 18, 2017

“When you meet someone for the first time, how do you finesse The T Question?” I asked Cat.
“The T Question?”
When Cat doesn’t want to talk to me, which is his default attitude, he answers a question with a question.
“You know, how do you bring up the Elephant in the Room?” I said.
“The Elephant in the room? You are talking in code, My Dear, and it’s not all that interesting.”
With that, he rolled over on top of the chair where the Nice One usually sits, so his back was turned to me: “You’ve never even seen an elephant.”

"WE'RE REALLY NOT really talking about elephants, are we, Cat,” I said. “Elephant-in-the-Room refers to a huge, important subject that nobody wants to talk about, because it’s so controversial, even though it’s the only thing that’s on everyone’s mind.”
“Okay, how about this?” Cat said. “For argument’s sake, let’s say that YOU are the elephant in the room. Now, my role is acting the part of somebody who doesn’t want to talk to the elephant. So scram, vamoose, leave.”
“But I’m not the elephant; the T Question is the elephant,” I said.
At this point, Cat realized that if he was going to get his Daily Minimum Sleep Allotment, 23.8-hours, he’d have to humor me, at least briefly.
“What’s actually on your mind, Phoebe?”
“Well, we had a visitor the other day,” I began.
“Did we? I must have slept through that.”
“You know, the dog who spent the day with us,” I said.
“I wouldn’t call her a ‘visitor,’ " Cat said, as if he’d suddenly remembered something extremely disagreeable. “An intruder; an interloper; an unwanted presence; another DOG, right here in our house!”
“That’s the one.”

“What about her?” Cat asked. “I thought you two got a long really well, sniffing butts, begging for treats, watering the backyard and all the other fascinating things dogs do when they meet up.”
“I couldn’t figure out how to bring up The T Question,” I said.
“There you go again with that ‘T Question.’ What do you mean?”
“I mean, I couldn’t bring it up,” I said.
“BRING UP WHAT, PHOEBE?” Cat yelled. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I didn’t know how to ask her what she thinks about Trump,” I said.
“What difference does it make what she thinks of him?” Cat said. “And it’s also not any of your business.”
“Donald Trump is everybody’s business,” I said. “This guy is destroying America. He lies. He hates the environment, the poor, immigrants, sick people, practically everything and everyone, except Russians and dictators and shapely French wives.”
“So, why didn’t you just ask her?” Cat said. “What’s so complicated?”
“Because if she gave the wrong answer, I don’t think we’d be friends anymore. And I liked her. She had cute little ears and big brown eyes and didn’t seem to shed all that much,” I said. “So, I just couldn’t bring myself to pop the question.”
Cat seemed determined to get back to sleep.
“The answer is obvious,” Cat yawned.
“What is it?”
“Well, let’s start with little Miss Cute Ears’ given name,” he said. “What is it?”
“Honey,” I said. “Her name is Honey.”
“You think somebody with a sweet name like that is going to go nuts, bananas or fruitloops over Donald Trump?” Cat said.

Cat repositioned himself on the back of the Nice One’s chair, and as he was about to conk out, he announced – too smugly:
“Your Honor, the Prosecution rests.”
As he began to wheeze and snore, I was left to figure out whether I’d written down Honey’s email address. Or, for that matter, whether I’d even dared to ask her.
In the Trump Era, it’s easy to be scared of everything and everyone.
But being scared surely doesn’t solve the T Problem.
Or make you new friends.

Day 165

7/3/2017

Reflections on Freedom of the Press on the Occasion of the Eve of July 4th, 2017

July 3, 2017

“I SUPPOSE you know about Trump’s latest vicious Tweet,” I said to Cat on the day before the Fourth of July holiday.
Cat yawned, and didn’t answer.
“The one where he’s beating the stuffings out of a CNN reporter,” I said.
“So?” Cat yawned.
“So, that was horrible. He throws the CNN reporter to the ground and whack, whack, whacks the man. And then he does it all over again.”
“Phoebe, it wasn’t real,” Cat said to me, uncoiling himself from where he had been sleeping on the living room couch. “It was pretend. Did you ever see a reporter with a block where his head is supposed to be?”

"WHAT DO you know about reporters, Cat?” I said.
“I know the ones on TV have big mouths, and this one just had ‘CNN’ written where his big mouth was supposed to be,” Cat said.
“Listen, Furball, I know that it wasn’t real. And I know that it was a fake video from a fake wrestling thing that was made years ago before the Trump Nightmare became real and everyone thought Trump was a joke.”
“That’s very insightful of you, although not very respectful of the Commander In Chief, and now I can go back to sleep,” Cat said, repositioning himself on the couch, this time stretching himself out to take as much room as possible, with his back turned to me.
“Trump meant it. He wanted people to experience what it was like to beat the crap out of a reporter. Throw him on the ground. Whack. Whack. Whack. Oh, What Fun It is to Whack a Reporter. ”

CAT LEAPED UP, suddenly on all four feet and no longer a couch potato, but an impatient, if aging, house cat, glaring at me.
“It was a gosh-darn (Note to our readers: We sometimes clean up language a bit in this blog) joke, Phoebe. Trump can be a very funny guy. People

make fun of him, and he makes fun of them right back. Now, LEAVE ME ALONE.”
“Not a joke. Not funny, Cat. And stop apologizing for him like you are part of Cat Cult of Trump. He says that media is fake, out to get him, can’t be believed, the press is the Enemy Of The People. And when he says stuff like that, people actually stand up and cheer and wave little American flags.”
“Where’s your sense of humor, Phoebe?” Cat said.
“Missing in action this Fourth of July Week, Cat. When presidents, not to say dictators, do stuff like that, there are consequences. Like that guy from Wisconsin who was running in the special election, and who knocked down a reporter who was asking him about health care. Punched out for health care questions – get the irony here?”
“Actually, Phoebe, I remember that one: the reporter was being obnoxious, badgering him, just when the poor GOP guy was at the end of a hard campaign and obviously didn’t want to talk about health care at that particular moment. Who wouldn’t want to whack a reporter like that?”
“That’s my point, Trump sets the example, and the rest of us start acting like animals,” I said.

"WHO ARE you calling an animal?” Cat said.
“How would you like to come down from your high and mighty living room couch, and I’ll tell you in person, so to speak,” I growled.
“You growling, Cur?” Cat emitted a low, ominous sound I’d never heard, like it was coming from something that lived deep in underground cavern, and not from a common, if aging house cat.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

"I'M JUST SAYING, Cat. I’m just saying. Maybe somebody ought to whack some sense into your Trump-apologist brain. You know what? I bet that cats don’t even have brains. Somebody ought to do an autopsy on one cat that I can think of, and call in the results to CNN, so everyone will know once and for all why cats are so stupid.”
“How’d you like a pawful of razor-sharp claws raked across one of those pretty little brown eyes?” Cat shrieked, arching his back.
Just then, the Nice One rushed into the living room.
“What’s gotten into the two of you?” she said. “You should listen to yourselves. People can hear this shrieking and growling all over the neighborhood. What will people think?”
“We were just discussing the importance of the First Amendment and the central role that a free press plays in a democracy,” I said. Cat nodded sincerely and started to purr
The Nice One – and she truly is nice –couldn’t understand what I was saying. She is, after all, Human, and they never hear a thing we say. The Nice One headed back to the kitchen.
“Happy Fourth of July Eve, Cat,” I said.
“Ditto that, My Friend,” Cat said, settling down back onto the couch. “Looking forward to some good old fashioned Fourth of July fireworks, tomorrow.”
"Tomorrow."

A "sweet dog" and a smart opossum consider a nation at risk.

The writers

PHOEBE, a "sweet dog" who came to Rhode Island in 2010 as a stray puppy from Missouri, was a political agnostic until Trump's catastrophic election. She tracked his presidency in a blog, which she decided to resurrect it this year when it became obvious that Republicans are committed to Trump's destructive policies

MR. O, an opossum, showed up in Phoebe's backyard somewhat mysteriously. He turned out to have genuine insight into political matters, and he agreed to assume co-author duties of the blog after Phoebe's previous writing partner, Cat, a cat, died.

CAT

Day 190

​The Very, Very Bad Place Donald Trump Is Taking Us

Day 186

RAINY DAY NIGHTMAREWHERE ARE THE DEMOCRATS WHO'LL RUN AGAINST TRUMP IN 2020?

Day 180

​Looking for Friends in the Time of Trump

Day 165

​Reflections on Freedom of the Press on the Occasion of the Eve of July 4th, 2017

The writers

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The Very, Very Bad Place Donald Trump Is Taking Us

RAINY DAY NIGHTMARE
WHERE ARE THE DEMOCRATS WHO'LL RUN AGAINST TRUMP IN 2020?

Looking for Friends in the Time of Trump

Reflections on Freedom of the Press on the Occasion of the Eve of July 4th, 2017