By Bob Gaydos

Trump ( center) is led out of the hotel after the sounds of shooting.

It was fast.

Government officials were still semi-scrambling over their wives to get out of the room, hotshot White House correspondents were still on their knees under tables turning on their phones and the older gentleman with glasses seated up front was still munching on his salad when reports started popping up on social media that the latest assassination attempt on Donald Trump was, like the first one, a fake.

Just as quickly came the response from the MAGA crowd and the too-cool-to-take-sides crowd that people should stop spreading conspiracy theories about such a serious occurrence.

Fine.

I happened to be on my phone when the news was thrust upon me. I was not watching the White House Correspondents Dinner because I didn’t want to listen to a half hour or more of Trump rambling and berating the press while they sat there in their tuxedos and gowns pretending to laugh as he dumped all over them as he has for the last 10 years.

The group lost my respect when it agreed not to have a comedian roasting the president at the dinner, as was the custom, but rather let Trump be the only roaster. That’s the only grounds on which he would agree to be there. Capitulation for the sake of access. No guts, no glory, no sense that this man had indeed made them his enemy many years ago.

That’s fact one on my list of why conspiracy theories sprung up so quickly. It was so convenient.

Then there’s the fact that someone apparently managed to get into the Washington, D.C. Hilton, where the president, vice president and assorted top Cabinet officials were assembled in one room and get off a bunch of gunshots (reportedly ten) before being stopped by the Secret Service. How could this even happen if the first two reported attempts on Trump’s life were legitimate?

And then, back in the safety of the White House and looking none the worse for wear, Trump praises the security detail and then immediately invokes whatever happened as a reason for the construction of his gaudy ballroom where the East Wing of the White House used to stand because it will include a secure bunker.

Huh?

The Hilton ballroom holds about 3,000; Trump’s proposed ballroom would hold about 1,000. Also, is this to suggest that all future presidents would never venture out of the White House to events? That’s ridiculous. The fact is that a judge had recently ordered construction of the ballroom stopped because of a lawsuit claiming it was illegal and the only option the judge offered to let the construction continue was that it was deemed to be a necessary secure site. How convenient.

Trump did not talk about the need to tone down the political dialogue. No talk about there being no place for violence in politics. No talk about that because, well that’s the way Trump always talks. Anger, insult, retribution, accusation and blame. It’s his whole game.

And of course, referring back to that first “attempt” in Pennsylvania, in which an innocent bystander was killed, we have the miraculous healing of Trump’s right ear and the virtual disappearance of any mention of the shooter, motive, etc. Gone with the wind.

Pack all this up with Trump’s addiction to lying, his background in television and his love for theater and staged events, creation of conspiracy theories about what happened in Washington was, in my opinion, inevitable.

Now, as for the facts. The so-called “manifesto” of the shooter, which was reportedly released by two unidentified law-enforcement officials not authorized to do so, says he was surprised that no one bothered to check his baggage when he checked into the Hilton the day before the scheduled event with his guns and knives. Seems like a flaw in the security arrangement.

Also, he managed to get within one floor of the ballroom before being stopped by security, but not before firing about 10 shots. The manifesto suggests the accused shooter was aware security officers will be wearing bulletproof vests and hoped they worked. The one person who was shot was indeed wearing such a vest. It worked.

These could easily be interpreted as failures of security or part of a script to save a ballroom.

One part I’m sure was not in any script was Norah O’Donnell on “60 minutes” Sunday night reading from the so-called manifesto in which the alleged shooter, in explaining his actions, said he was no longer willing ”to let a pedophile, rapist and traitor coat my hands with his crimes.”

O’Donnell asked Trump what he thought about that. Predictably, he called her “horrible people” for reading it and said, “I’m not a rapist. I didn’t rape anyone. I’m not a pedophile.” To which she replied, “Oh, do you think he was referring to you?“

Since Trump’s buddy now owns CBS, Nora’s job may well be on the line for that little bit of legitimate journalism. But let the White House Correspondents Association take note.

By Bob Gaydos

Southern Poverty Law Center literature.
.

I wrote a check to renew my membership in the Southern Poverty Law Center this morning. Thanks, Trump.

The renewal notice had gotten lost in a pile of bills to be paid. I would’ve eventually gotten to it, but the Justice Department’s surprise notice to go after the respected civil rights/human rights group reminded me that I had been remiss.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by the Justice Department’s action either. Their job under Trump is to go after Trump’s perceived enemies and Pam Bondi got fired as attorney general for failing to do so. The acting attorney general, Todd Blanche, Trump’s personal attorney, is apparently smart enough to try not to repeat this mistake.

And as far as Trump’s enemies go, the non-profit SPLC would be high on that list. Not only does it fight all his illegal actions in court, but it compiles an annual list of hate groups in the country, state by state, county by county. These are Trump’s people. His foot soldiers. His boots on the ground in your hometown.

The 11-count federal indictment returned by a grand jury in Alabama (surprise!) against the SPLC revolves around its now-disbanded program of using paid informants from 2014 to 2023 to provide what the group called “credible intelligence“ about such white supremacist groups as the Ku Klux Klan, Aryan Nations and the National Socialist Movement. The SPLC says it shared its information with law-enforcement agencies to contribute to the safety of law-abiding citizens.

But the Justice Department alleges that the SPLC committed fraud because it misled its donors by giving more than $3 million to the leadership of these violent groups and helping to manufacture the extremism it said it was dismantling. It said some of the money was used by members of the extremist groups to carry out other crimes, but no specific examples were listed in the court papers. That’s kind of par for the course with Trump, allegations but no specifics.

I don’t know, the SPLC seemed to do a pretty good job of dismantling the Ku Klux Klan. And the use of paid informants, of course, has been common practice for the FBI and CIA. It’s dangerous work. I think most people who contribute to the SPLC would not be surprised that it used paid informants. In fact, I would have been surprised otherwise. And it’s kind of counterproductive to announce publicly that you’re doing it.

Bryan Fair, interim CEO of the SPLC, said the allegations are “nakedly political“ and just part of Trump’s weaponization of the Justice Department against his critics. I agree. I also find it deeply troubling that, instead of going after hate groups, the Justice Department is going after the very people who are fighting to get rid of them.

And just as an aside, I also noticed that Kash Patel, the out of his league FBI director who is facing public criticism for allegedly drinking on the job, not really knowing what he’s doing and flying around the country with his girlfriend on a government jet, stood quietly by Blanche’s side when he announced the indictment. No words. Maybe Kash doesn’t know about using paid informants. Or maybe he just had a hangover.

Anyway, I’m not buying the whole story and I’m still waiting for Blanche to release all the Epstein files.

By Bob Gaydos 

I got a letter from Chuck Schumer. Private no less.

  I got a letter from Chuck Schumer the other day. It was marked “Private” no less. “To Addressee Only.” And in bold red letters on the envelope, to make sure I knew it was important: “PLEASE sit down, OPEN this envelope, and READ IMMEDIATELY!

  Well, now, what a coincidence. I had been thinking of Chuck lately, not having heard from my longtime senator for quite a while.

   (Note: Schumer grew up in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, in a middle class family. Went to public school. I grew up in Bayonne, N.J. in a middle class family. Went to public school. Senator or not, with those backgrounds, he’ll always be Chuck.)

     So, as I was saying, I was glad to hear from Chuck because I had a couple of things I wanted to talk about. Like where the hell has he been lately while Trump has been starting a war and driving up the price on everything while his family and friends make a killing on the stock market?

     I was anxious to see what Chuck had to say in this important “private” letter he sent to me marked  “addressee only.”

      Well, for starters, I was a little hurt and kind of let down. “Dear fellow American,” is not my idea of introducing a private message of immediate importance. In fact, it kind of sounds like all those other letters of importance I receive asking for donations because, as this letter begins, “our country is at a critical crossroads.“

     And yes, Chuck was asking for money. Not specifically for himself, mind, but for the group that collects and spends money solely for the election of Democrats to the United States Senate — the Senate Majority Pac.

    Chuck isn’t running for reelection this year, but he has a profound interest in electing Democrats to the Senate so he can transition from being the minority leader to the  majority leader and run the show. 

   I get it. I’ve been praying for a Democratic super majority of 60 filibuster-proof votes in the Senate for 15 years, since the party managed to pass Obamacare. But apparently the message this group has been putting out hasn’t been enough to convince enough Americans to vote likewise. It’s kind of why I wanted to talk to Chuck or at least hear from him. 

    I think times have changed and it’s time for a change in what he’s saying and how he’s saying it. Nobody’s listening. Forget trying to work with a couple of Republicans here and there to stymie Trump or win a small political victory here and there. It’s time for something that I’m sure Schumer grew up experiencing in Brooklyn: some moxie.

  What’s moxie? For non-New Yorkers or non-Jerseyites, AI says: “Moxie is an American slang noun referring to a person’s courageous spirit, determination, nerve, and skill. It describes someone with guts, spunk, and the ability to face challenges with energy and pep. It implies a combination of boldness and know-how.”

   Absolutely. In other words, the time for playing nice with Republicans has long passed. They don’t do it. They don’t care. A fellow Brooklynite, also in the Senate, gets it. Bernie Sanders has been telling it like it is as long as he’s been in the Senate. Unfortunately, he’s not a member of the Democratic Party, but rather, is a Democratic Socialist. That means he can’t get any money from SMP. Actually, he’s a Democrat by any other name these days because he can’t possibly coexist with the Republicans in the Senate.

   But Bernie, who grew up in a lower middle class family in Flatbush, has moxie. He doesn’t hesitate to lay the blame for Trump‘s ongoing disaster of a presidency on Senate Republicans who have had the power to stop him at any point and indeed to reject every one of this trash heap of nominees that make up the cabinet.

    Heck, even Hakeem Jeffries, who grew up in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn in a working class family, apparently now gets it. The House Minority Leader recently lit into Republicans in the Senate, calling them “spineless enablers” and “helpless sheep” for confirming Trump’s cabinet nominees, from Hegseth to Noem to Kennedy to Bondi to the labor secretary, whatever her name, who just resigned after her staff complained she drank on the job, had no idea what she was doing and had an affair with her assistant. Jeffries specifically targeted the confirmation of the latest uncovered drunk, Kash Patel, as FBI director, calling him “deeply unqualified, deeply unserious, and deeply un-American.”

      Deeply appreciated, Mr. Jeffries.

      Anyway, Chuck, thanks for writing, but I won’t be sending money to the SMP. However, I will continue to support groups like the ACLU and Southern Poverty Law Center to handle all the legal niceties of dealing with the Trump regime. And I will continue to write in support of Democratic candidates for the Senate. But I think it’s time for you boys from Brooklyn to get together, roll up your sleeves and run those Republican phoneys and their demented leader out of the schoolyard. Show a little Brooklyn moxie.

      Nice talking to you again.

J.D. Vance

By Bob Gaydos

J.D. Vance never had a chance.

From Budapest to Islamabad,

the cards were stacked

in advance.

He campaigned for Viktor Orban,

a fool’s errand to be sure.

Bringing Trump’s blessing to a similar man

whose people had had more than enough.

“It takes one to know one!” cried the Hungarians.

Their anger was pure, their answer tough.

“Be gone, oh messenger of gloom.

And Orban, go to your room.”

Onward pressed Vance,

with a war to be won or at least settled or ended … or somethinged.

Off to Pakistan to meet

with some men from Iran.

As a writer of fiction parading as truth,

he seemed the perfect man.

Forsooth!

But the men from Iran refused to surrender.

This meeting would be no war ender.

They stuck to their guns, their missiles, their drones

and their Strait of Hormuz.

They were winning a war

Vance said they were s’posed to lose.

What to do? What to do?

Jared, what say you?

Your father-in-law won’t be pleased

if the fire hasn’t been ceased.

Nothing. … Nothing?

After a long day of talking,

the negotiations

officially ceased.

Daunted but unbowed by his lack

of good news,

J.D. returned home …

to a chorus of boos.

From, of all people, the Catholics, his adopted faith brethren.

They were saying he should go to a place

that wasn’t called Heaven.

It seems they were angry

that this eyelinered mope

had rubber-stamped Trump in threatening …

The Pope!

Ex-communicate this sinner! The social media sites clamored!

A hillbilly phony pretending again!

They were not enamored.

And so it went for J.D.,

a lost weekend

with no sleep.

For the Bible says,

and as he should know:

Whatever the dateline,

You shall reap as you sow.

Melania Trump

By Bob Gaydos

Melania figured she had nothing to lose

Since Donny was stuck

in the Straight of Hormuz.

Commandeer his podium.

Summon the press.

Make sure her maid finds just the right, modest dress.

***

“Good afternoon, media people,

I have something to say.

Something vich troubles me every day.

“I vill talk about Epstein, who I never knew.

Never slept with him either. Who vould? Vould you?

Those pictures you see are phony.

The stories, too.

The old ones, the new ones.

The ones in the files, too.

“I met Donald purely by chance,

at a New York singles mixer.

No one named Jeffrey or Ghislaine

was the fixer.

“So don’t bother, Congress,

to call me to testify.

I know nothing. Never saw any island.

That, too, is a lie.

Better you should call all those girls,

the victims, to speak.

Let them tell their awvful stories.

Make those powerful men shudder.

Make them look veak.

“Thank you for listening.

And now I must go.”

                      ***

No questions. No answers.

Just good bye and hello.

                       ***

Much later that night and weary from war,

a president spoke to his country.

‘Twas raw.

Forgoing news media, as is his wont,

He chose to be social. The better to taunt.

But there was naught

 ‘bout his wife’s earlier talk

about Epstein and victims

and that chance meet in New York.

Nor words of anger or frustration.

No unnecessary drama.

Merely a seemingly random video

of a man

beating a woman

to death

with a hammer.

By Bob Gaydos

    It was about 3 in the afternoon Tuesday when I saw the New York Times update on the looming deadline Trump had set for the annihilation of Iran. Pakistan (Pakistan?) was acting as a mediator in peace talks between the U.S. and Iran.

   Pakistani Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif said meaningful progress had been made in negotiations between the two parties and had asked Trump to extend his deadline for the annihilation of Iran by two weeks. In that time, Iran would also agree to reopen the Strait of Hormuz.

    I actually felt my body relax. After 10 years of living with and writing about Trumpian insanity, I knew Trump finally had his offramp. All he had to do was ignore the bloodthirsty Pete Hegseth and accept it. Which, of course, he did.

    Like much of the rest of the world, I have grown accustomed to Trump plunging the country headlong into one crisis or another through pride, arrogance or sheer stupidity, or usually all three, but this one worried me a bit more than the rest. Thinking about a world war starting in the Middle East with nuclear weapons possibly involved can do that.

    With the relief, almost immediately came the question, “Why Pakistan?” How did they get involved? OK, neutral party with no dog in the fight. Still …?

    Then I remembered who we were dealing with. Trump. What’s the deal here? What does Pakistan get out of doing something all of Europe and, indeed, the rest of the world refused to do – try to save Trump from starting a world war?

     I did a quick Google check on Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. I learned “Islamabad is a planned city built in the 1960s to replace Karachi. It officially became the capital on August 14, 1967. It is known as a green, modern city nestled in the foothills of the Margalla Hills.”

    Sounds lovely and probably an ideal location for a Mar a Lago East or some other variation on a Trump golf course. Maybe with a hotel attached. Maybe Pakistan agrees to rename them the Mara a Lago Hills. Certainly a golf course somewhere in Pakistan, but not close to the border with India because, you know, border wars.

      I haven’t seen anything on who was negotiating peace terms for the U.S., but if Jarod or the Trump boys were involved, history says you can bet on it. In fact, as I recently wrote, you literally can, on the Prediction markets. Some people probably did.

     Meanwhile, back in reality, I have yet to see any evidence that a single Republican member of Congress urged Trump to call off his threat or questioned his mental stability. Quiet, meek and out of town. Considering all the generals Hegseth recently fired, I have to think there was some resistance to Trump’s plans for Iran.

      And for now, or theoretically two weeks, in which U.S. troops don’t have to worry about orders from the commander-in-chief to blow up power supplies, bridges and anything else that allows the ordinary citizens of Iran to go about their daily life. To commit war crimes, in other words.

    Instead, according to what I read in the papers, there’s a proposed plan in place for Iran to have all sanctions on it lifted, reparations paid for the damage done to it by American missiles, and the Strait of Hormuz reopened for oil traffic for those willing and able to pay a fee to Iran. It’s also supposed to not develop nuclear weapons, which it already had agreed to not do when Barack Obama was president.

  The U.S. apparently gets to not send young Americans to die in a trumped up war because the president wants people to stop talking about him raping young girls. The art of the deal.

    And yes, let us never forget, the Republican Party owns this entire mess lock, stock and barrel for continuing to allow Trump to take an ax to everything America once proudly stood for.

     If they can somehow find the guts, they can rescue the country from this insanity by invoking the 25th amendment and removing him from office. No deals. It’s their only offramp now.

By Bob Gaydos

Artemis II heads to the moon.

   It’s fascinating how quickly things that once seemed so remarkable become commonplace, occurring virtually unnoticed in our daily lives. Part of the furniture. Like the fact that I’m writing this on my phone, which I also use to tell time, take photos, buy shoes and watch movies. Just part of the daily routine.

    Or like waking up to an Easter morning profanity-laden diatribe by the American president, probably sent on his phone, threatening the annihilation of a foreign nation because he doesn’t want people to see the proof that he raped young girls. Routine. Headline-grabbing. Yes, insane, but remarkably commonplace.

     Yet while that president was threatening war crimes, four astronauts (three Americans, one Canadian) were doing something that hasn’t been done in 58 years — flying around the moon. Remarkable. Still. But not quite headline-grabbing today.

     It’s that way with a lot of inspirational or heart-warming events these days. Sometimes it’s hard to find the good news buried under all the depressingly bad news emanating daily from the White House, shouting to be heard and too often dutifully reported without question by a news media co-opted by owners more interested in wealth than the First Amendment.

     I started to write a column a few weeks ago about what I considered to be two uplifting, yes, heartwarming events that made life just a little softer, more livable for a while.

    I wrote: “Thank God for Queer Eye and the Buddhists.

    “No, that’s not a new spinoff show on Netflix, although the thought is intriguing. What it is is a huge thank you to two recent events that reminded me, in the midst of the daily dose of anger, lies and cruelty emanating from the White House, that there is still love, caring and humanity in the world. That decency still exists. That people can also shed tears of joy.    

    “Remember?”

     That’s as far as I got before the Trumpian insanity overwhelmed the news again. I’ll finish it now.

    Queer Eye, which began on TV as Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, morphed into straight Queer Eye on Netflix, where its tenth and too-short final season dropped recently. Sad to see it go.

    It’s hard to find shows on TV these days which offer real people expressing genuine feelings of gratitude and love and hope and shedding real tears of joy. Queer Eye does all that unfailingly, whether the recipient of the Fab Five’s attention is queer, straight or Jonathan. And it’s often funny in the process.

    At about the same time, 25 Buddhist monks were on their 109-day, 2,300 mile walk from Fort Worth, Texas to the Peace Monument and then the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.. A spiritual walk for peace that gained momentum and support and, eventually, even media attention, as it was followed by more than 5 million people on social media. Heart-warming, encouraging, connecting and simply amazing all at once.

     Which brings me back to the moon. As I write this, the four astronauts are preparing to swing around to the dark side of the moon where they will see and record previously unseen features, with a solar eclipse thrown in as a bonus.

    I witnessed the moon landing – Neil Armstrong’s “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.“ – with a large crowd on a TV at the Little Venice Restaurant in Binghamton, N.Y. 600 million watched worldwide. It was July 20, 1969. I was city editor of The Sun-Bulletin at the time, a daily paper whose offices were conveniently located just down the block from  the restaurant. Yes, the moon landing was the front page story the following morning. And yes, everyone seemed to be happy that President Kennedy‘s goal of putting a man on the moon before the end of the decade was realized.

    This morning, as the astronauts aboard Artemis II traveled farther from Earth than any other humans ever have, the American president was threatening to bomb another country back to the Stone Age. And no one was surprised.

    Might be time to watch reruns of “Queer Eye.”

“Football, beer, and above all, gambling filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult.” George Orwell, 1984 

By Bob Gaydos

  If I were a wagering man, and having missed out on the Pam Bondi firing, I would lay a few sheckles on the likelihood that Trump will flush Pete Hegseth next and label him an ineffective Secretary of War.

   You can do that legally. I just found out. Somehow, the presence of so-called Prediction Markets escaped my attention as I struggled to maintain my sanity in a world going mad by design. Ironically, these markets are prime evidence of that phenomenon.

     And it has been happening for some time, starting with legalized sports betting. In my opinion, the emergence of legalized sports betting, not only on game outcomes, but specific moments within the game, has seriously eroded the simple enjoyment, never mind the credibility, of sports. The lure of big gambling money has made sports more profitable and players understandably want and deserve a share of the added money. Bigger contracts then mean higher costs at the stadium. Betting on a field goal or strikeout holds the lure of quick money to pay for the beer and hot dogs.

    It’s all about the money.

    But apparently it’s no longer energizing enough for people looking for an escape and maybe some easy money to just place a bet on whether some college or pro player will make or miss a foul shot. Now apparently you can bet on whether the coach will be fired and arrested at a DWI Checkpoint on the way home. Maybe he’ll run over someone.

   What are the odds? Who cares? What have you got to lose? If he makes it home safely, you can always bet on when Trump is going to lower tariffs again. That’s a surer bet.

    It’s also one of the things wrong with prediction markets. Never mind manipulating the stock market, people in positions of power can affect world events. People in power, if they choose to, can manipulate world events. And people in power, if they are of a mind to do so, might let someone know when to expect some unexpected event.

   Like the United States attacking Iran. While Trump was killing 168 Iranian school girls by giving the order to attack, someone betting on the prediction market was making a killing by predicting the attack would happen on the day it would happen. You may recall that Trump had just previously said talks between the U.S. and Iran were moving along on the nuclear weapons issue and no military action appeared to be imminent. No hints. No warning. Just bombs and a financial bonanza for someone.

   Some governors have sued to ban prediction markets as a form of legalized sports gambling, which their states do not allow. Democrats in Congress have introduced legislation to simply ban prediction markets in this country, but the White House, of course, has no problem with them.

  With Trump, a former casino owner in charge, the house can literally fix the game. Like kidnaping the Venezuelan president, also apparently a coincidental lucky big payoff for some anonymous bettor. And it’s probably not a coincidence that Trump’s sons, Eric and Don Junior, have a major stake in a prediction market and Don is an advisor to another one, Kalshi. No likelihood of collusion here.

    But really, forget the fact that America is losing jobs, prices on everything, not just gasoline, are rising daily, young men are struggling to find work and hoping the draft isn’t reinstituted, farmers are being bailed out by the government that killed their markets and millions can’t afford healthcare. That’s just the day-to-day reality in Trump’s America. Prediction markets drag everything down to a lower level of humanity.

   Betting on war, assassinations, or some other form of others’ misfortune for personal financial gain is a dehumanizing activity. It’s immoral. A perverted version of no pain, no gain. As Orwell foresaw, it’s surrender disguised as entertainment. It’s like saying, as long as the world is so screwed up, I might as well try to make some money off it. 

    Forget it, pal. That game is rigged for the House, too.