March 12, 2020


“The duty of a true patriot is to protect his country from its government.”

Thomas Paine

A tired American political axiom claims that “money talks and bull s–t walks.” Clichés are, unfortunately, often the most pernicious varieties of bravo sierra. Presidential primary “debates” are examples of politically correct party-sanctioned scat festivals.

Most of the inquisitors hail from the American left. The institutions that provide debate “moderators” represent heritage networks, urban print media, and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. These demographics, for the most part, are an “A” List of the usual suspects, the liberal or leftist establishment.

Historically, the presidential debates are staged, literally and figuratively.

The 2020 Democrat primary debates are no exception, predictably an exercise in cooked books. Never mind the hysteria, Trump hate, Putin bashing, Russophobia, envy, pandering, racism, amateur analysis, sexism, or even socialism scares. The trope list is infinite. The 2020 DNC clown car had one common denominator; most candidates were professional politicians.

Late entry Bloomberg was a hybrid, a political oligarch; first a Democrat, then a Republican, then an Independent, now a Democrat again.  He ran as an American oligarch, dispensing cash with abandon.

Bloomberg’s campaign slogan might have been “Call Me Ambiguous.”

The 2020 Democrat primaries may look like a clown car, a food fight, or even a blood bath, but all that noise just masks the real signal. Few moderators ask relevant questions on the left – or of the left.

Who asks about the Biden shenanigans in Ukraine and Obama era quid pro quo, nepotism, and bribery? Who asks about the DNC role in the Steele dossier? Who asks about Warren faking the race card at Harvard and elsewhere? Whence Pocahontas? Who asks about the Obama DNC fix in 2016 when the primary was tweaked to exclude Sanders.

Who asks about toxic political partisanship at CIA, FBI, and State before and after 2016. Who asks about the subsequent partisan Russia/Ukraine hoax and the impeachment fiascos since 2016?

Who asks why there are no FOX, Breitbart, Newsmax, or other conservative moderators?  Who asks why Norah O’Donnell (CBS) wore an all-white Me-Too clan suit to referee the “impartial” Charleston debate?

What’s next for the distaff press, pink pussy hats?

The inquisitors are called “moderators.” Historically, there is nothing moderate about the politics of the American media corps. The bias of press panels is best revealed in subjects avoided, questions not asked, the elephants in the room, if we can abuse another cliché.

Bernie Sanders, an out Socialist, is now running behind Joe Biden. In Charleston, Sanders doubled down on Communism and Fidel Castro’s literacy program. The question not asked is how do “literacy brigades” matter in a country like Cuba with no free speech or free press?

The space between Bloomberg and Sanders was, if we are honest, a distinction without a difference. One sought to buy a nomination with his money and the other seeks to buy an election with your money, with promises of “free” stuff.

Sanders, at best, is an idiot savant, a comic character out of a Kosinski novel. Alas, the truth about socialism and associated civic mandates is deadly serious.

Social mandates require coercion.

Bernie’s favorite political exemplars all come from the wide white world of social Scandinavia, a demographic collective, we might add, that collectively capitulated to, or collaborated with, National Socialism in Hitler’s time.

The European north prospers today, in part, because with Nazi era collusion, northern Europe escaped the worst of WWII. When push comes to shove, the anti-Semitic ghettos of Scandinavia are not where you are likely to discover any probative models for American social justice.

This is not to minimize the Sanders game. With a strong running mate, his ticket would be formidable, a populist pair who would represent many of the statist, globalist, dependent, if not the grifter, sentiments that thrive in urban America.

If Sanders were to get the nomination, beating him in the 2020 general election would not be a layup.

A Sanders/Trump finale in 2020 would represent a culture clash that has been in the making since Karl Marx worked a soapbox. If you believed that the fall of the Soviet Union was the “end of (totalitarian) history,” you are wrong.

For the moment, Milwaukee in 2020 is shaping up to be a liberal cage match where only one geriatric snowflake will be left standing, possibly followed by a rerun of “back to the future.” After the Michigan win, Biden still has the delegate edge. That, combined with super delegate insurance, now makes Joe the favorite. Surely, Sanders will still provide some color, but in the end, like 2016, Bernie will be swallowed by the DC swamp.

If and when Biden gets the nomination, his campaign slogan will be “open for business as usual – again.”

When the summer heat subsides, there is no reason to believe that historical bias in the forthcoming fall presidential debates will be any different unless Trump changes the rules of engagement. The general election debates are the big leagues, a ring where referees matter.

If Trump lets the usual suspects, left or right, select the inquisitors, he comes to the 2020 debate stage with another handicap. Joe Biden already has the media, the swamp, and Silicon Valley in his pocket.

General election debates are “managed” by a body called the Commission on Presidential Debates, a Washington non-profit which in theory represents both parties. In practice, the CPD represents the DC establishment. The main accomplishment of the CPD to date has been to keep third party candidates off the national stage. Commission membership reads like a Who’s Who of Beltway camp followers, a demographic demonstrably hostile to Trump in 2016 and maybe more so today.

President Trump needs to remake the moderator selection process to insure that conservative as well as liberal voices are represented among 2020 debate referees. The usual suspects from CPB, CNN, CBS, NBC, and ABC need to be leavened by moderators from Fox, Breitbart, EIB, Newsmax, and Judicial Watch.

A fifty-fifty split would be nice.

If Trump has done nothing else in his first term, he has exposed egregious media bias, aka fake news, inside the Beltway. We now know where the shills work. The president now has the power to level a traditionally partisan presidential debate stage.

Trump should insist on an ideologically diverse panel of 2020 debate moderators or leave the media spinners and shills to talk to each other.

Donald Trump doesn’t need debates in 2020 as much as the Democrats need another rigged election.







March 9, 2020

The wisdom of crowds is a wonder. Given enough sources of information, the average citizen in a democracy will be able to sift the truth, or at least enough facts to make sound judgements.

Hat tip to the flat hats in Manchester.

Emanuel Kant would have called such outcomes a categorical imperative: “… an action objectively necessary in itself, without reference to any other purpose.” Principled reflection allows regular folks to understand what is necessary and practical – and in a moral context, separate good and evil, right from wrong, and even just from unjust.

In short, the golden rule is actually a rule.

Even a zoo keeper could argue that the categorical imperative separates men from monkeys. Nevertheless, if you have been following the Russian, then Ukrainian soap operas since 1990, you might conclude that the “first draft of history,” and contemporary rules of evidence, are written by bug-eyed baboons or Botox bonobos.

With apologies to Kant, Marx, and Darwin; political recidivism is the flip side of all evolutionary, dare we say, progressive coins. Human history is always a two way street. One step forward is often followed by three steps back.

The passage of time is, alas, too often confused with progress.

Analysts are fond of looking at the Ukraine mess as just another surrogate Russian/American competition. By any measure, the Ukraine is much more complicated.

If facts matter, Ukraine is the Euro equivalent of Afghanistan.

The Russian Story

The Russians knew when to quit Kabul in 1989. Nevertheless, America adopted that theocratic tar baby, along with 9/11, and three decades of global blood sport and small wars that continue to this day. The same jihad that Moscow tried to suppress in Afghanistan, and successfully defeated in Chechnya, now tortures America on a global scale.

Remember the good old days before the 9/11 and Beslan slaughters?  Muslim Chechens and South Asian mujahedeen were labeled “insurgents” or “freedom” fighters by CIA and US State Department shills.

In fact, Al Qaeda, the Taliban, ISIS and “nefarious characters” like bin Laden and al Baghdadi are all linear descendants, in part, of American foreign policy naiveté.

So let’s, at least for Emanuel Kant’s sake, review the bidding since the old Soviet Union imploded, the Warsaw Pact died, and the Ukraine was set adrift on the stormy seas of European social democratic hubris.

Reality and facts still matter, even in an age of utopian, globalist piffle.  Hat tip to George Soros here.

Mikhail Gorbachev threw in the Soviet towel a decade before the end of the 20th Century. The Berlin Wall crumbled. The Warsaw Pact was consigned to the dustbin of history. And to ice Ronald Reagan’s glasnost cake, a humbled Kremlin, in cooperation with NATO and the EU, cleansed the Ukraine of Russian ground and air bases, nuclear weapons and delivery systems. At the same time, Moscow negotiated a lease with an independent Kiev to keep a single naval base, and the Black Sea Fleet, at Sevastopol in the Crimea.

Russia has had a naval base in the Crimea since 1772 when George Washington was still a Lieutenant Colonel. Over two hundred fifty years later, an independent Kiev granted Moscow a lease until 2042 with an option to extend. Activists in Kiev, however, agitated for Russia to leave Sevastopol anyway, rent agreements be damned.

The Kremlin caved again and started to refurbish Novorossiysk on the Black Sea to host their fleet in a Russian port. Up until 2014, the Russians were trying to accommodate Ukraine dissidents, Brussels and Washington.

Meanwhile, back in the west, from 1990 thru 2014, NATO and the EU couldn’t take yes for an answer.

In spite of what amounts to extraordinary Russian cooperation in Eastern Europe; the EU and NATO continued to meddle in the former Warsaw Pact as if Moscow had no legitimate security concerns along its new heartland borders.

 Starting in 1990/1991, after a series of ethnic/religious clashes, four Yugoslav republics declared independence with EU support and urging. A Yugoslav civil war ensued with NATO and the Clintons taking sides with Muslim rebels against Christian nationalists.

Like India, Yugoslavia was eventually parsed, with western support, into religious ghettos.

Without UN authorization, NATO launched an air assault against Serbia which led to a Serb withdrawal from Muslim strongholds and a terminal dissolution of Yugoslavia. Parts of Tito’s old federation are occupied by NATO “peacekeepers” to this day.

Two new Muslim majority states emerged from the Clinton era Yugoslav carnage as a result of NATO “peace keeping” interventions.

The fate of Yugoslavia made clear that NATO and the EU had adopted what amounts to a policy of imperial expansion with an endgame that probably included Moscow as a target. The Yugoslav wars also exposed what has now become a pronounced Washington/Brussels tilt towards Mecca.

Given Russia’s restive Muslim population, surely Kremlin paranoia got a shot in the arm with the rape of Yugoslavia and the advent of Bosnia and Kosovo.

The Yugoslav fiasco under Clinton was followed by the 9/11 Arab/Muslim attack against Manhattan under Bush. Ironically, Bosnia and Kosovo, bastard children of Clinton’s folly would subsequently send more European jihadists to the budding ISIS War in the Levant than any other nations. In 2011, not chastened by her husband’s fail in Yugoslavia, Mrs. Clinton, as Barak Obama’s Secretary of State, subsequently sponsored yet more coup carnage in North Africa.

From the Kremlin perspective, it’s not a stretch to see that the Warsaw Pact, the Soviet Union, and then Russia were in EU/NATO crosshairs, dominos all, like Yugoslavia, thought poised to tumble. Seems the fall of Moscow, not Berlin, would signal the real “end of history.”

Cultivating paranoia in Moscow has been a cash crop in Brussels and Washington since 1990.

The Ukraine Follies

Ukraine enters the narrative in 2014 from stage left – literally from the American left. In 2013, protestors appeared in Maidan Square to dispute Ukraine’s President, Viktor Yanukovych’s decision to accept Russian aid rather than move closer to Brussels.

The Obama administration, with John Brennan, George Soros, and Victoria Nuland on point, staged a coup in Ukraine with the support of local neo-Nazis, authors all of the so-called “revolution of dignity.” Nuland, with John McCain playing the useful idiot, subsequently helped to cobble a cabal of corrupt fascists and venal oligarchs to rule in Kiev.

One of those oligarchs, Mykola Zlochevsky, managed to suck then Obama Vice President Joe Biden and son into the muck of Kiev corruption with a bribe, a no-show job at Burisma Corp for junior at $50-80k a month.

Hunter Biden’s short shady career is a testimony to perils of deficit parenting. Call the Biden family hijinks in Ukraine what you will, but “pay to play” plus second party nepotism still equals bribery.

Meanwhile back in Moscow, Vladimir Putin, understandably, had had enough.

Team Obama’s collusion with neo-Nazis and corrupt oligarchs in Kiev was one thing, but removal of a democratically elected ally, on Russia’s border, was a bridge too far.

Surely, Putin was having hot flashes of Yugoslav deja vu. Subsequently, the difference between Yugoslavia and Ukraine turned out to be Vladimir Putin’s testicles.

With Sevastopol, Putin stopped the free fall of Russia in 2014.

The Kremlin, with the FSB on point, annexed a Crimea, largely populated by ethnic Russians. The seizure was later legitimized by popular vote. The transparent, but limited goal was to secure the large naval facility at Sevastopol. Moscow subsequently provided similar support to ethnic Russians too in Donbas and Luhansk, where skirmishes continue today.

In short, Putin drew a line in the sand around Crimea.  NATO, the EU, and team Obama wet their knickers; followed by some tepid sanctions, yes, but little else.

Enter Trump, Stage Right

In 2016, cranky American populists elected Donald Trump, a reformer with little regard for establishment policy wonks left or right. With rice bowls in peril, the hate Trump movement coalesced immediately to bring down a parvenu who had the hutzpah to threaten to “drain the (Beltway) swamp.”

The coup, heretofore a perennial CIA tool in their foreign affairs tool kit, was then weaponized and imported for domestic use by the Intelligence Community with Langley  and the FBI’s 7th Floor in the lead against team Trump. There was little need for “conspiracy” in DC because there was already a Beltway consensus. The federal demographic had been a smug liberal Democrat Party sinecure for years.

Ninety percent of capital area government workers and camp followers voted for Hillary Clinton in 2016 only to watch her drown in a puddle of rural blowback.

Trump didn’t necessarily win with charm, but most assuredly, Hillary lost for cause. On day one of the Trump era, a puerile federal enclave literally took to the streets with riot and fire to resist or oust Trump. Parallels with Maidan in Kiev, minus the gunfire, were unmistakable.

A Russian collusion hoax was fabricated immediately as a twofer; smear both Putin and Trump. Yet, even with a partisan special prosecutor, the Russian gambit bombed, only to be followed by the Ukraine hoax, then an “impeachment” soap opera. If you do apparatchik arithmetic: “Russian collusion” plus Ukraine “quid quo pro,” multiplied by fear and loathing of Trump, equals impeachment.

Today, with another election on the horizon, Beltway zealots may have over-played their hand, and handed yet another victory to Donald Trump.

Blowback is God’s way of dispensing poetic and political justice. The wisdom of crowds is a thing.

Impeachment Inquiry Charades

The so-called US congressional impeachment now underway is a lot like turning over rocks in a vacant lot. Each turned stone reveals another ugly truth.

Since 2016; Beltway partisans, the Intelligence Community, the State Department, and the Democrat Party have done more to divide and undermine American institutions than any foreign power could hope to.

The real enemy, as Pogo said, is still “us.”

The “Euromaidan” Revolution in Ukraine in 2014 was a joint venture with silent partners; Ukrainian neo-Nazis, the Obama National Security Council, the CIA, the US State Department, USAID, and the Open (sic) Society Foundation.

Team Obama sponsored the Kiev coup that provoked the Russians to take back Crimea, Sevastopol and Donbas. Today, or any day; citizens of those ethnic Russian border enclaves are happy to have Moscow’s protection – especially if the alternative is Kiev fascists and American corruption.

The Washington establishment, the deep state, has been on a suicide watch since 2016. If seppuku is the name of the game in DC, why does Vladimir Putin need to do anything?

If Trump is guilty of “bribery” in Ukraine, then Biden & Son should already be doing time in Leavenworth.

If America is at “war” with Russia, and Russia is at war with Ukraine, then somebody needs to tell Vladimir Putin and Sergey Shoygu.  Putin is not Mikhail Gorbachev nor is he Boris Yeltsin. Russian pushback in Ukraine is mirror image of American pushback in Cuba.

Sevastopol and Guantanamo Bay are kissing cousins.

Twentieth Century free fall in Russia ended with 21st Century Putin. If the Red Army ever really “invades” Ukraine, they will be in Kiev in a week, Brussels the week after, and looking out at Dover a month later.

Trump is correct; NATO is a paper tiger that writes bad checks. NATO has ballooned from 15 to 29 nations since the Berlin Wall fell, mostly check kiters. Only eight nations pay their way as required by treaty.  If you need to forecast how the EU might react to a real Russian “invasion,” review any history of World War II – then read Marshall Zhukov’s memoirs.

Trump’s instincts, and common sense, about Russia are identical to those of Ronald Reagan. If you really don’t want war; you visit, you talk, you compromise – then you sit down and cut a deal.

And no Intelligence agencies on the planet do more cyber meddling, targeting friend and foe alike, than Uncle Sam’s cowboys at Ft. Meade and Langley. Official American snoops are now allied with the largest internet services in America. Big brother lives in Washington. At best, he has a third cousin in Moscow.

If all the things said about Russian “interference” are true, then you have to believe that those billions spent on US Intelligence are a waste of money. A band of Arab jihadists attacked Manhattan, Pennsylvania, and Washington, DC in a single day right under CIA/FBI noses. If Kremlin operatives are as good, or as bad, as congressional demagogues claim, those “nefarious” Russians must be ten feet tall – again.

The Russian FSB, like CIA, makes mischief in cyberspace where they can, every day, in every way. That’s what spies and hackers get paid to do.


Withal, modern Russia should be an ally. America has more in common with Moscow than it will ever have with Mecca, Pyongyang, Beijing, or the American Democrat Party. The American left, and by no coincidence the entire clown car running against Trump in 2020, is now more “soviet” than the Kremlin.

Trump should accept Putin’s invitation to Red Square for the next Victory Day celebration in 2020, if for no other reason than to poke leftist bigots and cold warriors in the eye.

The Latest Wrinkle

The most recent chapter of the Russia/Ukraine narrative is the so-called, impeachment “inquiry” which only served to confirm Donald Trump’s assessments of  National Security Council and US State Department perfidy. Even if you discount arrogant self-important conceits, three of a sorry group still stand out; Vendman , Holmes, and Hill, one from State and two from the NSC.

Vendmen and Holmes should be dismissed as effete “kiss and tell” office boys. Both displayed puerile contempt for security, discretion, and presidential confidentiality.

Ms. Hill, in contrast, appears to be a patina Trojan, vintage and polished. Fiona has more personal history with Christopher Steele (erstwhile dossier forger and head of the Russian desk at British MI6) than James Comey or John Brennan combined.

This Mata might know Hari. The English lady doth protest too much. Fiona may not have been outed as a double, but she may be getting emoluments from nefarious sources.

You cannot know her affiliations (MI6 and Brookings) , or listen to Ms. Hill, and not see the specter of Kim Philby doing a jig at Kuntsevo. The Steele/Hill connection suggests that there may have more than just courtesy calls between anti-Trump and anti-Brexit plotters on both sides of the pond. British Intelligence has always been left, liberal, and notoriously porous.

George Blake, another SIS rascal, at 98, is still an icon in Moscow.

In sum, the threat to civility and democracy in Washington is not Russia, nor collusion, nor quid pro quo, nor bribery, nor obstruction, nor even corruption. The threat is culture; a left leaning deep state, need we say creep state; a confederacy of urban statists and globalists who believe they, not democratically elected officials, make policy.

The impeachment trail, only the latest hoax, predictably failed on schedule.

The Boris Johnson landslide in the United Kingdom in November 2019 may be a harbinger of Christmas futures and the 2020 election in America. Political arrogance and associated sedition midst unelected liberal mandarins, alas, is likely to transcend a Trump second term even if he wins 2020  by a landslide.

Tenure in progressive Washington, London, and Brussels is like a cimex lectularius infestation.  Just when you think you will get a good night’s sleep, another liberal urban pest bites your azimuth.




March 9, 2020

“The difference between a lie and a cat is the cat only has nine lives.”

– Mark Twain.

Woke is trending.

“Woke” is the quam perfectum of politically correct, for those of you who have been asleep since 2016.  You know who you are. If you still can’t recognize a pink pussy hat or an urban cry for help, you’re sleepwalking. White male privilege is at the heart of the unwoke trifecta: political narcolepsy, civic somnambulism, and social cataplexy.

Alas, the great American divide between the woke and the unwoke is now so broad that bicoastal, bisexual, and urban demographics are bisecting to form a new political party and country. Wokestan aspires to be an ecumenical  urban archipelago with safe spaces for victims and barnacles of all colors, creeds, sexes, and needs.

The Wokers Party administers a secure website, Crapchat, where all complaints, grievances, whines and relevant reports of white privilege, collusion, male malfeasance, predation, and exploitation can be preserved, cross indexed, and distributed to the DNC, Rachel Maddow, Al Sharpton, urban media, and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.

Wokestan is an extra special safe space for snowflakes.

Identity politics and globalism are the only politics allowed for wokers. All vestiges of patriotism, nationalism, heterosexuality, sexism, or success of any kind are verboten.

Wokestanis  from; Code Pink, ANTIFA, the Rainbow Coalition, the NAACP, CNN, CPB, the YMCA, the Nation of Islam, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Boy Scouts, the Catholic Bishop’s Conference, the Democrat National Committee, Ben & Jerry’s, and Starbucks are represented on the new refugee screening board.

Any adult who voted Democrat in the three Clinton, or two Obama, presidential elections is automatically eligible for a Wokers Party card. Immigrant, homeless, sexually ambiguous, felon, Me-Too, Muslim, and ISIS  demographics are eligible for green cards, fast track citizenship, American and Wokestani passports.

All other aspiring Wokers must first pass a civic awareness test administered by the San Francisco based California Animal Farm and Rescue Team (CAFART).

Test questions are available below or at the CAFART website. The test may be taken monthly and as often as necessary to wake up.

No alarm clocks, caffeine, or cell phones allowed.

You are certifiably “woke” if you agree with and check “yes” to the following axioms of American social catechism:

– Trump is guilty.

– The Bidens are innocent.

– Cursive is a waste of time.

– Plus size doesn’t mean fat.

– Deplorables should not have the vote.

– Twerking should be an Olympic sport.

– Obama made Harvard Law Review on merit.

– The minimum wage should be set by employees.

– A toilet seat left at 12 o’clock is a micro aggression.

– Stoned and boned should be part of frosh orientation.

– Edible panties should only be served as a warm dessert.

– Your car and bedroom toys should run on AA batteries.


This test is not multiple choice.

You are all in or all out. Being unwoke is no joke. Ninety-five percent is the minimum passing grade on the CAFART test. With a passing grade, you are eligible to nominate politically correct axioms directly to CAFART, at # WTF followed by three exclamation points.

Wokestanies of the world, unite!


The author usually tries to write about things that matter.

Image: https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/oAlYNKDpAQPz5roXqXO16AkV4wAJlY3VTKjT87ySLWoEXdeaZj_Kve6jj6cP9VetIGcNsVo2_HqqbQAhjwNpJzi_khDVjUstmhya7hXz9DfPtg


August 30, 2019

“I think people should be allowed to do anything they want. We haven’t tried that for a while. Maybe this time it’ll work.” – George Carlin

A hero, according to most accounts, is a person distinguished by courage or character. Heroes are often elevated as role models, ideals noted for their abilities or special achievements.

A hero might simply be a character too, in literature, theater, or film. Some heroes might be heroines too, but now that sex is rhetorically irrelevant, any notions of gender might be fraught with hazard.

If we go back far enough, heroes were sometimes thought to be endowed with God-like or even immortal qualities. With ancient heroes, divinity was not beyond the pale.

We are, today, brought back to earth by any large sandwich, also called a hero.
Given the vagaries of the English language, a single word often covers a waterfront of meaning, sublime to ridiculous.

The nature of heroes has changed too. Noble has been usurped by venal. Internet heroes provide the best examples; punkers, celebrities, menopause rockers, comic book characters, sensational criminals, body art billboards, suicides, addicts, and kittens with a thousand “views” provide just a short list.

Somewhere between the Bay of Pigs and the Tonkin Gulf, the everyday American hero morphed into some kind of comic book fakir, a drunk, a junkie, a celebrity suicide, or a semi-literate, tattooed, over-paid chef or athlete.

The highest grossing film in Hollywood history is now a cartoon populated by men and women in spandex. And they still call cinema “art.” A feature length cartoon might be art in the same sense that a “graphic” novel is literature.

The age of perpetual adolescence dawned with the internet and that sun has yet to set.

I got to thinking about heroes the other day whilst doing an internet search on my high school, and the first article to come up told me that a principal at Cardinal Hayes HS in the Bronx had been caught down-loading gay porn at school. The culprit was a defrocked Christian brother. I was not surprised to hear of the principal’s hobby, given what appears to be a universal penetration of the Catholic clergy by a legion of fey predators.

Father Edward Flanagan, founder of Boys Town, once told us that there was “no such thing as a bad boy.” By all accounts, he could never say as much about Catholic clerics.

Priestly corruption has probably been with us since Saul of Tarsus became an apostle. Nevertheless, the precipitous decline of the modern church is something of an unprecedented freefall. By any measure, there is a leadership vacuum at the Vatican and in the College of Cardinals.

When asked about the connection between homosexual pedophilia and Catholic clergy; the Pope responded “who am I to judge?” Indeed, you need to sue an archdiocese now to get bishops to do the right thing when priestly child abuse is the issue.

The moral tone of any institution is set at the top.

Maybe I am a victim of age or nostalgia, but it seems that the ethical timber of Catholicism is smoldering, that fire at Notre Dame in Paris may be prophetic, an omen. Modern church problems just seem to keep metastasizing under all those clueless red hats.

Before college, my personal experience with the church was something very different.

Back in the day, seems every Irish family had a priest or nun in their wood pile. Ours was Father Ed Reynolds, a gentle soul who had found his vocation after his brother was killed towards the end of WWII. Father Ed taught at Cardinal Hayes before my time, a day when every instructor was either a Christian brother or a diocesan priest.

Ed Reynolds never missed a holiday, a christening, a confirmation, a graduation, a marriage, or a funeral for fifty years with the O’Grady sisters and all their married incarnations; Donovans, Varleys, Hickeys, Watkinsons, and Olmsteads.

As a kid, I thought that our family was Father Ed’s parish. In the real world, Ed Reynolds went from the south Bronx to Wall Street, ending his career as a Monseigneur, pastor of St. Peters on Barkley Street, ministering to those “one-percenters” we may assume.

Ed Reynolds was a hero in our small circle, a chap who lived and inspired traditional notions of family, loyalty, and service. Clerics like Reynolds were family sized icons who often rubbed elbows with larger-than-life crusaders like Farther Stanislaus Jablonski, the storied Dean of Discipline at Cardinal Hayes HS, paterfamilias for generations of Catholic, blue collar New Yorkers.

Nevertheless, back then, we kids called our disciplinarian “Jabo.”

Then, as now, the south Bronx was a tough neighborhood, a sierra hotel as Donald Trump might say. In its heyday, Hayes was host to 2,500 rough necks from all boroughs. You could call such an assembly a critical mass of adolescent Catholic testosterone.

Jabo was the top cop at Hayes. He literally patrolled the Grand Concourse, in search of undisciplined Hayes men.

If Jablonski saw a tie at half mast, he was likely to seize the cravat and yank it up to the Adam’s apple for emphasis. If some poseur had a cigarette behind his ear, Jabo might smack it off with a meaty hand.

He didn’t care about the smoking, he cared about attitudes.

A tie at half-mast or a cigarette behind the ear was too Hollywood and thus proscribed. With Jabo, cool was not a thing. There was, however, a Slavic logic behind those idioms of restraint, call it community or “broken window” policing. Jablonski believed that mastering small matters of discipline allowed a character of self-control to develop.

For Jabo, you had to learn to follow before you could ever hope to lead. Stan Jablonski’s second job was as chaplain to the NYC Fire Department where discipline was a daily matter of life and death.

Jablonski addressed his teen charges as “mister,” believing that calling boys men, and the sheer force of his will, would make it so. Any boy running afoul of Jabo found no court of appeals at home. If Jabo said you were remiss, that judgement was final.

Jablonski had a jail too, the stadium seats in the gym. For miscreants, detention hours were 3 to 5 PM. We called it “jug,” for reasons lost to me now. Maybe it was the alliteration, Jabo’s jug. In winter, doing time in the jug meant you had to navigate the highways and byways of the south Bronx in the dark, not exactly a walk in the park then or now.

Before and after class hours, you might find Father Jablonski, black robes blowing in the wind, astride the median strip of the Grand Concourse, scouring the pavement on either side of the road for slackers. Between the subway and the school house: jackets and ties only, no jeans, no tee shirts; no smoking, no spitting, no noise, no chewing gum, no girls, no horseplay, and no loitering in front of any business establishment.

Yankee Stadium was an exception, the Bronx bombers and Hayes habitués were neighbors a few blocks removed. In the Jabo era, air conditioning was an open window. On a clear cool day, if the wind was right, you could hear the roar of the crowd when Yogi or Mickey put one into the bleachers.

The seventh inning stretch and the 3 PM school bell often coincided when the Yanks were at home. After school, if you ran, you might get to see the end of a game for free if the gate ushers were in a good mood.

Picture a warm spring afternoon, a kosher Sabrett hot dog with kraut, a cold Coke, and Mantle on deck. For a kid in the Bronx, such memories were like Brother Larkin’s India ink – indelible.

A “dean of discipline” like Jablonski would be an anachronism today after Big Apple restraint and self-control embarked for the left coast with the Dodgers and Giants. Given the indiscipline of those who might fill restraint roles today, words like self-control seem quaint.

Nevertheless, back then, we kids called our disciplinarian “Jabo,” but never to his face. The Dean was six foot four, maybe more. Legends like Jabolonski seem to get bigger with time. He wore a perpetual scowl like a Kabuki mask.

If your chosen profession is policing, it helps to be large and menacing.
In my experience, Hayes men only went to Manhattan for two reasons, graduation from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and the annual Saint Paddy’s Day parade. The latter was a mandatory formation; there was no drinking or puking in the Hayes ranks. Jabo hovered along the line-of -march like a big black bird of prey.

Some of us never made it to 5th Avenue for graduation; George Carlin for example. George was a victim of Jabo’s nuclear option. He was kicked out of Hayes on disciplinary grounds. Father Jablonski was a wise guy’s worst nightmare.

Jabo was fond of saying that “smart ass” was not an occupation. He was wrong in this. Carlin went on to become, arguably, the best comic and social critic ever to come out of New York.

Hayes has less than a thousand students today, mostly minorities. The Jabo days were salad days, more students, more diversity, and a sprinkling of celebrities-to-be like Regis Philbin, Martin Scorcese, and of course, George Carlin.
Philbin graduated a decade before me. Scorsese was a year behind me and Carlin would have graduated the year I began had he not been expelled. Most of us knew those guys by reputation, eventually.

These were days before cocktails or highballs became diseases, before pot became an appetizer or a tax/ revenue stream.

Jabo and George were joined by their scorn for political correctness. Jablonski didn’t care what behavior was allowed at home. At Hayes, it was Jabo’s way or the highway. Likewise, Carlin was as likely to skewer a liberal poseur as he was to take down a conservative crank.

Stan Jablonski sought to make us examine our behavior, just as George Carlin sought to make us examine our beliefs. In their respective domains, both were Bronx heroes, special men, larger than life.

In the end there was even denouement. When Monseigneur Jablonski retired, Carlin spoke at the event. By then a star, George didn’t come to say “look at me now” or “I told you so;” he came to honor the priest who expelled him from school, a tough cleric who dedicated his life to helping boys become men.

That’s what real men do.

My last memory of Hayes was the day we graduates-to-be stood in a long line at the bookstore to pick up our class rings. Ring day was a big deal. At some point, a hush descended on what had been a boisterous jostle of seniors.

Such moments were familiar to us all, a dark presence was nigh.

Jabo strode into view and addressed the mute hallway. “I hope that all of you take more than a ring away from your last four years.” He then walked straight at me and smiled. “Congratulations, Donovan,” he said, “we didn’t think that you would make it.”

I was struck dumb. In four years, I had never seen the man smile. In four years, he had never called me anything but “mister.” If Jablonski knew you by name, that was seldom a good thing.

As Jabo parted the waves of seniors for seas unknown, I realized that the other party in “we” was Father Ed. Ed Reynolds and Stan Jablonski had collaborated to get me into Cardinal Hayes High School. Surely, it was not my grades in grammar school.

I was one of their long shots. Their faith was about to pay off.
Faith, like courage, often has nothing to do with the divine or celestial. Cousin to trust, faith is often just the investment we are willing to make in another human being.

G. Murphy Donovan usually writes about the politics of national security. He lost that ring, class of ’59, playing left field up at Pelham Bay Park two days after he left the Hayes bookstore. Reward for return of same still stands.

Key words:
Rev. Edward Reynolds, “Jabo,” Rev. Sanislaus Jablonski, Saint Peters (Barclay Street), Cardinal Hayes High School, George Carlin, Martin Scorsese, Regis Philbin, the Bronx.




February 19, 2019


“The lady doth protest, too much, methinks.” – WS


Surely the Super Bowl game itself wasn’t a fail; if you like defense and fourth quarter suspense.

What’s not to like about the New England Patriots, America’s team it seems. Tom Brady and Jules Edelman, just as twelve follows eleven, littered the playing field with Los Angeles jockstraps. The Rams only put three points on the board. The Edelman performance alone kept the LA offense off the field. The city of angels had no answer to the 2019 Belichick defense and the now hirsute Edelman.

The “goat” and “squirrel” up in Foxboro might be the best offensive duet in football.

Tip of the hat too, to the New Orleans Saints who should have been in Atlanta instead of the Los Angeles Hams. Sometimes, poetic justice is the only justice available. Or maybe some of those playoff zebras actually work for team Las Vegas.

Surely Gladys Knight wasn’t a fail. Her rendition of the national anthem was poetic, the highlight of the secular entertainment. No-anti cop twerks or screeds from Gladys and nobody took a knee. Bravo! At least one super talent overcame politics in 2019.

The half-time show, in contrast, featured a slacker, a cracker, and a rapper. When you got past the “who are these guys” mystery, you are left with Adam Levine looking like the “D” Train rattling through the south Bronx. If you’re that insecure, Adam, you might want to keep your clothes on.

The only thing that tramp stamps and skin graffiti ever say is “look at me.” Body “art” and IQ numbers are usually inversely proportionate too as a rule; personal tats and stats that you might not want to feature on national television.

The big fail on Super Bowl Sunday, however, was literally commercial – and pathetically political. Jeff Bezos and the Washington Post bought Tom Hanks, and a five million dollar ad spot, to tell the sporting world about the virtues of Bezos era journalism.

Alas, virtue signaling usually says more about predicate than object. And Jeff’s new domicile inside the Beltway swamp says as much about his politics as you need to know.

Democracy doesn’t “die in darkness,” Jeff. Democracy, like marriage, dies from neglect and insincerity.

In 2019, home town Bezos, has 16 unsolved homicides already, all black, on the books. There were 4,141 violent crimes in Washington, DC last year, 160 of those were homicides too, up 38 percent over 2016. DC homicide is trending up again in the New Year. Yet, the Washington Post buys a 5 million dollar advert on Super Bowl Sunday to lament the loss of a single Arab stringer in Turkey.

Good grief!

The Sunni world has been loping off heads since Mohamed was an altar boy. Are we to wax indignant about mindless kills only when the victim is a sometime employee of the Post?

If perspective were toilets, the Bezos Post could be a sewage treatment plant. The question that the public should ask about Bezos and the Washington Post is the same that should be asked of any public figure.

If your wife can’t trust you after 25 years of marriage, why should readers?

Bezos was recently hoisted on the philander petard by a colleague, the editor of the National Enquirer. Jeffry now claims that any graphic coverage of his marital sleaze is “blackmail” or “extortion.”

Trump is fair game, but Bezos is not?

Are we now supposed to believe that the world’s richest political partisan on the American left is just another victim?

Bezos underlines the deficits, not the assets of contemporary fish wrap when he or the Post buys a Hollywood doxy like Tom Hanks as a propaganda shill. Hanks is a contagious Hollywood liberal who apparently, like his colleagues, will say anything if the price is right.

The Bezos commercial is an egregious example of sanctimonious thought policing; a practice designed to obliterate boundaries between reporters, entertainers, politicians, and Madison Avenue shills.

If American journalism, especially the Washington Post, was about fact, objectivity, or truth; it would be obvious in practice. There would be no need for paid propaganda. Lady Gertrude had it right the first time; insincerity is not elevated by repetition – not even when it swirls clockwise in the middle of the nation’s capital – or a Super Bowl.


The author writes often about the politics of national security.

Key words: National Football League, Super Bowl commercials, Washington Post, District of Columbia, National Enquirer, journalism, Tom Brady, Tom Hanks, Adam Levine, Jeff Bezos, NE Patriots, and LA Rams.






October 26, 2018

“Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.” – Byron

Assumptions are the bed rock of everyday belief. Truth, alas, is also a function of belief. Different words yes, but as a practical matter, truth and belief is often the same thing.

Take the Christine Blasey Ford narrative for example. Her story floats on a raft of dubious premises:

  • “She” must be handled with kid gloves.
  • She is a presumed “victim.”
  • She is an assumed “survivor.”
  • Her politics, her motives are immaterial
  • Her drug or alcohol habits are off limits
  • Only medical history that supports her story is relevant
  • Her age or profession is irrelevant
  • Her social life is off limits
  • Her marriage problems are off limits
  • Her selective memory is “credible”
  • Male interrogators cannot be fair
  • She must be taken at her word

Without objection, little of the cover provided by such assumptions applies to the accused, Justice Brett Kavanaugh. Indeed, Brett, apparently, is not entitled to any of the usual presumptions of innocence granted to a female accuser like Ford.

Indeed, even before the Senate hearing began, Kavanaugh was convicted of being white, male, Republican, Catholic, and conservative by a rabid media.

Withal, beyond sex-based immunities and hippocampus psychobabble, Ms. Ford left several large questions unanswered. The first is drugs. Did Ford have any chemical assistance on the morning of her laid-back testimony? Clearly, Kavanaugh did not. He was a hot steaming pile of righteous indignation after lunch.

Mellow or not, there were several other vacuums in Ford’s narrative. Of specifics she could only remember three. They laughed, they were drunk. She, in contrast, consumed precisely “one” beer.

Then there was the “two-door” trauma that apparently triggered the dry hump flashback in Ford’s couple’s therapy. She claims that recovered memory compelled her to argue for two front doors in her recent home renovation.  Apparently, a 35-year-old beer bust grope compelled her to insist on two exits for safety in middle age.

The most likely explanation for two front doors on any single family dwelling is “duplex.” Two front doors in any renovated house signals “rental unit” or a second income, not safety.

Given the timing of the alleged incident in puberty, and the big reveal at menopause, an honest analyst might see both narratives as hormonal fictions. Yes, a research psychologist like “doctor” Ford should know that true experts often dismiss “recovered memory” as a “false remembrance generated by outside influence.”

Some Americans believe that the Cold War was the primary cause of climate change, nee “global warming.” Rhetorical excess and blarney are the parents of hyperbole. Both partisan and propagandist must reinvent language and history to make a case for all things dubious.  When fakirs and fake news fail, repetition takes up the slack.

Ms. Christine Blasey Ford flew east from her left coast Palo Alto airy a few days ago at the eleventh hour to ruin Brett Kavanaugh’s life in front of a national audience.

She claims that Justice Brett ruined her as a teen 35 years ago. They were both minors at the time (1982?). He is accused of an alleged dry hump and a grope session at some unidentified teen beer bust inside the Beltway.  He was 17, she 15. You might wonder what a 15-year-old, pubescent, Holton-Arms debutante in a bathing suit was looking for at a 80s Beltway beer bust anyway. But that’s another question yet to be asked.

With the advent of the Me-Too fad, slut shaming is out of the question. Nonetheless, given the back story, Christine’s narrative sounded like she had an encounter with Bill Clinton or Charlie Rose not Brett Kavanaugh.

Ms. Ford’s contemporary claim to fame lies with left coast academic/pharma sinecures in the California psycho-babble industry. She is a registered Democrat cum academic, cum pharmaceutical consultant with distinct feminist activist bona fides.

Pardon any redundancy.

Withal, we are assured that her belated accusations are motivated by “civic duty” not politics. Still, all of her intermediaries, including counsel and political sponsors, are radical Democrats.  We are assured that her last minute allegations, about a man she hardly knew, are apparently a function of a “hippocampus” (her words) that only remembers enough facts to smear, but not enough facts to indict, convict, or convince.

If Ford is a genuine victim, you would think her hippocampus might have tried to bag Kavanaugh years earlier as he served in the White House and on the appellate bench in Washington, but that’s another question yet to be asked.

Ford was treated with kid gloves before, during, and after her recent minutes of fame. Kavanaugh, in contrast, was pummeled like a punching bag. Under fire, without a chemical crutch, the judge became a sniveling wreck.

If you compared the Ford/ Kavanaugh testimony at the Senate side-by-side, the contrast was jarring. Chrissy was bong mellow and Brett looked and sounded like a refugee from a mugging. Ford was so laid back and composed that it was hard not to think that she might have had a hit of something that morning.  Kavanaugh, in contrast, looked like he could have used a pill or a highball at lunch.

Apparently, queries about Brett’s beer drinking and temperament were fair game throughout the interrogation, but Chrissy’s pharma or AM buzz were questions never asked.

There’s no evidence that anyone at the mystery beer party on the unspecified date in 1982 ever tried to prevent Chrissy from leaving the unspecified house in Preppieville. In fact, she did leave. How or with whom she cannot say.

Let’s assume that beer, a dry hump, a grope, and the laughter were all real.  A grope is not rape. A hand on a mouth is not murder. Ridicule is not assault. Even if we account for four decades of feminist inflation, those imagined charges of attempted rape or murder are either hysterical pubescent flashbacks or mid-life phantasms.

Emotions, dare we say hysteria, do their worst at the hormonal bookends. Alas, the damage is done. Real victims are again less credible. Ms. Ford becomes another footnote on the left.  Kavanaugh becomes another permanent pariah on the High Court.

The Ford/Kavanaugh drama was never about either. It was all about Donald Trump. Having lost the latest round of Trump hate, the media has dumped Ms.Ford and moved on to the Kashoggi soap opera and pipe bomb drama, another false flag hoax.

Withal, America is the real victim of fake news. On a downward spiral, we are again less than what we were.

At a minimum, we will need a new word for credible.






May 2, 2018

 “Behind every great man is a surprised woman.” – Maryon Pearson

The day before the last presidential election, my wife and I drove from Washington, DC to the eastern shore of Maryland. Inside the Beltway, we saw a few small Hillary signs but not as many as you might expect near a town where Democrats are monolithic. Outside the Beltway, there were no Clinton signs. Trump adverts, in contrast, out in the sticks, were ubiquitous and billboard large. Two years hence, we drove south this time into Virginia and noticed that many rural Trump signs were still up. We even saw “Reelect Trump” buttons at a farmers market. Two years in, working America seems to get, or appreciate, something about Trump that dependent, or should we say liberal, America does not.

If you read city newspapers, watch television, or live in mom’s basement with an iPhone; you might never know that Donald Trump actually has a constituency. You would never know that many folks, beyond the urban cloister, do not see Trump as an ogre. You would never know that the Trump regime puts some porridge in the pot.  Hapless spin and bias of media pundits and pollsters didn’t matter much before the last presidential election and still doesn’t seem to matter today.

Achievement, however, still matters!

Reporters, talking heads, and pollsters persist, nevertheless, still trashing Trump. Indeed, the “dump Trump” movement, right and left, might now be a case of bias metastasizing into bigotry. Excess offends most where it matters most; midst the open spaces, open minded, and the “undecided” voters.

Call them “swingers,” if you must.

Trump’s most virulent critics, if nothing else, are consistently oblivious to national sub-rosa sentiment. Political autism on the robotic left is trending. Keith and Pocohantas are waiting in the wings to succeed Bernie and Hillary. If clueless were clams and spuds, the Democratic National Committee would be chowder.

Trump’s critics have created the very monster populist they so deplore. Strawman indeed! Meanwhile, fair play still matters to open minds, flyover country, swing votes, that fickle middle.

Beltway heartburn on the far right is chronic too, as Trump keeps making noises about “draining the swamp” in Washington; a signal threat to entrenched deep state denizens at DOD, State, Justice, and the Intelligence Community. Trump is the first politician in modern times to suggest that the deep state might actually be the “creep state,” a privileged sty where entrenched, unelected, tenured, self-interested porkers rule indefinitely.

Reduced to essentials, the Trump revolution may be about real democracy, that eternal struggle between the elect and the select. Trump’s critics are a Cobb Salad of timid drones and media camp followers who see Trump as a threat to unelected, tenured power, a threat to federal honey pots and sugar teats.

These days, to put it bluntly; the Civil Service, the Foreign Service, and security services are apparently half truths. A hostile deep state appears willing to destroy democracy in order to save it, denial in fact and in deed.

We hear many complaints about Trump’s taxes, business dealings, and personal finances. Compared to Uncle Sam and Jenkins Hill, the Trump Empire is a model of fiduciary, budgetary, and fiscal rectitude. If Congress were as good at managing the public purse, we might all be living large in cribs like Mar-a-Largo.

For socialists, Trump is a primal threat. Ideology matters most to fanatics. Just as social democrats and globalists were getting over the loss of Stalin, Mao, Castro, Heidegger, and Coco Chanel; along comes Hillary riding in Bill’s shade. Trump didn’t have much of a hand to begin with, but apparently a predator’s wife isn’t the ace of hearts either.

For the American left, Donald’s sins are too numerous to catalogue, yet in the interest of balance we should mention a few. Trump is rich, well groomed, white, successful, much married, sexually active, and fertile. He might wed often, but he supports his children and ex-wives in style. He doesn’t drink, snort drugs, smoke weed, sport tattoos or piercings, wear a man bun, or play Lotto. In short, Donald Trump has all the baggage of success that envy loves to hate.

But let’s be candid, the Donald is still a bit of an odd canard. He comes to high office by way of Queens, Wharton, condo sales, serial wives, game shows, beauty pageants, casinos, and hutzpah. His political chops are more than slightly irregular, but at the same time, very, very New York.  Nothing succeeds like excess. Trump’s civic deficits are many too; he’s not a shyster, not a professional politician, not an orator, not a Bezos bozo, nor is he an accomplished ass kisser.

A Trump Tweet or press conference is often like a bizarre trap shoot. On any given day, he might take out a pigeon – or blow off one of his wing tips. Like no other politician in memory, Donald Trump has weaponized candor. After three thousand years, he had the hutzpah to call Jerusalem the Jewish capital! Talk about brass. Trump’s saving grace with sub-rosa voters may his willingness to butcher the English language and any sacred cow in the public square.

Back in the day, in the east Bronx, I ran with a mug in the same Fordham neighborhood where Trump spent two years in college. My chum was never as wealthy or educated as Trump, but just as arrogant. Tommy D was one of those kids who swaggered like a much larger animal. He didn’t necessarily look for fights, but they seemed to find him anyway. He once clocked a masher on a bus, and then got jumped by four more for his trouble.

Tommy wore his mangled nose like a bent badge of courage. He wasn’t bigger or stronger than other mutts, but he wouldn’t stay down either, he just kept coming, no matter the odds. He intimidated most comers because he never quit. With Thomas, round two was always a certainty.

Hard to know whether Trump was ever that kind of hard case growing up in Queens, although a stint in military school followed by two years at Fordham in the Bronx may explain his moxie. He does love a good fight. Trump will put a rhetorical fist on your snot locker at the drop of a hat.

If we can milk a cliché for a moment; it’s not the size of the dog in a fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. Trump is a happy warrior. He is willing to take on the fatties and the fatuous. Critics underestimate his appeal to the every-day poll troll, folks that fib to Pew or Nielsen. Trumpsters, like swallows, fly under the radar.

Sub-rosa support for Trump is a new guilty pleasure.

Thus far, Trump is smarter and more agile than his critics. He is unpredictable and unprecedented, yet his madness has method. For Zuckerberg zombies, an app like Twitter is just another adolescent ego toy. For Trump, Twitter allows the White House to set the table daily at dawn, before critics can brush their teeth or find their panties.

All politics may be local, but all politicians are about personality. Trump is larger than life – and Pocahontas too. Not necessarily a good man, but possibly a great man. American politics has never seen a Presbyterian like Donald Trump. Were he to get hit by a Tesla tomorrow, his time in office will still be historic.

Trump’s great strengths are the excesses of his enemies and the stupidity of his haters. Rosanne Barr gets it. Few other do. Trump thrives in the mystic middle. He doesn’t have anything to lose or gain, except reelection. For the gainfully employed, the harried taxpayer, and all good souls taken for granted; a dollar-a-year man at the top is simple math – and poetic justice.

Trump again in 2020?





Key Words; Trump, Rosanne, presidential politics, fake news, swing voters, and 2020 election.