By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Originally appeared in My Washington Whispers on August 20, 2026 James Carville, best known as a political strategist for Bill Clinton’s successful presidential campaign way back in 1992, has predicted that President Trump will “walk away” from the presidency after the coming midterm elections. Carville, who has tended to approach politics as sport, adamantly maintains that Trump will call it quits by Easter of 2027 because of “a massive rejection of him,” and the subpoenas that will deluge his administration officials if the Democrats take the House and the Senate. Carville has said: “I know what it’s like to lose a massive, off-year election. We did in 1994. It’s so monumental, it’s so massive, it hurts so deep, you just can’t imagine it. The entire world around him is going to change during November of this year.” He added, “People don’t pay attention to you, they’re making jokes. Everybody knows you’re on a short leash, you’ve got two years left to go, you don’t have any power. Everyone around you is being subpoenaed for everything you can imagine. Your life is miserable. He doesn’t have the stamina.” According to The Independent, Carville believes the Democrats will--as they should--investigate Trump to the Nth degree and then go after his corrupt kids. Therefore, Carville suggests, “You’re going to figure out, ‘I got to get the hell out of here.’ And you’re going to cut a deal, and you’re going to resign.” I like a good rant as well as the next person, but it should address the real problem and, if possible, suggest solutions. At a minimum, it should raise the obstacles that must be overcome. The problem facing the country is much larger than whether Donald J. Trump remains or leaves the presidency. And James Carville’s rant is the blah-hooey of a man who is more interested in getting some headlines than addressing the dire situation in which the country finds itself and offering effective advice on how Democrats may handle those obstacles to save our democracy. First, to compare Trump’s situation to that of Bill Clinton’s administration in 1994 ignores the fact that Trump has already confiscated ballots in Georgia and is arranging to sic so-called monitors on the polls to intimidate or invalidate voters who might vote against his MAGA lackeys. He is using the Department of Justice to harass any who speak against his regime, and has funded a private army—ICE—to violently interfere with democratic process. Furthermore, even if Trump fails to rig the mid-term election and the Democrats win both houses of Congress, they will have to fight off Trump’s lies that they stole the election. It is also quite possible that Trump’s minion, the current Republican Speaker of the House Mike Johnson, will refuse to give up his gavel and allow his Democratic successor or the Democrats who win to be seated. As to the claim that Trump will walk away from the presidency because he is bored or lacks stamina to fight all the investigations that will be coming at him: Carville ignores Trump’s psychological makeup. Trump is moved by narcissism, a deep sense of inadequacy, insatiable greed, and fear. In my view, as Trump’s world caves in, all this will most likely push him towards further aggressive action. And, since Trump’s survival of criminal investigations depends on the immunity granted him by the Supreme Court Six, Trump will cling to power as to a life raft. Carville has suggested that Trump will “cut a deal” to walk away. Any democratic body that proposes or agrees to such a deal will be even more of a traitor to democracy than was former president Gerald Ford. Ford gave former President Richard Nixon a deal, pardoning him for his criminal anti-democracy actions in the Watergate scandal without Nixon ever being charged or convicted. That let anti-democracy forces know what they could get away with and led to the situation we are in now. To repeat that mistake would be the absolute worst thing that a democratic body could do. If there is no accountability—no true punishment—for this attempt at a coup and institution of a dictatorship, it will be done again. Anti-democracy forces do learn from history—in order to repeat it. That said, Carville does raise one plausible justice-defeating scenario: that Trump will resign so that JD Vance, succeeding him as president, can give him a legally unassailable pardon. My own prediction: If Trump quits the presidency before the end of his term, it will not be for the reasons Carville posits. It will be because his patron Putin abandons him as no longer useful. Or because those behind Project 2025 find his erratic behavior more an obstacle than an aid to the advancement of their dictatorial plans and thus oust him. After all, Vice-President JD Vance was and is Project 2025’s man. Trump was not the frontman they wanted, just the one they got stuck with. If Trump leaves, trading Trump for Vance will be no bargain. Vance will likely be far more efficient than Trump in advancing Project 2025’s consolidation of dictatorial power. One has to kick all the blackguards out. Jessie Seigel’s journalistic career began with the political Washington Whispers column, written for The Insider. Since The Insider ended its run in 2023, Seigel has continued the column as My Washington Whispers, www.mywashingtonwhispers.com. In addition, Seigel has had a long career as a government attorney, has received two Artist’s Fellowships from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, has been a finalist for several literary awards, and has had professional staged readings of her plays, Tinker's Damn, and The Three Jessies. More on Seigel can be found at www.jessieseigel.com.

By Rick Fishman / Oakland, Calif. Some kids grow up in a house. I grew up in a bowling alley. The place was Oak Park Lanes, on Coolidge Highway, near Nine Mile Road in Oak Park, Mich. . More than a bowling alley. It was my social center. If you were looking for me, you could call me or find me there. Oak Park in those days had a map, drawn by places, not just streets. Stage Deli at Nine Mile and Coolidge, Stafford’s farther up and Hy Horenstein’s at the corner of Ten Mile. These were the landmarks where you could get something to eat, where kids hung out, and where someone might know your brother, your parents, or your business before you even walked in. Oak Park Lanes sat right in the middle of that world. My older brother Gary had the responsibility of watching over me, so he took me with him everywhere, which meant I was exposed early on to older boys, older jokes, older language, and a certain kind of teenage wisdom not available in any classroom. I heard things I probably should not have heard, learned things I probably should not have learned, figuring out quickly that to survive around older boys, I had to toughen up a little. The bowling alley had its own code: friendly, but not soft. Kids talked to each other in a way that today might require a waiver. We insulted each other constantly, but there was affection underneath it all. You learned how to take it, give it back, and never let anyone see that they had gotten to you. Oak Park Lanes taught me more than bowling. It taught me timing, competition, and the art of the comeback. It taught me how to walk into a room full of older guys and not look lost. That kind of bravado became useful later in life. Turns out the bowling alley was preparing me for business, music, women, friendship, and every room where you had to decide who you were before someone else decided it for you. Bowling became a major part of my life. Not casual, “let’s rent shoes once in a while” bowling but League bowling jackpot–bowling We knew who was good, who just thought he was good, and who was about to be taught the difference. There was a friendly rivalry among the kids, although “friendly” may be too polite a word. We were competitive and loud and we wanted to win. A bowling score was more than a number. It was a public statement. A strike was not just ten pins. It was proof. You stood on the approach, ball in hand, with everyone watching, and for that moment, you either had it or not. Bowling gave me a place to excel at something. It gave me an identity, believing I could do something that mattered. In the 1960s, bowling was huge in America, and Oak Park Lanes was packed. There were church leagues, work leagues, B’nai B’rith leagues, and enough bowlers walking around with monogrammed, uniformed shirts to make you think bowling was a branch of the military. Famed bowler Ed Lubanski throwing the 2-finger ball There was true bowling history inside Oak Park Lanes, and much of it came through Ely Rose, the proprietor. Ely had been in the business forever. He was friends with Ed Lubanski, which gave the place a certain authority. Ed was a Hall of Fame bowler who once rolled back-to-back perfect scores of 300 on national television. He was not some distant legend. Lubanski made Oak Park Lanes feel bigger than a neighborhood hangout. It felt connected to the whole bowling universe. I loved Oak Park Lanes so much that I wanted to have my Bar Mitzvah party there. I was turning 13 and "becoming a man". Where better to celebrate than at the place where I already felt like "one of the guys "? My mother did not agree. So, we settled on Jack Barnes Dance Studio, just down the street. It was more appropriate with better lighting, fewer cigarette machines, and less chance of someone yelling, “Nice shot, Fishman,” during the blessing over the challah. Oak Park Lanes was my real clubhouse. I had my own locker. And as I kept bowling, my skills, attitude, and teenage chutzpah continued to improve. Somewhere along the way, I became known as “Fingers Fishman,” which sounded just dangerous enough for a teenage bowler. Within three years, I was bowling for money against older boys, but those my own age were starting to step up, too. There were the Bergies (Warren and Gary Bergman), Binky Bengels, Eddie Harold, Richard Allen, his cousin Freddy Abramson and of course, the Paper Boy. In addition, there were Jack Rubinstein, Alan Stone, Ronnie Eckelman. On a good day you could make $25-$75 bucks, so we met on Sundays for our version of Bowling for Dollars. Then came the 300 game. The newspapers covered it: "Ricky Fishman, 17 Years Old, Bowled a Perfect Game. The 12 strikes in a row that every bowler dreams about. The event was witnessed by Ely Rose and all the guys. Newspaper stories in those days were a much bigger deal than just having something “liked” online. A newspaper clipping had substance. It could be saved, shown, folded, unfolded, and used by your mother as evidence that maybe all those hours at the bowling alley had not been a complete waste of time. My name was posted on a sign above the bowling alley doors. Could this be my path and not music? I was in a band, but who needs all that schlepping? For a while, I was sort of famous. Not movie star famous. Not even local television weatherman famous. But in the world that mattered to me, I had done something real. I even thought that maybe I could "go professional," but that dream ended over dinner at Stafford’s restaurant with my mom, Jeanne Fishman. I told her that I wanted to be a pro bowler. She did not pause or pretend to consider it. She looked at me and said, “Jews are not bowlers.” And that was the end of my proposed bowling career. There are moments in life when a parent offers guidance. This was not guidance. This was a ruling from the Supreme Court. No appeal. No discussion. Oak Park Lanes eventually disappeared, closing abruptly in April 1988. The building was gutted and redeveloped into Coolidge Park Plaza retail strip. The building had served its purpose and moved into memory. That is the strange thing about the places that shape us. They seem permanent when we are young. Then one day the building is gone, but you realize the real story was what happened inside it. For many people, Oak Park Lanes was where they joined leagues, took lessons, met friends, and spent a Saturday afternoon. For me, it was where I learned how to compete, how to talk back, how to take a joke, how to make a little money, and how to walk into a room as myself. I did not know it at the time, but that was where I was finding my way. Not just bowling. Growing up. The author bowling in California last year Rick Fishman of the Martini Brothers Swing Band and a former Royal Jammer, grew up in Oak Park, Mich. He has owned his own retail businesses for close to 50 years. After moving to California in 1976, he founded the LeSportsac franchise in 1978, Traveling Light Stores, and As Time Goes By collectibles stores. For more than 25 years, he has operated ArtDecoCollection.com, now supported by a 7000 square foot brick and mortar showroom by appointment, while currently producing the digital book, Art Deco Resource Guide. https://artdecocollection.com/art-deco-resource-guide/

By Susan Senator / Boston The author’s “Very Excellent Photo Bomb,” with President W. Bush, Senator Ted Kennedy, and half of Barbara Walters It was a beautiful July day, 20 years ago. I was on vacation, staying at my parents’ house on Cape Cod. We had just come back from the beach, and I was checking my voice mail. The message was from Carolyn Something, and it sounded like she said from the White House. I listened with half an ear, my attention suddenly called into sharp focus by the name, “Eunice Shriver,” and the words “black-tie dinner.” I listened again, and when it got to that part, I wordlessly handed the phone to my husband Ned, my wide eyes telling him that he had to listen to this. As he listened, he gave me the thumbs-up sign and then hung up. We just tried to absorb it all. “Is it for real?” he asked. “I think so,” I said. I was being invited to a black-tie dinner at the White House, where President George W. Bush would be honoring Eunice Kennedy Shriver on July 10, 2006, for her birthday and for Special Olympics, which she had founded in 1963. The thrill chilled quickly as I remembered that this was a Republican White House, and that I hated President Bush. I was and still am a stalwart Lefty Democrat; how could I go to a White House dinner hosted by a Republican president? But this president was not like the horror show we have today. W. was honoring the Democrats of all Democrats: the Kennedys and Special Olympics, the organization that had given my autistic son Nat a social life and turned him into an athlete. Special Olympics had found its way through Nat’s profound autism and opened up his world. As a freelance journalist, I had by that time written about this so often that Tim Shriver, Eunice Shriver’s son and Chairman of Special Olympics, had reached out to me. Me. Ordinary me. I was going to go to a state dinner at the White House. The Prince was giving a ball, and even poor Cinderella could attend. I would have to get a dress. When I asked the friendly White House social events person what most of the women would wear; she told me, “Oh, Mrs. Bush will most certainly wear a long, elegant gown, as will most women. A few will wear shorter, elegant dresses.” Elegant. Elegant was difficult for me. But I figured that my wise mother, even though she is pretty earthy herself, would know what to do. Being on Cape Cod, we went shopping in Hyannis, the Kennedy summer playground. I must have tried on around 30 dresses that day, until suddenly, there it was: a sugary pink satin gown, in my size. The author, all dolled up and ready to go And so, Ned and I flew to D.C., not in a pumpkin carriage but in a shuttle to Washington. The air was as hot and heavy as wearing a damp woolen blanket. At 5:30 p.m., as we hurried to sweatily dress, I felt the first pangs of fear. What the hell am I doing here? I asked myself. Going to the White House to meet my Special Olympian heroes and a president? Me? So, I did what any socially terrified woman would do. I fixated on the wrinkles in my gown. The cab dropped us at 15th and Alexander Hamilton Place, where we were to go in through the old Treasury Building entrance. I saw gaping tourists, who must have thought I was somebody, gliding in my finery up to the gate with the Secret Service guys, who looked like the thugs in The Matrix, equipped with earpieces and sunglasses. They stopped us and checked our I.D.s against a list. They did not have Ned down, because it turns out they had him down as “Ned Senator.” (Senator is my last name, not his.) While they checked on Ned, black limo after black limo passed through the gate. Ned, in our D.C. hotel room. wearing a tux We stumbled into the East Room a few minutes later, passing a pair of women in military dress playing a huge golden harp and a flute, then filed into a lovely room three times the size of my living room. There were large oil portraits of important people whom I didn’t know, a baby grand piano, and long windows. Not far from me stood Barbara Walters, Tim Russert, Peter Lynch, and Ted Kennedy, as well as others who looked vaguely familiar or Kennedyesque. What the hell am I doing here? But I told myself: You will not be shy. You will go out there and talk with everyone. I started to make the rounds, going right up to people as if I belonged there. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that no other women were wearing pink; most were in black. Ah, so elegant dress = black. It’s fine, it’s fine, said the confident stranger in my head. My nervousness subsided and I started to enjoy myself, looking around for fellow guests I might try to meet. I made it into kind of a game, in which I would try to meet as many interesting-looking people as I could. What was to be afraid of? I tried Barbara Walters, who was as responsive as a piece of wood. I had better luck getting Tim Russert to pose for a pic with me (below) because Mom loved him as an interviewer because he “follows up.” The author pictured with “Meet the Press” host Tim Russert The friendliest people there were 12 “Global Messengers,” representatives of Special Olympics worldwide. These were actual athletes who had competed in the World Games. Some had Down syndrome ; others’ disabilities were less apparent. They were so friendly and open about their experiences, and they wanted to hear all about Nat. Maybe he could compete in the World Games! (He probably never will but it was fun to think about.) We started lining up for our photos with the President, the First Lady, and Eunice Shriver. I got nervous again and did not listen to the instructions about where to stand, whose hand to shake, and so on. When it was my turn, I looked at President Bush, taller than I had realized, and nearly swooned, although I don’t swoon. I looked away and studied the curtains. What the hell am I doing here? But no time for that. I ambled over to the President, and it was clear that I was in the wrong place. But he showed me where to stand and said softly, “Oh, I know, it’s hard to remember this stuff.” For that split second, I was in love with a Republican. But then it was over and we were ushered out into another overly decorated red silk-hung room, then into the dining area, styled in High Bordello. My seat was at Table 6; Ned was at Table 1. Oh no, they had made a mistake and split us up! But then I saw that no spouses were together. The dining room tables decorated in gaudy brothel style A quick glance at the names at my table: Maria Shriver! Senator Ted Kennedy! The Prez, my new best friend. Calm down, I told myself. Remember–elegant, elegant… Maria Shriver, center, Arnold Schwarzeneger, and Ted Kennedy, to name a few I enjoyed talking to the man on my left, however, Leonard Flowers, a Special Olympic athlete. who had appeared in a pretty big role in the movie The Ringer, a Farrelly Brothers film about a guy who rigs the Special Olympics. Leonard was sweet and charming. He would not try his soup, and I almost offered to eat it, but I figured that was bad manners (See? Elegant.) The author standing next to Leonard Flowers, Global Ambassador, Special Olympics. Former Miss America Vanessa Williams in the background The food was strange and not enough of it, either: four little bits of lamb as an entrée, a weird salad of grapefruit and artichokes, that kind of thing. Four different wines, including a champagne. Dessert was Mrs. Shriver’s birthday cake and chocolate Special Olympics medals, which I gobbled up. The Paparazzi As we filed out for the entertainment, photographers snapped away, so Ned got out his camera. Luckily this happened just as the President and Ted Kennedy were walking by, so I sidled up to them, grinning my face off, and Ned took our picture! Best photo bomb ever! And then it was time to go. Secret Service or some other military types kept edging us all closer and closer to the exits. Time to process all that had happened. How could we go back to real life? But my taxi would soon be turning into a pumpkin. My time at the White House had come to an end. What the hell was I doing there, anyway? Did it really happen? But yes, it did. And I have the pink dress to prove it. Susan Senator is an author, blogger and journalist living in the Boston area with her husband Ned Batchelder. They have three sons, the oldest of whom is 36 and has profound autism. Ms. Senator is the author of Making Peace With Autism as well as The Autism Mom’s Survival Guide and Autism Adulthood: Insights and Creative Strategies for a Fulfilling Life. A journalist since 1997, she has a column in Psychology Today, and she has published many pieces on parenting, autism, and living happily, in journals like the New York Times, Time magazine, the Washington Post, the Boston Globe, and NPR. Senator has appeared as a guest on “The Today Show,” MSNBC, ABC News, PBS, NPR and CNN.

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area Bonnie’s California Rolls Things have come a long way since 1762, when the Earl of Sandwich became very famous for putting meat between two pieces of bread. Why did he do this? Apparently, the Earl was a heavy gambler. Having the sandwich close by, he could eat and play cards at the same time. Efficient, no? Sandwiches today have become a convenience food, portability being the most important characteristic for multi-tasking: eating at one’s desk while still being able to work, drive and eat at the same time, tailgating or picnics. Wraps or rolled sandwiches can be made with tortillas, lavashes or pitas, with fillings such as sliced deli meats chicken salad or hummus with lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. They began appearing in restaurants during the ‘80s, inspired by California, where the influence of Tex-Mex food had popularized burritos. Let’s take a step back in time to the ’50s and ’60s when sandwiches took on a different form. Homemakers would make petite tea sandwiches for luncheons and, well, teas. A really fun snack was when they would roll out bread to flatten it, spread on cream cheese and something like cucumbers or radishes, roll them up and make pinwheels. I remember my mom doing this. I found it fascinating that you could make the bread thin enough to create a dainty and delicious treat. In the mid-70s, I had a Proustian food experience. Do you ever have a food memory that is so profound you still remember it decades later? It could have been something plain or simple, but the taste and texture just knocked you for a loop. My husband, Bob, and I had traveled to San Francisco for a podiatry conference. Sounds exciting, right? He attended the meetings, but I ran around the city. I was near Union Square, a major retail hub in the city. I stopped by a lunch spot where they had a carry-out window. I ordered a sandwich made with whole wheat bread (whole wheat products hadn’t really hit the Midwest yet, so this was striking to me), slathered with cream cheese and topped with tomatoes, avocados, and alfalfa sprouts. What a combination! Very California. A typical ‘70s California sandwich with whole grain bread and lots of veggies The rolled sandwich really took off in the ’90s as a substitute for sandwiches, partly because of the low-carb craze–a wrap uses a lot less bread. They showed up on trays for luncheons, office meetings, and casual parties. The beauty of wraps is that they are often cut in half, so as to give the guest the option of a variety of different fillings, half of this and half of that. When I had my shops, Bonnie’s Patisserie and Bonnie’s Kitchen, in suburban Detroit from 1980 to 2009, the wrap was a mainstay for office lunches. We made different chicken salads, flank steak fajitas, vegetarian wraps with hummus and grilled vegetables. These roll-ups took little time to prepare. At my first bakery/gourmet food shop, I created an appetizer that we called California Rolls. I named it after my discovery on the California trip. Little did I know that sushi California rolls were going to nose their way into our food culture 20 years later. It got a little confusing for our customers as to what kind of California rolls they were really buying. Our California Rolls were used as appetizers. They were by far our biggest seller. Instead of shredded lettuce, we used alfalfa sprouts. Before tortillas and lavashes were popular, I needed to find some bread that we could roll. I ended up with a large Armenian crisp flat bread that we had to soak overnight to make it pliable. What a pain! Trader Joe’s has saved the day for current cooks. They sell a flexible, soft, thin flatbread that is the right size (8” x 12”) and shape. I use them in this month’s recipe. If you are unable to buy this product, use 2 large flour tortillas for each cracker bread. The lavash from Trader Joe’s that is already pliable The Armenian cracker bread that we had to soak to soften Lately, I use finely shredded lettuce in place of sprouts because there has been so much contamination of alfalfa sprouts. Feel free to try different filling combinations. Cream cheese is almost a must for the spread because it becomes stiff when chilled and holds the roll-ups together. This is a fun appetizer to make, and the recipe can be multiplied many times for large gatherings. Have fun rolling! Bonnie’s California Rolls Yield: 24 pieces California rolls displayed for an appetizer party 2 pieces of soft, thin cracker bread (Trader Joe’s Old-Fashioned Clay Oven-Baked Lavash Flatbread or 4 large flour tortilla wrappers) 8 oz. cream cheese, room temperature 2 Tbsp. thinly sliced scallions 2 shakes hot sauce 1/4 tsp. salt 1 ripe avocado, sliced lengthwise in 6-8 slices 1 medium large Roma tomato, sliced lengthwise into 6 pieces 3/4 c. finely shredded Romaine lettuce, packed 1/4 c. finely shredded arugula In a medium bowl using a wooden spoon, beat the cream cheese until light and fluffy. Add the scallions, hot sauce, and salt. Combine well. Lay the sheets of lavash on your work surface, with the light side facing up. The long side should face you. Divide the cream cheese mixture between the two pieces. Spread the filling evenly over the lavashes.. Beginning about 2” in from the bottom, line up the avocados end to end. Line up the tomatoes in the same way, lying next to the avocados. Distribute the lettuce and arugula on top of the vegetables. Roll up the sandwich, starting at the bottom by wrapping the vegetables tightly. Continue rolling until the top end. Tightly wrap each log in cling film. Refrigerate for at least an hour or two to firm up the cream cheese. Using a sharp knife, trim off the ends. Slice each log evenly into a dozen pieces. Arrange on a tray, cut side up. Slice scallions into thin pieces. Beat together the cream cheese, scallions, hot sauce, and salt. Cut the avocado and tomato into 6-8 slices each. Spread the filling evenly over the lighter side of the bread. Line up the avocado and tomatoes end to end along the bottom edge, leaving a 2” border at the bottom. Sprinkle on lettuce. Tuck the bread over the veggies in a tight roll and continue rolling away from yourself. After trimming the ends, cut each log into 12 even pieces. Bonnie Fishman attended the Cordon Bleu Cookery School in London. Later, she owned and operated Bonnie’s Patisserie in Southfield, Mich. and Bonnie’s Kitchen and Catering in Bloomfield Hills, Mich. She has taught cooking for over 35 years and created hundreds of recipes. She is now living in Northern California.

By Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City & Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel “Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.” Danish comedian Victor Borge THE MAVE SPEAKS Kidding with Lyd Falling in love with a comedy writer was not my intention 60 years ago when I interviewed Lydia Hope Wilen for Hearst's flagship evening daily, the New York Journal-American, otherwise known as "The J-A." But accidents will happen -- so do jokes which I average about three a day. In the case of my first meeting with Lydia, there was no time for comedy. Stupid me; not even time to get her phone number. No problem. I was too busy trying to secure my job as a full-time journalist. I was less interested in Lyd the laugh-writer for Jackie Mason and more in writing a catchy lead to my story. Chatting with this young beauty was only okay if my editor John W. Newton liked my story. He did and it ran with a photo of Dame Wilen, which proved that I had egregiously erred in not tracking her down for a date. But that would come a mere six decades later, thanks to email which secured our reunion and jokes which cemented it. To my amazement, I learned via email and then cell phone that this still gorgeous female was casually and innocently breaking a fixed rule: NEVER BE FUNNIER THAN FISCHLER. No matter; what mattered is that humor came as naturally to me and as automatically to the Lovely Lyd as: Two shrinks meet in the street, and one says "You're fine. How am I?” As our romance blossomed, Lyd asked how my laugh language had developed. Parents who dressed their kid in knickers, had to have a sense of humor. All in the Family That was easy. As a lad in Williamsburg-On-The-River, I was surrounded by a funny family– especially The Three Bens -- Uncle Ben, Big Ben and Molly's Ben. My dad belonged to Molly and he -- a former sailor in World War I -- owned a catalogue of what I considered funny lines. If he was angry with me, he'd say, "I'll fix your wagon" and that inspired a chuckle ‘cause I didn’t even have a wagon. Big Ben Friedman, my mom's first cousin, was a jolly fellow without even trying to be funny. When I was five years old, Big Ben was a big fan of radio-movie comic Joe Penner. Penner had a standard line that audiences thought was a riot: “WANNA BUY A DUCK?” When Big Ben came to visit, the first thing he'd say to me would inevitably be: “WANNA BUY A DUCK?” Before he was halfway through, I was halfway to the floor laughing. My mom’s kid brother, Uncle Ben Friedman, was a facial comic and he'd always sit across from me at Passover seders. When I'd least expect it, Uncle Ben would cover his upper teeth with his upper lip and extend his lower teeth with what came to be known as an "Uncle Ben Face." It turned out to be so 100 percent effective that I passed it on to my two sons, Ben and Simon, and every grandchild. Getting back to my dad–my original humor source–I consider this scene symbolic of a funny guy who automatically made his son a budding humorist: Dad's kid brother, lawyer Julius of East New York, had a sweet wife named Aunt Ceil. She had one failing–she liked to brag. Aunt Ceil and my mom schmoozed by phone once a week. Like clockwork, when their conversation ended, Dad would quip: "Stanley, do you know that your Aunt Ceil is a connoisseur?" A pause and then the inevitable punchline: "Mostly sewer!" Sam Rosen, John Giannone, Joe Micheletti and the co-author, Hockey Maven Stan Fischler Slap Shot Actually, I got serious about joke-telling while working as a sportscaster for SportsChannel and MSG Networks, doing Rangers, Devils, and Islanders games. Prior to a Devils telecast, I heard "The Bobby Short Gag," which, unfortunately, cannot be told here. I did, however, tell it before a pregame production meeting and it went over so well that my producer, Roland Dratch, suggested I tell one at the next meeting. Wouldn’t you know, I told another X-rated gag that went over so well that producer Dratch suggested I tell a joke before EVERY game. And I did and likewise before Rangers and Islanders games. No, not all X-rated. Here’s one that went over big and can be repeated in the Insider: A guy is walking in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral arm-in-arm with two live penguins: one on the left and one on the right. A cop happens to see them and admonishes the guy: "You can't be walking in front of the church with those two live penguins. I can give you a summons." The guy shoots back, "Well whaddya want me to do?" "Take those penguins to the Bronx Zoo or it'll cost you fifty bucks." So, the guy hails a cab and takes the penguins to the Bronx Zoo. The next day the cop is walking his beat in front of St. Patrick's when a car stops for a red light at 50th and Fifth. The cop notices the same guy who was with the penguins now is driving the car and the penguins are sitting in the back seat. The cop snaps: "I thought I told you to take those penguins to the Bronx Zoo!" The guy leans out of his car window and tells the cop, “I did, and they loved it. Now we’re going to Coney Island!” LYDIA'S TURN Stan, The Good Humor Man Many of my remarks to Stan, on the phone and in emails, begin with “Who but you…?” Is there anyone else who does an imitation of Peter Lorre talking to Jell-O? Who else imitates Henry Daniell as Moriarty, going up against Basil Rathbone’s Sherlock Holmes? While walking through Central Park with his young son on his shoulders, a large rodent crossed their path. Within a second, Stan became Jimmy Cagney: “You, you dirty rat!” Mave starts by teaching me things. For instance, Brooklyn’s St. George Hotel had a massive Art Deco saltwater pool – a hangout for celebrities from the 1930s to the 1950s. This Subway Historian also told me that the IRT Clark Street train station was built under the Hotel. Mave slips in a joke without me realizing it: “One day, a married couple checked in and were given a room on the first floor. The wife was tired and wanted to take a nap. She put on her nightgown and got into bed, while her husband left to explore the neighborhood. Just as she was falling asleep, there was a rumbling sound as her bed shook. A few minutes later, the same rumbling and shaking happened. She called the front desk and asked to speak to the manager. She told the manager, “Every time a train comes, there’s rumbling and the bed shakes. Please come up and see for yourself.” The manager let himself into her room. She said, “It will happen again any minute now. Lay down on the bed so you can get the full impact.” He did. Just then, the husband opened the door, walked in and said, “What the hell are you doing in bed with my wife?” The manager replied, “You won’t believe this, pal, but I’m waiting for a train to come in.” Friday night showtime at Bubbe's Humor in the Family Every Friday night in Bubbe’s and Zeyde’s apartment, it was eat supper, light candles, put on a show. Uncle Larry (Label) would lip-sync to Danny Kaye’s rapid-fire lyrics or to Aaron Lebederf singing “Roumania, Roumania.” Uncle Davey (Doovid) would dress in drag for silly skits and I played along, wearing every kind of schmatta available and lip syncing to comedy novelty records including “Pincus the Peddler." You had to be there. And one Friday night, Zeyde’s sister (my great-aunt, Tanta Malka) was there, visiting from her chicken farm in Lakewood, NJ. Showtime! Tante Malka was seated front row center. She set a record for audience appreciation because she laughed so hard, the tears ran down her leg. (My sister had to explain to me that it meant she peed in her pants.) I thought: If laughter can do that, I want in. Slap Shots Since my long-distance lover is known as the Hockey Maven, I thought I should watch a game. I started with the recent finals between the Las Vegas Golden Knights and the Carolina Hurricanes. My first time watching a hockey game. I had it made. By the fourth inning, I had the lingo– No innings? And only three periods? It seemed longer. Stan, the good sport, included this in one of his daily Rangers reports that goes out to hockey fans… and he still has that job. So, I guess I got things right. Here goes… Face-off: Makeup Removal Hat Trick: Putting a cap on with the brim in back and still shielding your eyes from the sun Change on the fly: Replace the buttons with a zipper Re-tooling: Getting a new hammer, screwdriver, pliers, saw and drill Power Play: A come-on by a guy on the next bar stool Icing: A sugary glaze used to top off baked goods Goal: It should be spaced differently: Go Al for every hockey player named Al: MacInnis, Iafrate, Arbour, MacAdam, Montoya (of course the Maven will be the only one able to recognize these names and also sing Paul Simon’s lyrics to “You Can Call Me Al.”) Holding the stick: I won't even dignify this with an explanation. Let’s get our minds out of the gutter and back in the game. One-timer: Better than a two-timer Right wing: Favorite chicken part Toe drag: An annoying pain caused by gout Zamboni: The East Flatbush shoemaker, Anthony (Tony) Zamboni But Seriously Folks… There’s something to the expression, “Laughter is the best medicine.” Well, maybe it’s not the best medicine, but it’s a close second. According to the Wilen sisters’ (doctor-approved) Treasury of Home Remedies & Natural Cures, laughter activates the immune system, lowers blood pressure, reduces stress hormones, and raises levels of infection-fighting cells. What’s more, laughter triggers the instant release of endorphins (feel-good chemicals and pain relievers) along with the pleasure-provider dopamine, the neurotransmitter that reinforces positive behavior. That’s nothing to laugh at. Now I know why I love the lug. Mave keeps my endorphins triggered and has me doped up with dopamine. Always Leave ‘em Laughing This is Stan imagining that Mona Lisa was Jewish and what her mother would have said: “Mona, bubbelah, after all the money your father and I spent on your braces, that’s the biggest smile you can give us?” A Jewish orthodontist's nightmare Lydia Hope Wilen began her professional career as a comedy writer on Personality, a celebrity-driven game show. Her greatest gig was her extremely successful collaboration with her late sister Joany as nonfiction bestselling authors (18 books), which led to the sisters becoming popular TV personalities. They continued as journalists (NY Daily News Sunday full-page feature, Celebrity Surveys for Cosmopolitan Magazine, cover stories for Parade Magazine) and got the opportunity to write and talent coordinate a Nickelodeon series hosted by Leonard Nimoy. The Wilens had an unusually versatile writing range from Reading Rainbow episodes, to off-color comedy skits for Dr. Ruth Westheimer’s TV show, Sexually Speaking, plus three optioned screenplays. And that's just for starters . . . Stan was gifted with a silver hockey stick when inducted into the USA Hockey Hall of Fame by the Islanders in 2020 Stanley I. Fischler (born March 31, 1932) is an American historian of hockey and the New York City subway, as well as a broadcaster, author of over 100 books, and professor. As a broadcaster with MSG, Fischler has won seven Emmy Awards (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Fischler)

By Andy Borowitz July 22, 2026 John Lamparski/Getty Images WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth on Wednesday credited his “super-high testosterone level” with his ability to apply “military-grade makeup.” “In order to be Secretary of War, I have to be Secretary of Warpaint,” he told reporters. “And my warpaint is by Estée Lauder.” “Being blessed with off-the-charts testosterone has enabled me to perform with extreme lethality,” he said. “Make no mistake: I am lethal with an eyebrow pencil.” In perhaps his boldest claim, Hegseth said that his makeup technique proved that he had the highest level of testosterone in the Trump administration, with the possible exception of Jeanine Pirro.

By George Guidall / White Plains, N.Y. Acclaimed audiobook narrator George Guidall I sit in the closet —- door closed. Acoustic panels on the walls surround me, the microphone close to my face—and I enter worlds that require demonstrating what it means to be human. Or what it once meant. This is the strange, private work of narrating (performing) audiobooks. It’s what I do most and love best. Have you ever grown so close to people that it felt as if you were an extension of them? Or that they were an extension of you? I can feel the pain of Jean Val Jean in Les Misérables. I still can’t bring myself to say “I’ll call you sometime” to Raskolnikov—-they sent him to jail! And I’ve never stopped regretting that I wasn’t there when my sweet Don Quixote passed away. These are just a few of my friends. The rest float in my memory of past literary encounters. It may sound strange, but after the years I’ve spent as an actor — an Obie somewhere on a shelf, and recently a Hall of Fame induction by the Audio Publishers Association, I’ve come to realize that the work I’ve done in a closet, alone, with a microphone, is the work that I have meshed with most deeply. Meshed isn’t even the right word. Melded. Merged with those people, the characters I’ve met and tried to be and grown close to while performing well over 2,000 audiobooks. People ask what the process feels like, and my honest answer is that it is not reading out loud. From the first word on page one, I’m pulled in—-like Odysseus, but without the good sense to lash myself to the mast. I surrender. My self becomes a function of some immediate need to expose a human being’s life in a way that listeners can share and feel they are there beside me. I prefer to describe myself as a literary hermit crab, finding shelter and a place to grow inside someone else’s imagined truth. I look back and remember those people, the characters with whom I’ve merged. They’ve stayed with me — fighting in so many wars, wounded in one of them, died in another. As a general, I spoke at a memorial of my heroic death. I killed the bad guys and made our country safer. Solved those murders nobody could solve— loved with the lovers, lost with the losers. I still visit my friends in Absaroka County, Wyoming, every time Craig Johnson writes a new Walt Longmire adventure. That’s the blessing of this work. New friends, all the time. Fans often write to me, wanting to share their experiences after listening. Sometimes they ask for a photograph. I never send one. I can’t. I’m the man behind the curtain, pushing buttons, making the voice bring thunder or spring rain, impending dread or a loving sigh. Pull the curtain? Reveal the wizard? No! I can already hear them: That’s Don Quixote? That’s the sheriff? Oh, no! LOOK at him! Better to stay in the closet. The transformation of the written word into a spoken experience still excites me, often revealing depth of feeling that doesn’t quite surface on the page. There is a music in a character’s voice that gives an immediacy to the event—an immediacy that bypasses the cerebral acknowledgment of written facts and goes straight to the listener’s heart. Immediacy is the word I keep coming back to. It’s why I can’t quite let these people go when the recording is finished, and why, decades in, I still walk into that closet with a small flutter of anticipation. There are people waiting for me.......to meet.......to play their music. Years ago, when I was starting out, my 80-year-old father was skeptical. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Just try it, Dad. See if you like it.” I handed him a cassette. He called the next day, his voice full of excitement. “Georgie! I loved it. I took it to bed with me and in five minutes, I was fast asleep! Fantastic!” I think of him often, in the closet. George Guidall is an actor and one of the most prolific audiobook narrators in history, having recorded over 2,000 books. Guidall has built a successful 40-year career in theater, performing on Broadway and winning the coveted Obie Award Off-Broadway. Known for an expressive baritone and exceptional emotional nuance, he has brought life to classic literature from Homer’s Iliad to Cervantes’ Don Quixote to the works of Dostoyevsky, as well as a wide range of bestsellers. He has received multiple Audie Awards, a Lifetime Achievement Award, and recently was honored by the Audio Publishers Association with an induction into its Hall of Fame.

By Laurence Lerman / New York City Benedetta Porcaroli (left) and Lucrezia Guglielmino take it on the road in The Kidnapping of Arabella SCREEN TIME The title The Kidnapping of Arabella immediately elicits every parent's worst nightmare. But Carolina Cavalli's delightfully off-center second feature turns that expectation inside out. Instead, the film unfolds as a deadpan, tender, and increasingly surreal road movie about childhood, memory, lost dreams, and the dangerous fantasy that somewhere in the past lies a better version of the life we ended up living. Cavalli first attracted international attention with her 2022 debut, Amanda, an idiosyncratic portrait of an awkward young woman determined to reconnect with a childhood friend who barely remembers her. Funny, melancholy, and stubbornly resistant to convention, the film established Cavalli as one of the more distinctive young voices in European cinema, drawn to social misfits, emotional isolation, and the private myths people invent to survive disappointment. With The Kidnapping of Arabella, Cavalli expands that vision. Holly (Benedetta Porcaroli) is 28, newly fired from yet another dead-end job, and convinced her life veered disastrously off course somewhere between childhood ambition and adult reality. Then she meets Arabella (Lucrezia Guglielmino). Guglielmino lays it out for her self-absorbed father (played by Chris Pine) Eight years old, spirited, irreverent, headstrong, and delightfully defiant, Arabella has little interest in behaving like the well-mannered child the adults around her expect. Her father, Orest (Chris Pine), is a self-absorbed writer dragging her along on a promotional tour for his latest autobiographical book. Arabella, meanwhile, only wants dinner from her beloved fast food chain Taco King. When Orest refuses, she retaliates by yowling through one of his public readings—a gloriously funny introduction that tells us almost everything we need to know about her rebellious streak. Pine delivers an enjoyable supporting performance, speaking Italian (!) as a man so absorbed in narrating his own life that he barely notices his daughter trying to assert hers. Orest isn't malicious so much as emotionally unavailable, and his distracted parenting helps explain why Arabella is so willing to disappear into her abductor Holly's increasingly fantastic adventure. Eva Robins portrays a veteran showgirl who tells it like it is When Holly becomes convinced that Arabella is somehow her younger self, the little girl happily plays along. Their mission is nothing less than rewriting history. If Holly can somehow intervene in Arabella's childhood, perhaps she can redirect the course of her own life and still become the extraordinary person she once imagined herself becoming. The "kidnapping," then, is both real and not real. Arabella leaves with a near stranger yet behaves less like a captive than an enthusiastic accomplice. Cavalli takes the primal fear embedded in her title—a missing child, frantic parents, an adult crossing an unforgivable boundary—and transforms it into a whimsical but emotionally resonant fable. Holly isn't simply taking Arabella away; she's trying to recover the fearless, hopeful child she believes adulthood has left behind. Their journey unfolds through the highways, villages, seaside resorts, and open landscapes of Veneto and Emilia-Romagna, though Cavalli treats the geography as an emotional map rather than a literal one. In that sense, The Kidnapping of Arabella recalls Italy's great road movies—from Fellini's 1954 La Strada to Dino Risi's 1962 Il Sorpasso—using physical travel to reveal inner lives. At the same time, Cavalli's dry absurdism occasionally evokes the early films of Jim Jarmusch and the Coen Brothers, finding humor in awkward pauses, strange encounters, and characters perpetually out of step with the world around them. The comparison is less one of style than sensibility; the filmmakers all understand that comedy and melancholy often occupy the very same frame. Writer-director Carolina Cavalli (left) confers with her leading lady Porcaroli Following its Venice premiere and an impressive international festival run, The Kidnapping of Arabella has generated exactly the kind of word-of-mouth that can transform a modest foreign-language release into an arthouse discovery. Its originality may first capture audiences' attention, but its lasting appeal appears to lie in the wonderfully unpredictable relationship between Holly and Arabella, whose chemistry gives the film its heartbeat. Ultimately, The Kidnapping of Arabella is less interested in the mechanics of the kidnapping than in the unexpected bond that grows between the pair at its center. What begins as a bizarre act of desperation slowly reveals itself as an oddly hopeful journey, with each giving the other something she herself has been missing. Holly may never succeed in changing the past, but she discovers that she doesn't have to. By the journey's end, thanks to one irrepressible little girl with an outsized personality and an unwavering devotion to Taco King, she has discovered something even more valuable: the ability to imagine a future worth believing in. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist and a former editor of Video Business--Variety's digital media trade publication. Over the course of his four-decade career, he has conducted one-on-one interviews with just about every major filmmaker working today, from Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino and Clint Eastwood to Kathryn Bigelow, Bernardo Bertolucci, and Werner Herzog. Most recently, he is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the online review site DiscDish.com, the founder and curator of FilmShul.com, a multi-part presentation on the history of Hollywood and Jewish America, and a commentator on various 4K UHD and Blu-ray home entertainment releases.

By Jeffrey and Sonia Sachs On the Marco Polo Drive of Peace, Culture, and Sustainable Development 11 countries, 15,000 kilometers, 44 days, from Rome to Hong Kong Jeffrey and Sonia Sachs in front of the Gate to the Mogao Caves (also known as the Caves of the Thousand Buddhas), a monumental system of 735 temples located near Dunhuang, along the ancient Silk Road in Gansu province, China. Last week on the thirty-fourth day of our journey, we arrived in Dunhuang. It is less known than other great meeting points of humanity — Rome, Constantinople, Samarkand — but Dunhuang has earned its place in their company. For much of two thousand years, this oasis town was a key gateway between China and the rest of Asia. The Polos passed through here twice: Niccolò and Maffeo in the 1260s, on their first journey to the court of Kublai Khan at Khanbaliq — today's Beijing — and then Niccolò, Maffeo, and young Marco in the 1270s, when the triumvirate returned east to the Great Khan's capital. Let us begin, as always, with the physical geography, and then turn to the human-made account. The great ancient Silk Routes heading to China converged on Dunhuang, and the reason is written plainly on the land. Dunhuang is the western doorway to the heartland of China. It is the Westernmost oasis along a corridor of oases with mountain ranges to the north and south. To go from Europe, Central Asia, or India to China, one arrived at Dunhuang and continued eastward. There was no other practical way. And where the roads converged, so did the cultures and faiths. Dunhuang in its golden age was one of the most cosmopolitan places on the planet: Han Chinese, Uyghurs and other Turkic peoples, Persians, South Asians, Europeans, with all the faiths they held — Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, Zoroastrianism, Islam, Daoism, Judaism, and others — met, traded, prayed, and painted here. Especially under the patronage of the Tang Dynasty (618 - 907) — and notably of the redoubtable Wu Zetian, the sole female emperor (r. 690 – 705) in China's long history — patrons of Buddhism funded hundreds of elegantly carved cave shrines, the Mogao Caves, painted with dazzling frescoes that survive in their glorious colors and textual brilliance to this day. Wu Zetian herself is said to have had her likeness rendered in the 35-meter Buddha that she commissioned, and that now sits behind the famous nine-story pagoda — divinity and statecraft joined in her face gazing over the desert. Then there is the Library Cave, one of the most remarkable archaeological finds in history. Around the turn of the twentieth century, a monk discovered a sealed chamber packed with tens of thousands of ancient manuscripts — Buddhist sutras, contracts, letters, calendars, paintings, texts in a dozen languages — preserved by the desert air for ten centuries and more. Not surprisingly, Harvard professors and assorted European adventurers soon arrived and helped themselves to a good share of the loot, which may now be viewed at The (Stolen by the) British Museum and the Harvard Fogg Art Museum. The manuscripts, and the scholarship they have inspired, have opened an unmatched window onto the daily life, commerce, and faith of the medieval Silk Road. We toured the complex with a gifted guide, Neil Schmid, who has devoted his brilliant career to Dunhuangology — yes, that is a real field, and gloriously so — including pathbreaking work deciphering the ancient images, and who devotes himself as well to promoting the much-needed goodwill between China and the not-so-old-or-wise United States. To walk the caves with a scholar who can read a thousand-year-old fresco the way the rest of us read a webpage is to feel the centuries collapse into the present. In the afternoon, we had a twenty-first-century treat to match the morning’s tenth-century splendor. We visited the concentrated solar thermal plant outside the city, where 12,000 heliostats — highly sophisticated mirrors of 115 square meters each — track the desert sun and focus its rays on a central tower, generating 100 megawatts of clean, green power for hundreds of thousands of households. The same fierce desert light that glows on gilded Buddhas and brings forth the sweet fruits of the Dunhuang oasis, now powers the homes of Gansu Province. China's great civilization: ancient and modern, in a single day's viewing. Dunhuang has reminded us of what this whole drive celebrates: the meeting of peoples is not a threat but a treasure. For nearly two thousand years, the wonders that connected Eurasia — silk and paper, sutras and star charts, pilgrims and merchants, holy men and their patrons — passed east and west through this narrow corridor bordered by the mountains and the world was vastly richer for each crossing. Today, on our thirty-sixth day, we continue our onward eastward journey by electric vehicle — this time on China’s 50,000-km network of fast electric rail. (We in the U.S. still await our first km of fast rail!) Our destination tonight is Xi’an, the ancient capital of China for much of the era from the Qin dynasty (221 BC) until 904 AD, when the capital was shifted eastward. Emperor Qin’s terracotta soldiers await us! From the ancient heartland of China, with the sands of the Mogao dunes still on our sandals — our warmest greetings, and our fondest yearnings for peace among all the meeting-places of the Earth. May the new Silk Roads, powered by the sun, continue the great sharing of cultures and wisdom. Jeff and Sonia www.jeffsachs.org Jeffrey Sachs has been traveling since his parents opened his eyes to the wider world more than 65 years ago. In addition to being University Professor at Columbia University, he is widely known to flight crews and airport lounges. A flight attendant recently asked, “Dr. Sachs, have your really flown 2 million miles on our airline?” He didn’t know for sure, but it is likely. This is his first long-distance electric vehicle trip. He and wife Dr. Sonia Sachs have visited all and worked in almost all the 12 countries on the route.

By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Originally appeared in My Washington Whispers on July 20, 2026 Republican Senators Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham Of Senator Lindsey Graham… I come to bury Graham, not to praise him. The evil he has done lives on. The good will be interred with his bones. In death, Lindsey Graham has been lauded by both Republicans and Democrats—some possibly following that adage: never speak ill of the dead. I am not one who adheres to that line but, rather, to truth regardless of circumstance. The truth is that some of Lindsey Graham’s early life was tough, and he met those moments with grace and heart. His parents died 15 months apart—his mother of cancer, his father of a heart attack. So, at 22 years of age, and still in college, Graham took on the guardianship of his sister, Darline, who was only 13 years old. He cared for her with great love and devotion. In 2015, while Graham was running for president, Darline told the New York Times, "He's kind of like a brother, a father and a mother rolled into one." Graham’s devotion to his sister was laudable. However, what good is a man who loves his family but doesn’t give a damn about anybody else’s? Graham opposed President Obama’s healthcare legislation and played a leading role in efforts to repeal it. Clearly, so long as he and his sister had their health care, others’ suffering was of no importance to him. More recently, the man who so loved his sister was also fine with seeing other people and their children interned indefinitely without charge in hellish detention camps. Long before that, he suggested that the 14th Amendment to the Constitution should be amended to eliminate birthright citizenship; that children born in the United States to illegal immigrants should be held illegal as well. And how shallow are a man’s professed principles when he will unceremoniously dump them to slavishly kiss the backside of a felon who has no respect at all for him. Over the recent course of Graham’s career, his debasing turn-abouts went far beyond the ruthless self-interest that Republicans have made the tenets of their political religion. When, in Trump's first run for president, Trump called for a ban on Muslims entering the United States, Graham accurately called him "a race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot.” At that time, Graham declared, "I'd rather lose without Donald Trump than try to win with him." When Trump also brayed that a judge was biased because of his Mexican heritage, Graham told the Times, "There'll come a time when the love of country will trump hatred of Hillary Clinton.” (Clinton was, that year, the Democratic candidate for president.) But lo and behold, only three years later, when asked in a Times interview how he became a prominent Trump supporter, Graham replied that he was trying “to be relevant.” He added: “…in our business, you’re not defined by the 80 percent agreement. You’re defined by the 20 percent that the base might object to.” Conclusion: for Lindsey Graham, love of country be damned. Petty pursuit of influence and power turned out to be his love. And for him, apparently, the corrupt use to which that power was put was irrelevant. Love of democracy--our nation's heart--be damned as well. After it was clear that Joe Biden had won the 2020 presidential election, Graham said that Trump "should not concede" because "if Republicans don't challenge and change the U.S. election system, there will never be another Republican president elected again." Graham then donated $500,000 to Trump's bogus election lawsuits, maintaining that Republican state legislators should invalidate election results by appointing presidential electors who would vote for Trump in the electoral college. Naturally, Graham voted against conviction of Trump for his role in the January 6, 2021, insurrection, and against creating a commission to investigate that attack. This Trump lackey, whose change with the political winds demonstrated his lack of humanity or even self-respect, should not be surprised by the hot reception he receives in his afterlife. Of Senator Mitch McConnell… As for Mitch McConnell, where is he now? And in what condition? He’s been absent from the Senate for more than a month, raising conjecture on whether he may be in a coma or perhaps dead. It has also been speculated that the Republicans are trying out their own version of Weekend at Bernie’s to prevent Kentucky’s Democratic governor from appointing a senator in McConnell’s place. Many have questioned the claims of Majority Senate Leader John Thune and Senate Majority Whip John Barrasso, both Republicans, that each had a separate 20-minute conversation with Mitch. When the speculation threatened to reach a fever pitch, photos of the man in his hospital room with his wife, Elaine Chao, were released. There was also a statement purportedly by McConnell that he had simply fallen and was recovering fine. Of course, that statement could quite reasonably have been written by anyone on his staff. Thus, it proves nothing about his condition one way or another. A five-minute phone call by Mitch to the Kentucky governor or a statement by his doctors would provide a more convincing proof of life and condition. But never mind all that hubbub. Whether now or later, when McConnell goes, he’ll probably be greeted by Satan as his favorite acolyte. Unlike Lindsey, no one could accuse Mitch of being anybody’s lackey. He is definitely his own man. His malevolent role in the effort to destroy democracy can be rivaled by none save perhaps the corrupt Supreme Court Six. Whether as Majority or Minority leader, McConnell has been a master manipulator of the Senate. He led opposition to stricter campaign finance laws, culminating in the Supreme Court decision Citizens United v. FEC, which allowed corporations to be defined as people and their financial contributions to campaigns as “speech.” McConnell made regular use of the filibuster to obstruct President Obama’s agenda. But when it would benefit his own agenda—confirmation of the right-wing justices Neil Gorsuch, Brett Kavanaugh, and Amy Coney Barrett--he orchestrated a rule to end filibuster for Supreme Court nominations. Treating consistency as the hobgoblin of Democratic minds, Mitch prevented Obama’s March 2016 Supreme Court nominee, Merrick Garland, from even being considered. McConnell’s grounds? --That it was a presidential election year. Of course, he found no contradiction in ushering through the confirmation of Trump’s nominee, Amy Coney Barrett, one week before the 2020 presidential election. A genius in the art of hypocrisy, McConnell claimed to support impeachment of Trump for inciting the January 6 insurrection, but deliberately delayed the Senate trial until after Biden officially took office. Then McConnell voted to acquit, arguing that it was unconstitutional to convict a president (Trump) who was no longer in office. This, after he—McConnell—ensured that Trump would no longer be in office. Adding insult to injury, within minutes after the acquittal that McConnell engineered, he had the temerity to make a 20-minute speech on the Senate floor decrying Trump as guilty of everything the House impeachment managers had stated. And of course, McConnell later voted against creation of an independent commission to investigate the attack. During Trump’s current term, McConnell has voted against three of Trump’s cabinet nominees: Pete Hegseth, Secretary of Defense; Tulsi Gabbard, former Director of National Intelligence; and Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., Secretary of Health and Human Services. This should not be mistaken for an effort at redemption. Even if it were, it would be far too little, far too late. It would take a heck of a lot more for McConnell to redeem himself for the chaos he inflicted on the nation by his anti-impeachment manipulations alone. Whenever you’re ready, Mitch, Lindsey will be waiting for you down below. And the devil may fear you’ll be after his job. Jessie Seigel’s journalistic career began with the political Washington Whispers column, written for The Insider. Since The Insider ended its run in 2023, Seigel has continued the column as My Washington Whispers, www.mywashingtonwhispers.com. In addition, Seigel has had a long career as a government attorney, has received two Artist’s Fellowships from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, has been a finalist for several literary awards, and has had professional staged readings of her plays, Tinker's Damn, and The Three Jessies. More on Seigel can be found at www.jessieseigel.com.