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By Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich. What were the chances? Beth, Marty, Al and Rhonda (from left) Many members of the Oak Park High School Class of ’70 know Marty Gaynor as the impresario of their reunions and gatherings. They might be surprised to learn that Marty is still celebrating an astonishing personal reunion of his own. In 2019, Marty and his wife Beth received a gift in the mail from their son Danny, who at that time lived in Phoenix, Ariz. His parents share birthdays In August, and Danny thought the present would be a hit. It was packed in a neat, small box from 23andMe, a genetic testing company that provides ancestry reports. The contents promised to deliver information about their roots. The directions required that a saliva sample be returned for analysis. It seemed quite simple. Marty and Beth were appreciative of such a unique gift, but the 23andMe kit was shelved for a few months. Taking a deep dive into the past can be exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Marty says, “I don’t know why we hesitated so long to use it, but when our son Jason, the second oldest of our four boys, came for a visit in December, he motivated Beth and me to take the test. Surprisingly, we received the results quickly —January 2020.” Marty recalls that when he looked over the document that arrived from 23andMe it was shocking. It said that he shared the same DNA as a man who was six years his senior and lived in Fort Worth, Texas — his name was Al Faigin. Being a retired Detroit police officer for 31 years and then later a private investigator, Marty says, “I took the information with a grain of salt. I knew I had to look into this matter more closely.” Marty then called his two brothers to fill them in about the possibility of there having  been another sibling. Their sister Marcia, Marty’s twin, passed away in 2007 from leukemia. Having another brother seemed an unlikely notion. The day after receiving the DNA results, Marty messaged Al Faigin through the 23andMe App. However, he did not hear back from Al until May. Marty waited another four months to finally talk to this stranger and piece together their past. When they finally connected, Al told Marty that he was not tech savvy and didn’t give the results much weight. In time, Al’s daughter prodded her father to reach out, and the conversation began about the prospect of having a parent in common. Forever friends: Al and Steve (from left) After their first conversation Marty remarked, “It wasn’t difficult to realize that Al was a genuinely nice person.” Al filled Marty in with details about his own early years in Detroit. Al told Marty that he was adopted at birth to a couple who couldn’t have children. Jewish Family Services made all the arrangements. Al, an Eagle Scout, had grown up to be quite an athlete: as a teenager, he played basketball, football and hockey. After graduating from Cooley High School in 1964, Al went on to play football at Wayne State University— he was a lineman. His next step was to attend medical school in Kansas City. Al became a family practitioner. Marty was blown away by Al’s accomplishments. Marty was also struck by some of Al’s memories. ” Al told me that he played basketball at the JCC (Jewish Community Center) on Meyers Road in Detroit with a friend of his— Steve Fishman. I played there as well. Who knows, maybe we crossed paths.” Then Al mentioned working as a counselor at Camp Michigama during summer vacations. Al’s friend Steve was at the camp during summer vacations as well. “I’m now a believer in the saying that there are six degrees of separation between people. As it turns out, my high school classmate, Bonnie Fishman, is a first cousin to Steve. Bonnie’s father and Steve’s father, who were brothers. owned the camp together. When I asked Bonnie if she remembered Al, she gave a resounding ‘yes,’ and added that he was one of the nicest guys.” Coincidentally, Al also knew family friends of Marty’s. Fellow Oak Parker, Rita Forbes, was also a camp counselor at Michigama and her husband, Howard Golding, knew Al from the sports world. The connections made both Al and Marty more curious. After sharing pleasant and informative conversations, Al and Marty decided to take the next step. They wanted to ensure that the test from 23andMe was correct. So, they decided to use a certified lab to compare their DNA for a more conclusive outcome. Test kits were sent to both men, and the results were definitive — a 99.52% likelihood that Al and Marty had the same mother. In the interim, Marty had contacted his uncle Mort, his mother’s brother, who was 89 at the time. Mort lived in Texas and was the only relative alive who could possibly corroborate this wild turn of events. However, when Marty told him about the test results, Mort said he had absolutely nothing to say about the situation. A family affair: Marty, Beth, Uncle Mort, Rhonda and Al (from left) However, the next day Marty received an unexpected call — Uncle Mort wanted to talk. The pieces started to fall into place. Says Marty, “My uncle told me that he was 14 in 1946 when my mother, Ruth Newman, became pregnant by her boyfriend with Al. Mort said that she was 20 years old and went to California for the delivery. But Al’s birth certificate was from Detroit. I was perplexed.” “Uncle Mort recalled that Al’s father came to the house for a family meeting with my grandparents, mother and siblings. The couple spoke of marriage instead of giving Al up for adoption. Mort said that Al’s father was open to either solution. But knowing my grandfather, I have serious reservations that he would have agreed to my mother marrying someone who was not Jewish– Al’s father was Christian.” Finally, the story was coming together. Marty and Al decided that a meetup would be in order. Al and his wife Rhonda flew to Michigan in the summer of 2021. Marty and Beth organized a barbeque for Al so that he could spend time with family and old friends from his childhood. “Over time,’ says Marty, “Al and I became very comfortable with each other and shared information on a regular basis. Al was happy to finally have a blood relative and to learn about his birth mother. The reunion was nothing short of great. And, coincidentally, he had my mother’s hair — a full head of wavy, thick grey hair. I was not that lucky.” The four brothers: Ken, Marty, Steve and Al (from left) The DNA kit certainly proved to be an invaluable birthday gift. Marty’s family graciously welcomed Al into the fold. Marty now has three brothers thanks to 23andMe. Uncle Mort has another relative close by to visit and share a holiday meal. And as for their mother’s secret? Some things just remain a mystery. Judi Markowitz is a retired high school English teacher of 34 years. She primarily taught twelth grade and had the pleasure of having her three sons grace her classes. In addition, she taught debate, forensics, and Detroit film. Judi has four adult children and nine wonderful and energetic grandchildren. She is married to Jeffrey Markowitz, whom she met in high school. They now spend much of their time running around with their grandkids.  The View from Four Foot Two  is Judi’s first book.

From Glenn Diesen's Substack

By Pussy Galore When we think of disasters, we picture hurricanes, earthquakes, fires—sudden catastrophes that make the evening news. But right now, America is experiencing a different kind of disaster, one that is still unfolding in slow motion: the painful aftermath of the longest government shutdown on record. And while the human toll dominates headlines, there's another crisis quietly devastating families across the country. Animal shelters are drowning in pet surrenders. When federal workers don't get paychecks and SNAP benefits arrive late or not at all, families face impossible choices. Sarah Lungwitz, a 46-year-old auto parts store worker, captured it perfectly when she told reporters she'd been terrified of having to surrender her cat Bambi and her two dogs, Spike and Chloe. "I don't even make enough money for all my bills, let alone groceries," she said. Every human disaster is also an animal disaster. We just don't see their stories on the evening news. I learned this firsthand on September 11th, 2001. That morning, I'd left my two cats in my 20th-floor apartment four blocks from the World Trade Center and headed to work like any other Tuesday. By afternoon, my neighborhood was a disaster zone, and I was one of thousands of pet owners locked out of lower Manhattan, sick with worry about the animals we'd left behind. It took me four days to get back to my cats. When PETA and the ASPCA set up an emergency hotline for pet owners in the area, I've never dialed a phone number faster. Three days later, they called us back with a plan. We'd meet at Chelsea Piers, where volunteers would escort us by zone into the restricted area around Ground Zero. Those volunteers walked us through devastation, past armed guards and unstable buildings, because they understood something fundamental: those weren't just pets we were rescuing. They were family members. They were the reason some of us had to keep going. I walked more than three-and-a-half miles from Chelsea Piers to my building on Cliff Street, carrying fifteen pounds of food, water, and clean litter. The power was out, so I hauled it all up twenty flights of stairs in the dark with only a flashlight. My cats hadn't eaten since Tuesday morning. Their water was gone. They were traumatized but alive. The difference between that sudden disaster and today's slow-moving catastrophe is time. On 9/11, the crisis was immediate but finite. This shutdown grinds on, week after week, forcing families to make heartbreaking calculations: medicine or pet food? Rent or vet bills? The numbers tell the story. New Leash on Life shelter in Tennessee reports that usage of their pet food pantry jumped from serving 75-100 families to 125 in October alone. Zeus' Rescues in New Orleans gave out a ton of pet food last month—double their normal amount. The founder says it's the highest demand she's seen in 20 years, with desperate people dumping animals in the shelter's yard. "People are exceptionally panicked," says Paula Shaw from Companion Animal Alliance in Baton Rouge. Her shelter had to halt a program that provided pet food to 200 families monthly after losing a donor—catastrophic timing. Here's what many don't realize: when you help animals during disasters, you help people too. The elderly man who won't leave for a shelter because they don't take pets. The child whose cat is the only stable thing in their chaotic life. The veteran whose service dog is their lifeline. Keep these animals fed and safe, and you keep families together. Right now, across America, there are families sharing their last can of tuna with their cats. Parents skipping meals so their kids' beloved dog doesn't go hungry. People who've lost everything except the furry friend who still greets them with unconditional love. Here's how you can help right now: Local pet food banks: Many human food pantries now stock pet food. Check with your local food bank about donating ASPCA Emergency Grant Program: Helps shelters meet increased demand during crises Humane Society's Pets for Life: Provides resources in underserved communities Care for Pets (Illinois) and similar local nonprofits: Many organize grocery gift cards for struggling families Your local shelter: Call and ask what they need most—often it's foster families to ease overcrowding Even small actions matter. A $10 bag of pet food might keep a family together. Fostering one dog for a month might save someone from choosing between their pet and their home. When we help animals in disasters—sudden or slow-moving—we're not just saving pets. We're preserving the bonds that help humans survive their darkest hours. Sometimes the love between a person and their animal is the only light left to guide them through.

By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez For decades, Democratic centrists have insisted, against all evidence, that they could negotiate with Republicans. Many remain under the misapprehension that conceding ground—which they call collegiality and bipartisanship--is the path to political survival. They are wrong. Such short-term recipe for their own political survival in a red or purple state neither serves a Democratic agenda nor saves democracy. Yesterday, seven Democratic senators (Jeanne Shaheen (NH), Dick Durbin (Ill), Tim Kaine (Va), Maggie Hassan (NH), Jacky Rosen (NV), Catherine Cortez Masto (NV), John Fetterman (PA)) and one Independent (Angus King (ME)) caved in to extortion and betrayed the American people by voting to help the Republicans end their government shutdown. Like Esau selling his birthright for a bowl of soup, these senators have sold out the Democratic advantage in its fight against Donald Trump’s fascist regime for empty GOP promises. Centrists deserve no prize for their failure of insight or nerve. At best, the only recognition they merit is a Sucker Born Every Minute Award. Enough said of them. These Jessie Awards go to those who see the Trumpian danger and steadfastly stick their necks out to name it and act against it. Accordingly… The TEAM DEMOCRACY AWARD goes to the following ensemble of progressive senators and representatives: Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders and New York Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (better known as AOC). In February 2025, this soap-box duo began their “Fighting Oligarchy” tour, rallying large crowds against Trump’s destructive agenda. Criticizing them, centrist Michigan Senator Elissa Slotkin griped: “I get it that it makes people feel good to see people yelling. But not one of those words is stopping the actual things that Donald Trump is doing, and I am about action, not words…” But Sanders, an Independent, and AOC, a progressive Democrat, weren’t merely haranguing crowds. They were educating people—people in red states—waking them up to the menace of Trump’s regime. And moving them to action. The millions at last month’s No Kings rallies were, in part, a fruit of that work. Jamie Raskin Maryland Rep. Jamie Raskin. A Constitutional scholar, Raskin was the floor manager in Trump’s impeachment for instigating the January 6, 2021, insurrection. He’s since been leading legal challenges to slow Trump’s agenda. As early as March 2025, the Democrats had won 14 temporary restraining orders or preliminary injunctions. However, understanding that one can no longer rely on the Supreme Court to uphold established law, Raskin has set out a general must-do plan of action: short term, work daily to defeat and block every authoritarian, fascistic move against the rights of the people; mid-term, win back the House in 2026, “cutting this reign of terror in half;” and long-term, build international democratic solidarity to defend freedom. Massachusetts Sen. Elizabeth Warren. Warren has advanced a plan echoing Raskin’s, but more succinctly put: “fight every fight in Congress,” “fight Trump in the courts,” “focus on what each of us can do,” and “work with urgency.” Unlike the centrists, Warren understands the need to fight. She’s written: “We won’t always win, but we can…sometimes limit Trump’s destruction… With every fight, we can build …the foundation for future wins.” Based on the enormous number of Democratic wins across the nation in the recent off-year elections, that building has begun. New York Rep. Dan Goldman. Lead counsel on Trump’s first impeachment, Goldman is an expert prosecutor. He rightly maintains, "when [federal agents] are acting outside the scope of their legal authority, they are no different than anyone else and their conduct is subject to New York criminal laws, including felony assault." He’s requested that the New York Police Department intervene when federal agents break the law. Perhaps New York’s newly elected Democratic mayor, Zohran Mamdani, will put Goldman’s request into effect. Connecticut Sen. Chris Murphy. Murphy led protests outside USAID headquarters when Trump first began illegally using Elon Musk’s fake agency, the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) to gut real agencies. Murphy decried DOGE as “a smokescreen, a shell game, in order to turn this government over to a handful of unelected billionaires and corporate interests.”  Murphy warned, “We don’t have another year to fight this attempt to destroy democracy.” Centrists should heed him. California Sen. Adam Schiff. House lead manager in the first impeachment against Trump, Schiff is in the crosshairs of Trump’s retribution campaign. That fact has not stopped the indomitable Schiff from pursuing sharp questioning of Trump’s chumps Pam Bondi and Kash Patel. Or from proposing the Protecting Our Democracy Act to limit Trump’s power. The Republican-controlled Congress won’t pass it. But it does build a foundation for the future. These Progressive champions understand they won’t score a goal every time. But the public understands that risk and want our leaders—win or lose—to fight for what’s right. JB Pritzker and Gavin Newsom The GUBERNATORIAL GUMPTION AWARD goes to California’s Gavin Newsom and Illinois’ JB Pritzker: California Gov. Newsom. Because Texas Republicans are rigging Texas district maps to keep Trump’s power intact, Newsom led—and won—an effort to redraw California maps to favor Democrats. He is fighting fire with fire. Understanding that democracy is at stake, Newsom said: “The biggest risk is not taking one.” He has been urging governors in other blue states to take this risk as well. Will they create a battalion of fighting governors? Illinois Gov. Pritzker has staunchly opposed the Chicago nighttime raids and abductions by Trump’s ICE goons. He’s instructed his state’s Attorney General to file a lawsuit to block out-of-state troops from coming to Illinois. He’s also urged residents to record video of any federal agent activity and directed the Illinois State Police to keep people who are protesting “safe from ICE.”  Exposing Trump’s true motives, Pritzker predicts: “You’re going to see soldiers outside your polling place. That’s going to intimidate a lot of people, and especially… people who are not Republicans.” These two feisty governors have been threatened with arrest (Newsom by Trump’s easily bribed Border Czar Tom Homan and Pritzker by the president himself). Given the political indictments of James Comey, Letitia James, and John Bolton, these are not idle threats. Newsom’s defiant reply: “Come after me. Arrest me…I don’t give a damn; I care about my community.” And Pritzker’s: “If you come for my people, you come through me. So, come and get me.” The FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, STING LIK A BEE AWARD  also goes to California Gov. Gavin Newsom: Gavin Newsom’s Colbertian parodies of the President’s pompous pronouncements have been getting under Trumps’s famously thin skin. Newsom even launched an online shop selling hats reading “Newsom was right about everything!” And a special edition $100 “Holy Bible,” which is “signed by Gavin Newsom, America’s Favorite Governor.” Newsom said mockingly: “Many people are saying this is the greatest merchandise ever made.” MAGA declarations that Newsom is unbalanced have only emboldened the pugilistic politician. His apt rejoinder: “If you have issues with what I'm putting out, you sure as hell should have concerns about what he's putting out as President.” The TAKE NO PRISONERS AWARD goes to Marc Elias, a gifted and outspoken anti-administration litigator: Between 2020 and 2022, Marc Elias won 63 cases against Trump’s 2020 election challenges. Now, with an army of some 60 lawyers, Elias’s firm is bringing 63 election cases in 30 states, challenging laws passed to suppress voting in 2026. Ezra Levin and Leah Greenberg The WE RISE AS ONE AWARD goes to Ezra Levin and Leah Greenberg, co-founders of Indivisible and the No Kings Rallies: Ezra Levin and Leah Greenberg have brilliantly developed a nationwide movement, mobilizing people where they live. Indivisible’s non-violent pro-democracy protests have burgeoned in all 50 states. The October No Kings Rallies attracted over seven million people at about 2600 locations around the country. Finally, THE HOPE OF THE NATION AWARD goes to the seven million people who attended the October 18 No Kings Rallies: In March 2025, Jamie Raskin told NPR: “…people are feeling scared…You’ve got to feel the fear and then you keep going and that’s what courage is. …you’ve got to feel the weight of what’s taking place but keep going. Keep going. Don’t stop.” At the October 18 No Kings rally in DC, I myself saw an older woman repeatedly raise her sign. It read: “I was afraid to come. So, I came.” May we all show that courage in the battles ahead.   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 two professional staged readings of her play Tinker's Damn , with another play, The Three Jessies . More on Seigel can be found at  https://www.jessieseigel.com .

By Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City Paul Newman AT WIT'S END Light-years ago before earning a living as a writer, I had (mostly) temporary jobs (mostly) working for extremely high-profile Show Biz luminaries.  Why?  I was a great assistant, able to anticipate my employers’ (almost) every need.  And I could be trusted to never divulge to anyone their behind-the-scenes private truths, dirty little secrets, skeletons in the closet, guilty pleasures.  That description is much juicier than anything that went on…most of the time. Now that the people I worked for are in Hollywood Heaven, their secrets are still safe with me.  Did you just say, “Aww”?  However…did I just get back your attention?  Okay, TMZ, eat your heart out! I will now divulge a few heretofore untold entertainment industry revelations with me as the leading lady. (I never promised I wouldn’t tell on me.) A New Man in My Life Every day as director Stanley Kubrick’s assistant on preproduction of his cosmic epic, 2001: A Space Odyssey was an interesting adventure.  One day stands out more than others. Stanley moved to New York’s Upper East Side and converted his Upper West Side apartment into a suite of offices.  Since the rooms were used for him and his production team who were here from England, I didn’t have an office.  I had a desk next to the door inside the apartment. On this one day, as I was working at my desk, the doorbell rang. (Actually, it chimed.) The door was always kept closed by the lock near the doorknob and by the door chain.  I unlocked the doorknob lock, and keeping the chain in place, I opened the door as much as the chain would allow . . . about four inches . . . enough to see the piercing blue eyes of Paul Newman.  PAUL NEWMAN! He said, “I’m Paul Newman” (as if he had to tell me) “and I’m here to see Stanley Kubrick.”  (Oh really?  I thought you were here to see me.)  Okay, so letting him in meant I had to close the door in order to slide the chain out of its slot and allow me to open the door so that he could enter.  The question that went through my mind was, what can I do in those chain-sliding seconds to make myself ravishing?  We all know the answer to that…NOTHING! When he came in, he apologetically said, “I’m a little early for my appointment.”  I told him, “The early bird…” Oh God, why did I say that? “I’ll tell Stanley you’re here.” While the superstar was meeting with my boss, I wanted to call everyone I ever knew and say, “Paul Newman is here and I’m going to be face to face with him soon.”  Really face-to-face since he was 5’10,” and in those days, I wore high heels to work and was 5’9”-ish. Truth be told, when Paul (by then, we were on a first-name basis) left, Stanley did not walk him out and I was too in love, I mean, too in awe to say anything. He lifted his hand, as if to say “thanks, gorgeous” and he walked out the door and out of my life. In my dreams I yell out, “If you ever put your name on salad dressing, I’ll buy it!” Stanley Kubrick and his team left for England.  I turned down Kubrick’s offer to take me with him as his assistant.  I declined his offer (the best decision I ever made–talk to me in person and I’ll tell you the many reasons why).  Instead, I gratefully stayed on in the Central Park West apartment until the end of 1965, when shooting Odyssey began at Shepperton Studios in Surrey. Eleanor Perry Scent of a Woman Soon after, I became assistant to director Frank Perry, for the filming of  Last Summer and Diary of a Mad Housewife .  Frank’s wife, screenwriter Eleanor Perry who wrote the scripts for those films, called on me for minor assisting and during those times, I had the honor of becoming her friend.  She was a kind, thoughtful, generous and a truly wonderful woman. My office was the size of a small walk-in closet with horrible bright yellow walls. Studies and color experts suggest that bright yellow may cause overstimulation and agitation in babies. Even though I wasn’t a baby, the walls did cause some overstimulating agitation.  On one of those days, Eleanor came by.    This sweet, lovely person unknowingly assaulted me with her perfume.  I was sure she spilled it on herself.  It was overwhelming.  I thought my head would explode.  And all I could say was, “Oh, your perfume!”  She left soon after, and not a minute too soon. Two days later, when I showed up for work, on my desk was a small Bergdorf Goodman-wrapped package.  A present from Eleanor.  Yup! A bottle of that stinky perfume. Billy Friedkin The Bubbe Blend And then I was assistant to The French Connection director Billy Friedkin who was in New York City for preproduction of The Exorcist . I was called on to keep Billy company and to attend to his non-film-business needs.  No! I know how that sounds. It was nothing like that.  Here’s a typical example:  One day, Friedkin was feeling a little under the weather and became whiney.  “I need a pick-me-up.  Get me something I can snack on.” We were housed in an Upper West Side brownstone, down the block from a cigarette/lotto store.  Not much of a snack selection. There were, however, packages of raisins and packages of almonds.  It took me back to my Brooklyn roots, where my grandmother always had a bowl of raisins mixed with almonds.  Anytime anyone was hungry, they’d take a handful, dust them off and eat them. I never questioned the combination because I grew up hearing the Barry Sisters sing the Yiddish lullaby, “ Rozhinkes mit Mandlen ” (raisins with almonds). When I got back to the brownstone, I found a soup bowl, dumped the raisins and almonds in it, mixing them together and I gave it to Billy.  It just hit the spot.  Well, yeah, he was Jewish.  Maybe it brought back memories of where he was born.  You know, the old country…Chicago, Illinois. James Mason and the author Move Over, Robitussin This goes back to when I was a teenage apprentice at the Ivoryton Summer Stock Playhouse in Connecticut.  Since my parents couldn’t afford to pay my tuition, I was put on scholarship.  That meant I had to do everything the paying apprentices didn’t know how to do or didn’t want to do.  You know, like clean the bathrooms. The Playhouse had the star system.  Each week a new star, cast and play arrived, some with costumes that were creased.  And so, I spent a lot of time in the dank cavelike basement pressing clothes on a rickety ironing board.  By the time the cast of Mid-Romance , arrived, along with multi-layered, historical costumes for the period play, I had developed a rather harsh and unattractive bronchial cough. On Saturday, after the matinee and before the final performance, the star of the play, James (be still my heart) Mason, came down to the dungeon–er–basement to see if I could permanently attach the band on his hat.  While I was making the minor repair, I started a humiliating hacking fit.  Instead of running for cover, James (m’man) Mason told me to meet him at the bar across the street and he’ll get me something for that cough. I did and he did.  He ordered a Hot Toddy–a concoction made up of whiskey, honey and lemon juice for me.  He and the bartender could have been arrested for serving alcohol to a minor. The legal drinking age then was 21 and I was a teenager.  Instead of bringing charges, I followed his instructions and drank it all down.  He then told me to sleep it off and say goodbye to the cough. We apprentices were staying at a nearby hotel.  The section of the hotel that housed us, was less than ideal.  My room was on a slant. Before passing out, I gave back some of the Hot Toddy which rolled down from the top of the room’s slant to the bottom.  When I woke up the next morning, I had a hangover from hell: a headache, stomach pain, muscle aches, sensitivity to light and severe thirst.  But you know what?  No cough. 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 . . .

By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. It is always shocking to learn that a person we thought we knew turns out to be somebody else completely. What makes a few people develop a secret life hidden from family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers? How do they do it, and why? On Oct. 5, the New York Times published a story about Dr. Ian Roberts, the superintendent of the Des Moines, Iowa public schools. When Roberts was arrested on Sept. 26 by federal immigration agents, the veil of lies and deception he had been hiding behind fell away, revealing the superintendent’s willingness to provide false information about himself. He was so used to lying that it was a natural reflex for him to lie to the authorities. Many people construct social scaffolding to prevent others from discovering sordid details of a sketchy past, thereby setting themselves up to live a double life. Their goal is to protect their unacceptable truths. A less common practice of leading a double life is when a person actually lives two separate lives: one in public and the other in private. These individuals seek feelings of power and competence from their escapades. In my private practice as a therapist, I encountered many people like the three men I present below, who had built elaborate parallel lives to reap the emotional rewards associated with their deceptions. The names and personal details of these three men have been changed to protect their privacy. Everyone loved Stuart! He was the life of the party. You could always depend on him to throw the most elaborate barbeques, show up with the grandest bouquets of flowers, and create the most memorable moments. At an early age, Stuart imagined becoming rich and famous. After accounting school, he married a young woman from a wealthy family and set his agenda on financial success equal to her father. Twenty years and four children later, Stuart’s wife asked for a divorce when she caught him with another woman. Stuart’s world began to unravel, and he was no longer able to hold up the facade he had worked so tirelessly to protect. He had been living a double life. Having an affair was the just tip of the iceberg. His wife also discovered her husband had convinced his clients to invest in a phantom business so he could use their money for get-rich-quick investments of his own. In truth, he was flat broke and about to lose their home. In the public arena, Stuart appeared happily married with a very successful career. He flashed his persona all over town while maintaining a secret life where feelings of success were derived from fooling everyone. Getting away with illegal acts and antisocial behavior gave him a thrill to which he became addicted. Mitchell was the most popular boy in high school. He was admired for his pleasing personality, athleticism, and leadership skills. He struggled to feel whole, however, because his parents undermined his accomplishments. They also kept him on a short leash where it was nearly impossible for him to gain a sense of independence and thus personal power. Mitchell developed a double life early. When everyone expected him to be loyal to his high school girlfriend, he had secret liaisons with girls who reinforced his need to be admired as a separate, competent individual, feelings he couldn’t seem to accomplish on his own. Any guilt feelings he had from cheating were supersceded by feelings of power he derived from getting away with actions he could claim as his own. Mitchell married several times, chasing the image he needed to portray as a competent, independent person. He justified extramarital encounters, claiming unhappiness. All the while, he lacked the spine to speak up for what he really wanted, always falling into situations over which he exercised no control. He never gave up his parallel lane because it produced more feelings of power than anything else he did in life. Frank grew up in a strict, religious home. He was not able to experiment freely on the road to self-discovery. After high school, while still living in his family home, Frank began drinking and gambling secretly. Not getting caught gave him the feeling of personal power he had lacked during childhood. He sought other ways to get those feelings, thus embarking on a parallel path. During the day, he worked as an electrical engineer and appeared to be an upstanding citizen. After hours, though, he turned into a different man completely. Eventually, Frank married an unsuspecting woman who believed him to be a regular guy with a regular job and a regular paycheck. Little did she know that Frank would have to up his game through the years to get that powerful feeling he so craved. When their marriage came to an end after 23 years, his wife learned that before they were married, Frank had been in the federal penitentiary for forging checks. While married and right under her nose, Frank had extorted millions of dollars from the company where he was employed. He also had another wife and children living three hours away. Like Stuart and Mitchell, Frank crucially needed the thrill of getting away with illegal and antisocial behaviors. People who resort to constructing a secret life along with their public one, are desperate for the feeling of personal power. They typically have difficulty making their own decisions, speaking up to have their needs met, and saying no when they don’t want something. Family and friends see them as happily compliant because they rarely object. Rather than risk failure in their public lives, they devise alternative living arrangements where they can carry out the fantasy of being competent, successful, and powerful. These three people are examples of living outside the boundaries of their public lives, seeking feelings of power in ways they didn’t have the confidence to attain out in the open. They may have started innocently enough, but when they felt the surge of power the clandestine behaviors produced, they ultimately could not live without it, regardless of the risks. The thrill of getting away with the activities they enjoyed in their secret lives only compounded this enormous ego need. In short, a weak ego and a lack of confidence are two elements that, when intersected with experiences that produce the euphoria of power, can entice individuals to develop double lives upon which they become completely dependent. This column is devoted to psychological topics that speak to the human condition, such as relationships, family, love, loss, and happiness. The ideas, thoughts, philosophies, and observations expressed here are personal and not meant as professional advice. Names and identifying information have been changed to protect the privacy of real people. Dr. Nancy Fishman moved to Santa Clara County in 2016 from Michigan, where she was a practicing psychologist. Currently, she is a strategy consultant to individuals, families, businesses, family law attorneys and their clients--working on coping, managing, reorganizing, pivoting and innovating. She is the founder of Forgotten Harvest, one of the nation’s largest food recovery operation, and is also the creator of Silicon Valley’s A La Carte food recovery and distribution initiative. Nancy lives on a family compound with her husband, sisters, brother-in-law, and a pack of dogs. NancyFishmanPhD.com ForgottenHarvest.org

By Laurence Lerman / New York City George Clooney takes the train to Tuscany in Jay Kelly SCREEN TIME There’s a line in Noah Baumbach’s new comedy-drama Jay Kelly where George Clooney, playing the titular aging movie star, mutters, “I’m getting tired of being the guy everyone still expects to be 35.” It lands like both a sigh and a confession—and also like a sly wink from Baumbach himself, who’s grown up on-screen through the characters he’s written. Once the wunderkind of New York neuroticism ( The Squid and the Whale, Frances Ha ), the 56-year-old Baumbach is now a filmmaker in full command of scale, tone and, in Jay Kelly , one of the starriest ensembles he’s directed since 2017’s The Meyrowitz Chronicles . Actor Jay Kelly (Clooney) is just wrapping up his latest film. Next up for the global box-office icon in the twilight of his career is a trip to Europe, but not for a press tour. Rather, he’s zipping overseas to shadow his youngest daughter, Daisy (Grace Edwards), and spend at least a week or two with her during a pre-college trip abroad. Ron, Jay’s long-suffering manager (Adam Sandler) who’s built his life around keeping Jay employable and upright, goes along to keep the star from detonating his next gig. To keep the tabloids and financiers calm, Jay’s years-long flack Liz (Laura Dern) and Ron float a neat cover story: Jay’s popping over to France in his capacity as a Dior brand ambassador, then down to Tuscany to receive a career “tribute.” The real itinerary is messier—trains, detours, awkward reunions—but the pursuit is pure: a father chasing time he’s squandered, a manager guarding a client who’s also his most complicated friend, and a publicist who harbors complicated feelings about them both. Adam Sandler and Clooney dress up for the movies That looseness of purpose is what makes Jay Kelly such a surprise. Baumbach, who has been generally known for his determined precision (the bulk of his screenwork is meticulously scripted and rehearsed), seems quite at ease letting this movie breathe. He gives Clooney and Sandler space to riff, to interrupt, to let silence hang. The result feels lived-in yet unmistakably authored. The dialogue still sparkles—Emily Mortimer cowrote the script--but it’s less mannered; its emotional beats landing softly, like waves instead of hammer blows. Clooney, whose own career has danced between suave self-awareness and existential fatigue, gives his best performance in years. There’s a deep sadness in his eyes as Jay navigates adoration that no longer feels nourishing. Sandler continues to tap into his late-career acting strengths, grounding the movie with a performance that’s funny, gruff, and tender. Together, they have the chemistry of two men bound by shared weariness—affectionate duels of ego and empathy. And Dern, juggling spin control and sympathy, injects a note of wry realism that keeps the men honest. Also on board is Billy Crudup, who appears as a slick streaming company executive, while cameos by Baumbach regulars Greta Gerwig and Ben Stiller add texture without indulgence. Clooney and Riley Keough try to figure things out Visually, Jay Kelly is Baumbach’s most cosmopolitan film. Shot across four continents, it luxuriates in hotel corridors, train stations, and rooftop bars, creating a portrait of celebrity as both globalized and claustrophobic. Cinematographer Robbie Ryan gives the movie a lush, nostalgic sheen—soft golds, muted blues, the color of old movie posters left too long in the sun. Structurally, the film moves like memory, with scenes bleeding into one another and timelines seeming to blur. At times, the film feels like 8½ reimagined for the streaming era—a fantasia of regret and reinvention as filtered through Baumbach’s sly eye. He’s long been fascinated by artists and intellectuals in crisis; here his protagonist isn’t a stand-in for anxiety but an emblem of maturity. Baumbach understands Jay’s narcissism and Ron’s loyalty and presents their codependence as both beautiful and suffocating. Most striking is Baumbach’s ease with big stars. Working with Clooney, Sandler, Dern, and half a dozen marquee names could have tipped Jay Kelly into vanity-project territory, yet Baumbach corrals them with the same light touch he used on Dustin Hoffman  and Emma Thompson in Meyrowitz and, more recently, Scarlet Johansson and Adam Driver in Marriage Story . His direction feels like jazz—guiding the melody but letting the players solo. You sense the trust on set, the pleasure of collaboration. Baumbach, often considered a poet of urban angst, here genuinely seems to enjoy the company of others. Clooney meets his adoring public By the end, as Jay gazes out from a balcony over yet another skyline, you realize Baumbach has made not just a story about fame and friendship but a self-portrait of creative evolution. Jay Kelly may not be perfect—it sags slightly in the middle, and a few subplots feel undercooked—but it’s a generous, confident work from a director who’s grown beyond the neuroses that filled his earlier movies. This one is all about what happens when you stop running after a life of success and start wondering what comes after it. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist, a former editor of Video Business -- Variety's digital media trade publication—and husband to The Insider's own Gwen Cooper. 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 Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area If there is one spice that I can’t live without, it’s black pepper. Fresh ground black pepper. Fresh ground coarse black pepper. None of that wimpy stuff that comes out of a shaker at your local restaurant. Truth be told, (and this is rather embarrassing), I carry a small pepper mill in my purse when I go out to eat, coarse ground, of course! When I travel abroad and rent an Airbnb, I pack a spice kit because most dwellings don’t have a stocked pantry. The first thing to go into my suitcase is my pepper mill. My earliest memory of really tasting fresh ground black pepper was during my years in the mid-‘70s as kitchen manager of [Win] Schuler’s Restaurant in Marshall, Mich. It was fine dining, good basic food with an English bent: Slow-roasted prime rib, steaks, chops, Dover sole. You get the idea. One day, the general manager, a buttoned-up Southern gentleman, showed me a very simple dessert. He took a martini glass, filled it with ripe blueberries, a pinch of sugar, and sprinkled on some Grand Marnier (a French orange liqueur). Then he shocked me: he took out a pepper mill and topped it with cracked black peppercorns. Peppercorns on fruit? Was he crazy? No, he was not because it was delicious! Mixed berries with a pinch of sugar, Grand Marnier, fresh cracked black pepper, and a whipped cream dollop I had a telling experience when I was just beginning my culinary training in 1975 at the Cordon Bleu in London. Ten students would make the same recipe in the same kitchen, yet we would end up with ten different results. One day, we made a minestrone soup. The instructors went from student to student, making the same comment: “Not enough salt and pepper.” When they approached my bowl, I began to palpitate. These teachers were NOT above humiliating you if something wasn’t executed properly. (I learned this the hard way when my mayonnaise separated (the oil broke away from the eggs), and they shouted to everyone: “Look at Bonnie’s curdled mess!”  I’ll never forget the shame of it all.) No reason to fret, though, when they tried my soup. The seasoning was “spot on!” When I later taught cooking classes for 30 years back in Michigan, it always amazed me when many of my students watched me put black pepper in a dish. They would say “Oh, so much!” or “I don’t like spicy!” Actually, the addition of pepper doesn’t mean the food is going to be hot. Pepper enhances the flavor of your dish, as does salt.  Certainly, an overdose of the spice will make it hot. Leaving it out completely is a mistake, in my opinion. There are records that peppercorns were consumed by humans as far back as 1500 BC. In fact, black pepper is mentioned in the Bible many times.  It was first grown in India and spread to Southeast Asia. Green, white, and black peppercorns are from the same plant, Piper nigrum . Surprisingly, pink peppercorns are not from this species at all. They grow on large trees from the Schinus molle species. Cashews are also a member of this family. The most common black peppercorns, Tellicherry and Malabar. are grown in India. Some Tellicherry is left on the vine longer, hence, becoming larger and more earthy.  These are prized for their flavor. Vietnam, however, is the leading producer of peppercorns based on sheer volume. The plants love a hot, humid climate. Sichuan peppercorns are not from the pepper plant. They are the outer husks of the fruit of the prickly ash tree, a member of the citrus family. Sichuan sometimes cause your mouth to tingle. I personally find them too weird because of that. A few days ago, I invited my friend, Jessy Irwin, over because she is very well-schooled in all things peppercorn. She has traveled extensively around the world (six continents), collecting food ideas and spices along the way. The author and Jessy Irwin doing a peppercorn tasting She brought over a tasting for us. All of the peppercorns were whole. I used my Italian meat pounder to crush them on a cutting board. You could, of course, use your own pepper mill or a mortar and pestle. We had a bowl of great quality Moroccan olive oil, bread, and crackers. First, we dipped the bread into the oil, then into the crushed peppers, one at a time. Try it. It made me appreciate pepper all the more. We began with the green peppercorns. They were the easiest to crush. Their flavor was almost grassy and citrus-like. Next were the white ones. These are actually black peppercorns with the outer husk removed. The taste was almost smoky. You get a true sense of the flavor of pepper, not just spiciness. They crush fairly easily too. Crushing black peppercorns with a meat pounder. (A mallet can also be used..) Coarsely crushed black peppercorns Moroccan olive oil: green, white, black, mixed peppercorns (from left) Then to the black ones. These were the hottest and hardest to crush. Mixed peppercorns–green, white, and black with the addition of pink–had the most diverse character. I could see them as a finishing seasoning on a mixed green salad. Choosing a recipe this time was quite easy. What better way to celebrate black pepper than the classic Roman Cacio e Pepe (translation: cheese and pepper.)  When my family traveled to Italy in June 2011, we stopped a few days in Rome. One cannot leave that city without trying Cacio e Pepe. How could a dish be so delicious with just  three ingredients: pasta, grated cheese, and crushed black peppercorns? It was, indeed, heavenly. Notes about the recipe: First, use a fine quality bucatini pasta from Italy. Bucatini is a thick spaghetti with a hole running through the center. If you can’t find it, use regular spaghetti. Second, use a block of high quality Pecorino Romano cheese. Grate it on the small star side of a box grater. The smaller the better, otherwise it won’t melt into the pasta well. Have heated bowls available. One of the tricks in making Cacio e Pepe is to make sure that the cheese is blended into the pasta.  If the pasta water is too hot, it can cause it to clump together. If the water is too cool, the whole dish will not be quite hot enough to serve. It’s a delicate balance; hence, the whole recipe should be made as quickly as possible. Don’t be afraid to go off script and add different ingredients. One obvious option is chopped garlic. I would sauté it in a little olive oil before adding the hot pasta to the pan. Other possibilities are defrosted frozen peas or fresh chopped herbs of your choosing. If you use either peas or herbs, add them to the pasta when you begin adding hot water.    Cacio e Pepe   Yield:  6 servings      1 lb. bucatini pasta or thick spaghetti 4 oz. high quality grated Pecorino Romano cheese, very finely grated 1 Tbs. whole black peppercorns, fresh ground coarse In a 4-quart saucepan or Dutch oven, bring 3 quarts of water to a boil, adding 1 Tbs. of salt.  Cook the pasta according to the box instructions. (Note: I break the pasta in half for easy mixing). Have the grated cheese and cracked black pepper ready. Drain the pasta through a strainer over a bowl. Reserve 1 1/2 cups pasta water. Return the pasta to the pot, turning off the heat. Add about 1/3 cup of pasta water into the pot. While stirring, add 1/3 of the cheese, 2 tsp. of black pepper and a splash of cooking water. Stir vigorously. Add another splash of the water and another 1/3 of the cheese. Continue stirring. Add more water to achieve desired consistency. You want the pasta to look satiny and creamy.  Season with salt and additional black pepper if needed. Mound the pasta into each of 6 heated bowls. Pass the remaining grated cheese and cracked pepper separately. Bucatini is thick spaghetti with holes running through the tubes. Grate cheese on the “star” side of a box grater. The cheese should be light and fluffy. First add pasta water. Stir in cheese and black pepper. The pasta should be glistening. 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 Andy Borowitz  November 12, 2025 Trump struggles to be heard over the boos while an unidentified inebriated man looks on. (Photo by Greg Fiume/Getty Images) WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report )—In a move that tests the limits of presidential power, on Wednesday Donald J. Trump ordered ICE agents to arrest the 67,000 football fans who booed him at Sunday’s Washington Commanders game. “This should never be allowed to happen in this country,” Trump said, adding that the booing fans “were paid by Soros.” Justifying his use of immigration agents, Trump accused all those who booed him of being in a Venezuelan drug cartel. Elaborating on his claim, Trump said, “Despite our successful air strikes off the coast of Venezuela, somehow 67,000 of these criminals got through.”

By Laurence Lerman / New York City The author with P.J. Soles at the VSDA show in Las Vegas in 1987 SCREEN TIME She may spend more time at fan conventions than on film sets these days, but P.J. Soles’s legacy remains vibrant. Bursting onto the scene in the late 1970s, she made an indelible mark on pop culture with unforgettable roles in Carrie (1976) and Halloween (1978), earning her status as one of cinema’s original “scream queens.” She showcased her punk-rock charm opposite The Ramones as Riff Randell in the cult favorite Rock ‘n’ Roll High School (1979),and her comic chops in box-office hits like Private Benjamin (1980) and Stripes (1981). More than four decades and countless film and TV appearances later, Ms. Soles is mostly retired but still having a lot of fun. Fans still flock to see her at cons across the country, especially horror fans eager to meet Michael Myers’s final victim from the original Halloween , which is currently enjoying a limited theatrical re-release across the country. The "Scream Queen" falls prey to The Shape aka Michael Myers in Halloween (1978) I first met P.J. at a video convention in Las Vegas nearly 40 years ago, and she was exactly as you’d imagine–warm, animated, and utterly approachable. She laughed easily, fielded my barrage of fanboy questions with good humor, and seemed genuinely delighted to be there. That unforced enthusiasm has never left her; it’s the same spark that continues to draw fans to her table all these years later. I jumped on the phone with P.J. a couple of weeks ago following her appearance at the Sinister Creature Con in Sacramento, Calif. Laurence: Hello P.J.! Does anyone ever call you Pamela Jane, or not for a long time? PJ: Every once in a while, I get a Pamela Jane from people. Laurence: Whether it’s P.J. or Pamela Jane, I thank you for taking the time to speak with me. PJ: Well, it’s October—my time of the year! Laurence: I actually met you at the Video Software Dealers Association convention way back in 1987. I’ve got a great snapshot of the two of us. PJ: Wow, a while ago. And I was at it back then, too! Laurence: It’s one of my favorite pictures and not just because I had so much hair then. It’s been up on a bunch of my refrigerators over the years and so many people have seen it. The majority of them have said to me, ‘It’s you and Riff Randell!’ And a couple of years ago, I had one person say to me, ‘Hey, wasn’t she in [1978’s] Zuma Beach with Suzanne Somers?’ PJ: With Michael Biehn! That was my guy—we made out in the lifeguard shack and everything. Do you know who wrote that? John Carpenter! Laurence: Right, before he directed Halloween . PJ: And it was a made-for-TV movie. My mother made scrapbooks for everything I did on TV back then and I still have the TV Guide listing for it. She loved calling me Pamela Jane. As Riff Randell with the Ramones in 1979's Rock‘n’ Roll High School Laurence:   I wanted to talk to you about appearing at fan conventions. They’ve come a long way since the one where I met you nearly forty years ago. PJ: I used to go to maybe one or two a year—back then, it was actually weird to have celebrity appearances at some of them. But the kind of movies that people know me from have just grown in popularity—especially a movie like Halloween —so I regularly go to a handful of them. Grandparents and aunts and uncles showed the kids the movies when they were young, and now they’re grown up and they show them to their kids! It’s become a kind of tradition. Which is why it’s great that Hallowee n is back in theaters and people can see it on the big screen. Laurence: What do your own kids think about it? PJ: My kids have grown up and I now have five grandchildren. I know my kids were never all that excited about seeing my films, and my grandchildren haven’t seen any of them except for Rock ‘n’Roll High School . But they are thrilled that their nana has a Halloween action figure [from Fright-Rags.com ]. And nana has some serious school cred when they say, ‘My nana knows Michael Myers.’ They’re both perfect little movies and I’m so glad they hold up. Laurence: I imagine that fans bring some nutty items to conventions for you to sign. PJ: Oh, yes. I only bring my 8 x 10s, but fans can bring posters and merch if they want. They show up with red baseball caps for my role in Carrie or telephones for Halloween [a cord of which Michael Myers uses to strangle her]. I guess the nuttiest is probably spatulas for Stripes ... Laurence: ...which Bill Murray uses on you for “the Aunt Jemima treatment!” Oh, I remember that! P.J. Soles displays her wares at a recent convention PJ: Rob Zombie’s The Devil’s Rejects (2005) is another biggie. Laurence: Do you ever get anyone asking about [the 1985 Patsy Cline bio-pic] Sweet Dreams ? PJ: Sometimes. I love that one. Laurence: I remember asking you what it was like to work with Jessica Lange, who had just started dating [playwright and actor] Sam Shephard a year or so earlier. And you mentioned that she made sure that her relatively new boyfriend stayed far, far away from the set. PJ: That’s true! She didn’t even really want to meet me. They put us in the same makeup trailer to get our hair done. I was there for three days and she wouldn’t even turn to look at me. And the girl who was doing my hair whispered to me, ‘She doesn’t want to get to know you because she doesn’t want to introduce you to Sam!’ I had just had a baby and I was happily married, so she shouldn’t have worried. But I was excited to be there. Laurence: A bona fide backstage Hollywood story. And a long time ago… PJ: It was! That baby I had is going to turn 42 this year! Laurence Lerman is a film journalist, a former editor of Video Business -- Variety's digital media trade publication—and husband to The Insider's own Gwen Cooper. 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 Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. The debris from the East Wing on Oct 23, 2025, before it was whisked away (Jacquelyn Martin/AP) That piece of rich white trash, Donald J. Trump, just wrecked my house. MY house. I don’t care what he’s the president of. He doesn’t own that house. He’s a tenant, living there rent free—on my dime. I own that White House. And so do you. So, last Saturday (10/25), like any good owner, I went downtown to view the damage to our house for myself. Usually, you can walk through Lafayette Park, a large green square crisscrossed by pedestrian walkways that sits opposite the White House, just across Pennsylvania Avenue. But now the park is so fenced off with low barricades, chicken-wire-like fencing, and RESTRICTED AREA signs that you can only access it through one central entrance. I did that, along with others who appeared unbothered by the restrictions. Possibly they were tourists who knew no better. In the middle of the park, two large machines with short cranes stood on either side of a statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback. “Great,” I said aloud. “Is he going to start tearing down statues too?” Behind me, a bystander said he thought they were just going to clean the statue. In all fairness, he was probably right. They were not bulldozers, and they appeared to have open cabs for workers to stand in. In a friendly voice, the man asked if I knew about Jesus. I was not in the mood for religious solicitations. I told him, adamantly, to leave me alone, just-leave-me-alone ! And I walked on. I had not gone more than 20 feet towards Pennsylvania Avenue before a young woman tried, with similar words, to give me literature to read. My tart answer to her: “Why don’t you stop trying to convert people and actually do something good?” These people certainly had a right to their beliefs and to try to persuade others. But in that moment, the combination of their apparent total disinterest in the desecration occurring across the street and the fact that right-wing religious  fanatics  had had a hand in putting that destructive power in place was infuriating to me. In 1995, bowing to the concerns of security agencies, then-President Bill Clinton closed the portion of Pennsylvania Avenue fronting the White House to car traffic. It became, instead, a pedestrian mall where tourists, skateboarders and protesters could gather. And one could still walk through it from cross streets at either end. Not anymore. Now, both ends are closed off, guarded by the Secret Service. And more low barricades have further limited space for pedestrians on the east end.. On Saturday, the usual small protests on a variety of issues were absent. There were at most 50 tourists milling about the White House’s wrought-iron fence, taking photos of each other in front of it. I moved as far east along the fence as possible, trying to get a view of the rubble where the East Wing used to be, to no avail. Trump and his enablers had hidden the president’s ongoing vandalism behind pretty, clean white board walls. I had to be a contortionist to take photos of even that from between the iron fence pickets without dropping my phone. Again, I spoke aloud, angrily—to myself, to the air, to anyone who might hear—"He doesn’t own it. How dare he tear any of it down?” Three feet from me, a woman, well-dressed, longish brown hair, turned to look at me. I met her eyes, unsure of her reaction to my outburst. But she said she said she agreed with me, that it was disgusting.  Then she and her companion, standing a few feet behind her, walked away. Everyone else around us seemed oblivious—just enjoying a nice, sunny day out. I decided to see if I could get a better view of the East Wing’s remains from behind the White House and the White House lawn. But on that side, I was met with more fences and barricades keeping me and the rest of the public at a greater distance. Along the way, I could see two unmoving cranes piercing the sky just beyond the camouflage provided by the ground’s trees and bushes. Dwarfed by the cranes, furled narrowly around its pole, stood an American flag, looking small. Frustrated by the shameless cover-up, I headed up 17th Street towards the Metro and home. As I passed a Secret Service agent on guard, I shook my head at him and said, “This isn’t our capital anymore.” I didn’t wait for an answer but walked on. The administration has quickly blocked the scene of the crime from visitors like the author (Jessie Seigel) The demolition of the East Wing is part of President Donald Trump's plan to build a ballroom he claims will cost $300 million on the east side of the White House. He tore the building down without obtaining required approval from the National Capital Planning Commission, that oversees such projects. The inveterate pathological liar claimed in July that the construction of his ballroom “won’t interfere with the current building. It’ll be near but not touching it.” The media has noted that Trump’s actions directly contradict his earlier assurance that construction would not affect the existing White House. But Trump could argue, in Al Capone fashion, that his construction is not touching the East Wing of the White House. Because the East Wing is no longer there . White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt proudly boasted, “This is going to be a magnificent addition to the White House for many years to come, and it’s not costing the taxpayers anything.” In this regard, Trump has outdone Al Capone. The private donors who have committed millions upon millions of dollars thus far are a noxious Who’s Who of billionaires and corporate interests no doubt expecting returns on their investment. Knowing Trump, they may never see them. Leavitt claimed Trump has also personally committed money to the project but refused to say how much. She said the administration would share a dollar figure at an unspecified later point. Given Trump’s record, that surely means never . Some speculate that Trump is building a gigantic bunker under that new ballroom so he can dig in and refuse to leave in 2028. Others suggest his demolition of the First Ladies’ section of the White House is symptomatic of his misogyny. Or that building a humongous ballroom with his name on it is part of feeding his insatiable megalomania. Personally, I think it’s part of his revenge campaign. Trump knows he lost the 2020 election. He knows how little he won by in 2024. He knows that seven million Americans protested on No Kings Day this month, making a stand against him. So he’s tearing down the White House to get even with all of us. Based on their lack of action, the Republican-controlled Congress is fine with the destruction. And the current Supreme Court will rubber stamp anything Trump does. So, it’s left to us. We the People have got to evict him. How? First, we make sure Democrats win control of Congress in 2026. Then, we impeach, convict, and remove this criminal tenant and every impeachable lackey who has assisted him. Because I want my house back!   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 two professional staged readings of her play Tinker's Damn , with another play, The Three Jessies . More on Seigel can be found at  https://www.jessieseigel.com .

By Amy Lennard Goehner / Hudson, NY Daisy shopping at Lowe's for agricultural supplies, two words this Upper West Sider had never uttered until leaving the city Friends often ask me what’s the best thing about having left Manhattan after 40 years and settling two hours north in Hudson. “Was it finally having a washer and dryer in my building?” Nah. “Was it saying goodbye to Humvee-sized water bugs galloping across the floor?” Nope. “Was it buying a week’s worth of groceries for under $300?”  Wrong again. As a matter of fact: Our washing machine just went on the fritz, and it cost us more than a cool grand to replace it. We’ve traded water bugs for stink bugs that sound like 747s when they fly into a room. And while ShopRite beats Fairway at the cash register hands down, you need a car to schlep those groceries home. Give up? The best thing about having left my Upper West Side apartment was finally being able to get a dog, as pets were not permitted in our building. A love of dogs is in my DNA, on both sides. My early childhood was spent in a 400-square foot garage “apartment” in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, downstairs from my grandparents. My folks slept on a faux velvet green pullout couch in the windowless living/dining/everything room, while my brother Jeff and I shared the bedroom. Despite these tight quarters, we always had a dog. And I’m not talking Chihuahuas or toy poodles. Our Brooklyn dogs included a boxer and a beagle. And a Great Dane: Hercules the Third, allegedly the third largest Great Dane ever bred. Allegedly because that claim was made by our neighbor Jimmy, who wasn’t someone anyone on our East 28th Street block would argue with. This is a photo of my Brooklyn childhood garage apartment. Now picture a Great Dane inside! One day Jimmy called my dad, Jerry. Jimmy graveled: “Hey Jerry. Come on over. I’ve got a present for you.” Jerry hummana-hummanaed (à la Ralph Kramden): “Sure, Jimmy!” Jerry survived meeting with Jimmy and came home with Hercules the Third. And on the Third Day of Hercules’s stay, our mom Em (despite loving dogs) decreed to Jerry, “That dog goes or you go.” The author, her brother Jeff and Fritzi in 1970 after moving on up from Brooklyn The next dog who entered our lives was with us for 16 years and still haunts my dreams: an eight-week-old Weimaraner puppy . Our family differed on what to name her, so we chose her name the way we settled all major family decisions — playing one hand of poker, always five-card draw. (I think my first words were “ante up.”) And when I won that hand with a pair of 8’s, Em and Jerry each pulled me aside separately and offered me $10 to change my vote. Even at age 10, I was unbribable. I chose the name Fritzi. Here in Hudson, there is a rock that bears her name in the little pet memorial our neighbors created. In all my dogless years since Fritzi passed, I’d get my fix in the city by hanging out at dog parks or greeting every big dog I passed on the street. When I was a reporter at Sports Illustrated and Sports Illustrated for Kids , several times I reported on the Westminster Dog Show. Most memorable as a reporter was a show years ago when the Chinese Crested debuted, that breed once having won the New York Post’s ‘World’s Ugliest Dog’ competition. I have a framed portrait on our sports wall of Beatrice and Loopy, two of the Chinese Cresteds in the show that year. Before I headed to Madison Square Garden for the show, I had heard somewhere that the breed grew in popularity when the stripper Gypsy Rose Lee started breeding them. “Wow! I have to track that down!” I said to myself.  At Westminster, none of the Chinese Crested breeders I interviewed had heard that story about Gypsy. For pre-internet weeks after, I scoured the White Pages and old news clips and phoned in vain for any leads to check the story out. Alas, I got no further than finding the name of Gypsy’s seamstress but couldn’t locate her. A quick online search just now confirmed everything I would have needed to write that story. Any fellow reporter who worked back in those pre-internet days can cite their Pulitzer-worthy stories that never got written because we just couldn’t get the skinny. Once we moved to Hudson, my husband Rick Remington had big dreams of big dogs like his Black Lab named Jetlag, and of course a Weimaraner for me. And another breed I had recently discovered, the Leonberger, a playful, gentle giant. My dad was, um, a gamblin’ man, so what’s not to love about a Leonberger, which sounds like the name of my dad’s bookie? In Hudson, one of our first friends was Dani, who owned two pugs, Pretzels and Daisy. As a big- dog snob, I had never paid much attention to dogs I had to bend down to pet. But the more time I spent with the pugs, the more I came to appreciate small dogs. Particularly Pretzels and Daisy. The couple had lived together peacefully for five years until the day Daisy went alpha dog and decided she needed “her space.” They started fighting. During their separation, Daisy stayed with us until the day Dani brokenheartedly announced she had found someone in Rochester who would rehome Daisy. On the morning Dani was to surrender Daisy, Rick and I looked at each other, and we knew. So much for a Black Lab or a Weimaraner or a Leonberger. We plan and God laughs. Daisy found her forever home with us that morning four years ago. And Pretzels and Daisy are best friends again and hang out often. So for me, what was the best thing about leaving the city? I bet my bottom dollar that you can guess! Just ask my husband Rick. He’ll tell you, “Life is better with a dog.” I’m a third-generation Brooklynite (when Brooklyn was a place to come  from, not go  to) but grew up in Newton, Mass. I spent most of my career at Time Inc. as deputy chief of reporters at Sports Illustrated , senior editor at Sports Illustrated for Kids,  and senior arts reporter at Time.  I wrote a lot about autism for Time,  as my oldest son has autism. I currently freelance for AARP's Livable Communities. I’m in my element ghostwriting online dating profiles or shooting pool and drinking a vodka martini — while listening to Ella, Dinah or Sarah.