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By Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich. Howard Triest's German passport Howard Triest and his wife Anita lived around the block from me in Oak Park, Mich. I grew up with his son, Brent, and younger brother Glenn. During the 1950s and ‘60s, it was not unusual to see tattoos on the arms of our friends’ parents. We were too young to know the pain and suffering these markings represented. They kept most of their shocking stories to themselves. Howard was a survivor. He wasn’t in the camps but experienced another type of horror. Looking back, Oak Park was an idyllic city to grow up in. It was primarily Jewish and had all the amenities a child could desire — a park with an outdoor swimming pool, tennis courts, baseball fields, an ice-skating rink, and a famous hill used for sledding in the winter months. There were sidewalks for bike riding and we, the Baby Boomers, thought we had it all. Our school system was top notch, and parents were pleased with their choice to live in this special city and put the past to rest. Howard Triest and his wife Anita (circa 1970) Brent and I attended the same schools and graduated from Oak Park High in 1970. Our friendship and memories of those early days remain intact. Years later, I discovered that Brent had moved to Huntington Woods. I lived there as well. Ironically, we raised our families in a city that was quite similar to the one in our youth. I had the pleasure of teaching Brent’s son, Jonathon, and then his sister, Katie, when they were in high school. Our granddaughters are also friends. I have said it many times — Oak Parkers have a deep connection. Howard and his sons were the catalyst behind Journey to Justice.   Knowing their father’s back story, the threesome began working on the documentary in 2003, when Howard was 80 years old. Glenn was an accomplished photographer, and Brent was involved in the investment world while also dabbling in television. This dynamic team decided to put a plan into action. They asked Steve Palackdharry, a documentary filmmaker from the Detroit area, if he would be interested in pursuing their project. His initial response was not exactly what Brent and Glenn anticipated — he had reservations. He told the Sarasota Herald-Tribune , ‘The historical and artistic record of the Holocaust is so rich already, I wondered what I could add to it. But the Nuremberg angle was unique to me. This is such an unusual story.” Palackdharry ultimately decided to join the team and became the writer and director. Brent and Glenn were the executive producers. The group traveled to five countries in three years to chronicle the experiences of their father.  Howard’s wife, and his sister, Margot, joined the team and the documentary began to take shape. The film centered around Howard’s life, Howard began as a happy child, but then became a refugee, a soldier, and an interpreter for three psychiatrists at the Nuremberg Tribunal from 1945 to 1946. Attempts were being made there to evaluate the Nazi officials charged with crimes against humanity, and Howard was the messenger. These monsters were responsible for the deaths of millions of Jews, including Howard’s parents, and the majority of his extended family. Howard, a German Jew, was born in 1923. He had a close-knit family and enjoyed a privileged childhood. But as Hitler’s extermination machine was ramping up, Howard’s parents, Berthold and Ly, knew they had to remove their children from the perilous situation that was developing in their homeland.                                                                                                                                                                        In 1939, at the age of sixteen, Howard left Germany and arrived in Luxembourg on the day that World War II began. Two weeks later the situation improved when Howard’s parents and Margot finally joined him there. After spending eight months in Diekirch, the Triests still hoped to sail together to the United States. But finances precluded that notion — there was only enough money for Howard to book passage. Howard arrived in the United States when he was 17. In May 1940, when the Germans invaded the Netherlands and Belgium, Howard’s father Berthold was arrested and held for some time. Margot and her mother then left for France to be near Berthold. It was a perilous journey. Dreams of escape and a better life were fading. Unfortunately, Berthold and Ly were arrested in France in 1942 and sent to Camp Drancy, an internment camp near Paris. Margot tearfully said her last good-byes to her parents by the railroad tracks. She was only 13 years old. Berthold and Ly were deported to Auschwitz on August 26th, 1942. They were murdered. Margot eventually found her way to a home for refugee Jewish girls near Limoges, France. She survived due to the help of the OSE — a Jewish children’s rescue organization. As the situation worsened in France, and children were being herded to concentration camps, the staff put Margot and 10 other girls on a train to a town close to the Swiss border. Miraculously, Margot and her band of brave children crossed safely into Geneva. Howard Triest in the U.S. Army While in the U.S. Howard worked in a tool factory and tried multiple times to enlist in the armed forces. Eventually he was drafted and in 1944 became a proud serviceman. Howard landed at Omaha Beach on June 7 (the day after D Day) and witnessed intense combat during the Normandy Invasion. He observed in the film, "The life expectancy for a machine-gunner like me wasn’t too long.” Howard’s battalion subsequently liberated Buchenwald concentration camp. He reported that he was “shocked at the sight of the mounds of bodies and the skeletal, haunted looking survivors.” Howard’s course then quickly changed when an officer realized Howard could speak fluent German and he was whisked away for intelligence duty. Triest in Nuremberg during the filming of "Journey to Justice". In 2006, Journey to Justice premiered at Oakland University in Rochester Hills, Mich., for two consecutive evenings. It received rave reviews. ( View the entire documentary here .) Brent recalled that his father liked the documentary. “He had wanted this story to be well presented for a long time. And I was, and continue to be, so pleased we were able to finish it in time for him to enjoy its multiple showings and chances to answer audience questions at a number of venues. It was a beautiful project to work on with my father and Glenn.” And while I was teaching at Berkley High School in 2006, I asked my childhood friend Brent to share his father’s story with the younger generation. Students had just finished reading Night by Elie Weisel, and the discussions were still fresh in their minds. Brent and Steve were eager to meet with the senior class and view the documentary along with them. They introduced the film and fielded questions afterward — it was a true learning experience for all. The Nazi defendants in the dock at the Nuremberg Trials (circa 1945 to 1946) Then in 2023, Katie Triest Brent’s daughter, who lives in Telluride, Colo., received a call from a friend with exciting and strange news. While perusing the internet for Howard’s documentary to share with her son, she noticed an article announcing that a new film, Nuremberg , was in the works and that English actor Leo Woodall was being cast as Howard Triest. Katie’s reaction was mixed — one of confusion and delight. She commented on a Facebook post, “Hollywood doesn’t typically contact families about films being made about them, so we were in the dark about what the movie was going to focus on or how my grandfather would be portrayed. When the trailer dropped for the movie, it was cool but still, we had no details.” ( View the trailer here. ) Brent shared similar thoughts. “There were mixed feelings in the family about the film’s direction and how they were going to represent the character ‘Howie’ Triest, a name, by the way, he never would use. We were at first a bit concerned, but as it turned out, it is something I think my father would have enjoyed. Plus, a good -looking, famous actor playing him — he would have liked that.” Last month, much to Katie’s surprise, she thought she spotted Leo Woodall in Telluride. Katie is not a shy person and approached him and asked, “Hey, are you Leo?”   After his quick acknowledgement she came right out and said, “This is kind of strange, but you are playing my grandfather in Nuremberg .”  Leo just happened to be in town for a premiere of another movie he was featured in. There were instant hugs, tears and time spent talking about her grandfather. Katie then received a heartwarming invitation from Leo to attend the premiere of Nuremberg in Toronto with her family. Due to previous commitments only Katie, her friend Rachel, and brother Jonathon were able to travel to the premiere. Katie recalls that the weekend in Toronto was “surreal.” She says,” After watching my papa’s story unfold with accuracy on a big screen, it brought such relief. It was clear to me that Leo cared about depicting my grandfather accurately and was invested in making sure it was told with grace and honor. I know that my papa would approve.” Jonathon reacted in a similar manner to his sister. Says Jonathon, “I just kept thinking how happy my grandfather would have been with Leo Woodall’s portrayal of him. In Toronto and at the premiere. Leo was so kind to me and Katie. He expressed how genuinely interested he was in getting the part right. I think he nailed it.” Nuremberg will debut in theatres on November 7th. With two Academy Award -winning actors, it should prove to be riveting. Russell Crowe is cast as Hermann Göring, the highest-ranking German military officer under Hitler, and Rami Malik is one of the psychiatrists assigned to evaluate these brutal criminals. Other complicit defendants were Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s former deputy, Julius Streicher, the infamous propagandist, and Auschwitz commandant Rudolf Hoess. There were over 20 captured prisoners held for trial. Little did Howard Triest know, at the age of 22, that he would be writing history when he was commissioned to the secret military prison housing the Nazi high command in 1945. Nuremburg was their last stand, and many did not back down from their warped mission to exterminate the Jewish race. Howard left lasting words about his encounters with the prisoners. “I’d seen these people in the time of their glory, when the Nazis were the rulers of the world. These rulers had killed most of my family, but now I was in control.” “We treated them in a civil way; I kept my hate under control when working there. You couldn’t betray how you really felt because you wouldn’t get anything out of their questioning. I had a job to do.” “I never shook hands with any of them.” Howard passed away in 2016 – May his memory be for a blessing. Howard Triest at 83 years old 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.

By Andy Borowitz  October 15, 2025 In a historic ceremony, Donald J. Trump signs over the deed to Mar-a-Lago to the Emir of Qatar. Photo: Win McNamee/Getty Images DOHA, QATAR ( The Borowitz Report )—In a major setback for Donald J. Trump, on Wednesday the Emir of Qatar demanded that the Idaho airbase his nation had been promised be built at Mar-a-Lago instead. In a heated exchange, Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani reportedly told Trump, “We gave you a 400-million-dollar 747. You’re not sticking us in some Idaho shithole.” Just hours after Trump caved, national security experts expressed alarm at the Qataris’ move to Mar-a-Lago, warning that they would have access to highly sensitive classified documents stored in the club’s public bathrooms. For his part, the Emir promised to make “major upgrades” to Trump’s club, starting by fumigating it for bedbugs.

By Andy Borowitz  October 1, 2025 Kim at his military clusterfuck. (STR/KCNA VIA KNS/AFP via Getty Image) PYONGYANG ( The Borowitz Report )—Kim Jong Un was incandescent with rage on Wednesday as he accused Donald J. Trump of stealing his idea of gathering his top military brass for an orgy of propaganda. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,” Kim said of Tuesday’s event in Quantico, Virginia. “That asshole totally ripped me off.” “The summoning of the nation’s generals, the insistence on loyalty, the unhinged rhetoric—I had all of that,” the North Korean dictator added. “The only thing I didn’t have was the weird drunk guy with all the makeup.” In another accusation, Kim claimed Trump lifted his idea of attacking American cities, stating, “Washington DC, Los Angeles, Chicago—they were all on my target list. The only one I didn’t have was Portland. Why is he attacking Portland? That makes zero sense.”

From Glenn Diesen's Substack

By David Tubman / New Braunfels, Texas Judy and I waited more than seven hours in the crowd to enter the stadium My wife Judy and I just returned from attending the Charlie Kirk funeral-memorial service in Glendale, Ariz. on Sunday, Sept. 21. It was a 1,005-mile drive each way from our home in Texas—15 hours on the road, sleeping in rest stops and the cheapest motel we could find. When Judy first suggested that we go, I balked at the thought of fighting 70,000 others for seats in State Farm Stadium. Better to watch it on a screen here at home. Every channel and social media site were on the subject. I knew there would be huge crowds, along with the thought of making a 2,000-mile round trip so soon after our five-week road trip of 7,000 miles this summer. I thought about the cost of gas and lodging. It just wasn’t appealing to me. Well, after about 20 minutes of thinking it through, I remembered Judy’s initial tearful reaction to the news on Sept. 10th, “ Charlie Kirk was shot! ” Then 30 minutes later, she began crying openly, “ Charlie’s dead! ” I saw that people were already reacting on social media sites, and for the most part, were sympathetic. However, a few dark comments were also posted. “ Charlie Kirk deserved what he got. ” Then I became incensed. That’s not what free speech is supposed to be about. Have we reached a point of moral decay in our society, where we have become more callous about the sanctity of human life and the rights and freedom we all deserve? You don’t have to like the messenger. You’re free to walk away from the soapbox. But you don’t get to burn it down. Charlie Kirk understood that. He showed up, even when it was risky. He believed in dialogue, not destruction. And he died for that belief. I reconsidered. An outpouring of support for Charlie Kirk at his organization Turning Point USA's headquarters in Phoenix, Ariz. I wasn’t an avid follower of Charlie, but on some occasions, I watched his show online. Judy watched his show regularly. I’ve always respected his courage. Since he was 18, Charlie has showed up on college campuses, even amid bomb threats and student protests. Would I have done that? I’ll be honest–hell no. I’m ashamed to admit that fear would win out over courage. But Charlie demonstrated that he had guts. At 17, he launched Turning Point USA, a nonprofit that advocates for conservative causes, with no money, no credentials—just conviction. His first campus table bore a bumper sticker: BIG GOVERNMENT SUCKS. I agree. That applies to both sides, all parties, every administration. Charlie was pro-American, a patriot, and also a Christian. If someone wanted to challenge him, his tent bore a banner overhead that said, “Prove me wrong” and a microphone on a stand for anyone to speak openly or ask questions. His favorite statement was: “When open dialogue ceases—violence results.” Charlie wanted to make a positive difference in the lives of young men in America. He desired that they learned how to become better husbands, fathers, and more productive individuals. I thought, if Charlie Kirk died for my right to free speech, I was willing to do whatever it took to attend his funeral. The day before the event, we visited the memorial in front of the Turning Point headquarters in Phoenix, Ariz. It was about as long as a football field and restored after someone had trampled through the middle of it a few days before. There were a few folding tables off to the side displaying FREEDOM and CHARLIE KIRK T-shirts available for sale.     On the morning of the event, Judy and I woke at 2 am and drove to the stadium, where we were met by thousands of others already gathered around all sides of the stadium. There was no sign of organized crowd control, so people stood in large groups. Some had folding deck chairs while others sat on the ground. The crowds shifted left, then right, trying to determine which entry gate would open first. However, that wouldn’t be until 7:00 am.  The doors to the stadium wouldn’t open till 9 o’clock. People were cooperative, but after so many hours, we were getting closer to the stadium entrance  and a few tired individuals started to get mad with some who cut into the lines ahead of us. They let loose some words you don’t usually hear at church or a funeral. I was being shoved from behind and let the women pushing me know that there was nowhere I could go and just be patient: "We’ll all get inside." Finally, we filed one at a time through the TSA security lines, only to discover with frustration that after all the hours we had spent waiting, it was already packed. We checked in by phone with Judy’s brother Mark. He had driven for five hours from California and had a couple of seats open near him, so we joined him, after not seeing him for years. Whew! We all sat in the center, but it was way in the back. The people on the stage were like tiny ants. There were large display screens, so we could see who was there. After many hours in line, we finally made it inside of State Farm Stadium, where the memorial was held The memorial was slated to begin at 11 am, and it was only a little after 9 am, so the waiting time was filled with Christian musicians. So far, it was a church service attended by 70,000 people, with the arena next door and other nearby locations accommodating another 20,000. Our eyes had closed a bit by now. “ The food lines are a mile long, so we’ll wait and eat tonight. ” The stage had bulletproof panels at the center in front of the speaker’s podium. The stadium floor in front of us was filled with white folding chairs for the VIP non-speaking special guests. We recognized some as they wandered about the floor area before the service: conservative talk-show host Glenn Beck, Democratic Sen. John Fetterman, various cabinet members and some evangelical personalities. In the bulletproof private boxes, President Trump and Melania, Vice President Vance, and other speakers were seated. At one point, Elon Musk came and sat down next to Trump, and they shook hands.    Erika Kirk, Charlie's widow, and President Trump on the huge display screen Speaker after speaker gave brief talks about how they knew Charlie Kirk and shared stories of how he had affected their lives. As it got closer to Erika Kirk's turn, we were overcome with emotion. Eriika wiped away tears throughout, but she held her stance and spoke fluidly about what Charlie meant to her and their two children. But she had something else she knew she had to do Near the close of her message, she said: “My husband, Charlie, he wanted to save young men just like the one who took his life. That young man. That young man on the cross, our Savior said, ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.’ That man, that young man, I forgive him. I forgive him because it was what Christ did, and is what Charlie would do,” Tears rolled down her cheeks openly as she said the words. But I know myself; even when the other person hasn’t asked for it, and I forgave, I was the one who was able to set aside the anger and bitterness I had inside me, and I found peace in the process. The trip, the funeral, and the memorial were events that Judy and I will remember as historical. An experience that has become a turning point in our lives. David Tubman, a former Michigander (Detroit and Oak Park), moved to the West Coast in 1976 and is now living in New Braunfels, Texas. His newfound passions are writing and podcasting. To date, David has self-published two nonfiction books about Detroit’s infamous cold case: Jimmy Hoffa Is Missing–The Gap   (2020)  and Jimmy Hoffa Is Missing–Beyond The Gap (September 2025). He is a respected independent researcher in the disappearance of Hoffa. David now hosts two social media sites: “ JHIMTG ” and “ Poly-Ticks & Faith .” The other passion has led David to begin a podcast called “Poly-Ticks & Faith.” He feels there is overwhelming stress associated with our national political culture, and he wants to help by talking people down from the ledge. Topics he has covered include “When Did Science Become Politics?” and “Who Are The Real Jews?”

By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. On a recent trail walk with a dear friend and neighbor, I could feel her anguish as she teared up over the August school shooting in Minnesota. She had been a student and later a school counselor in Catholic schools, so this latest horrific tragedy hit close to home for her. Naturally, we drifted into a discussion on the political culture that has stymied progress on gun control and has not offered any real solutions to this national epidemic. So much of the time, we seem to be able to do little more than write letters to our representatives in Congress, participate in marches, and vote. She and I explored the moral dilemmas voters face when weighing the differences between their historical voting patterns and the realities that force them to question their actions. My friend told me about someone she has known for a long time who always votes for the Republican ticket. Her husband, family and most of their associates are strong supporters of the Republican Party, regardless of its policies related to current events. When it came time to vote for either Trump or Harris, however, this longstanding Republican woman could not bring herself to vote for Trump. Neither could she commit to Harris publicly nor privately, though that was her strong desire. On election day, she almost made it to the voting booth but stepped out of line at the last moment, called a Democratic friend and had her come over to fill in the little oval next to Harris’ name. This moral struggle reminded me of an episode of Call the Midwife , a TV series that began in 2012 and is currently running on Netflix. In the episode, a woman whose family’s religion is Christian Science cannot freely give permission to have her newborn child medicated to save his life. After much turmoil, the Catholic nun-midwife attending to the family, tells the young mother that her own religion permits the use of medication and convinces her to allow the nun to administer the treatment, leaving the mother free of the anguish and guilt that deciding between her faith and the use of medication was causing. I was eleven years old the first time I faced a major moral dilemma. It was summer, and the children’s camp my parents owned in northern Michigan was in full swing. My sisters and I blended in with the campers, living in cabins as if our parents were not even there. One night after lights-out, Susie, one of the girls from the oldest cabin, woke me up. I adored this girl, who treated me like a little sister. She was fifteen or sixteen and very smart, athletic, and kind. I wanted to be just like her. What was she doing in my cabin so late at night? Susie was quite upset as she told me that a few girls from her cabin had sneaked out, taken canoes, and were meeting some townie boys on the other side of the lake. She warned that if anything happened to the girls, my parents would be responsible. I feared the canoes would capsize and someone might drown, or the girls would be in danger with boys they didn’t know. My first impulse was to go tell my parents. Susie cautioned that blowing the whistle on the girls would be very unpopular, and I would likely be ostracized for going to my parents. She promised to stand by me regardless of my decision. Without hesitation, I ran to my parents’ cabin and told them. Susie had been right. By the next day, everyone in camp had heard of the foiled caper and who tattled. As uncomfortable as I was in the aftermath of my actions, I never regretted my decision to do what I believed was the right thing. In retrospect, Susie had her own dilemma; she could have gone directly to my parents rather than engage me as a surrogate. Why couldn’t Susie, the Republican voter, or the young mother act independently? What they all had in common was that last surge of courage it takes to risk social repercussions. They knew they were unaligned with their sense of right and wrong, but they lacked the strength of their convictions. So why did I act without much thought to personal consequences? I think the difference between the women in the other scenarios and me comes from an inner voice, like an echo, from parental influence. My parents were effective teachers in lessons of moral character. They emphasized that doing the right thing is more important than how others may judge me. They cautioned me not to follow others off a cliff, and that I had to use my own brain to think through dilemmas. The traditionally Republican voter and the young Christian Science mother were taught to follow the doctrines of their families and church without questioning them, and that the risk of being condemned should be the driving force. I believe Susie had little experience as a teenager in facing moral dilemmas, and I suspect the camp incident was as important a lesson for her as it was for me. We are all faced with moral dilemmas throughout our lives, some more significant than others. And we are challenged to consider the aspects of each difficult situation before deciding either to act or remain idle. We do have to live with the consequences of our decisions, but most importantly, we have to live with ourselves! 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 Dwayne Johnson is UFC heavyweight champ Mark Kerr in The Smashing Machine SCREEN TIME In The Smashing Machine , which arrives in theaters on October 3, filmmaker Benny Safdie ( Good Time, Uncut Gems ) does something audacious: he transforms Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, the tremendously popular professional wrestler who became a box-office superstar. For two decades, Johnson has been Hollywood’s most reliable skyscraper-scaler and franchise defibrillator, a star who could charm his way through fireballs and punchlines with equal ease. Here, that invincibility is stripped for parts. What’s left is Mark Kerr—a mixed martial arts (MMA) pioneer and former amateur-wrestling phenom—whose body is a fortress and whose interior is falling apart. Based on the 2002 documentary of the same name (subtitled T he Life and Times of Extreme Fighter Mark Kerr ), Safdie’s solo feature (he writes, directs, co-produces, and edits) follows the protagonist through the late-’90s boom of mixed martial arts: the high-wire bouts, the Pride Fighting Championships in Japan, the adoration, the pills. The fights are gripping, but Safdie keeps them deliberately deglamorized—glimpsed through ropes and mesh, cut in stressed fragments, sound-mixed like a migraine. The real arena is domestic: motel rooms at 3 a.m., the post-fight quiet that feels like aftershocks, the emotional bouts that don’t end with a bell. Johnson, prosthetically augmented and reshaped into a different silhouette, gives the most internalized performance of his career. The trademark voltage—eyebrow, grin, the knowing wink—goes dark. In its place: a man who speaks softly because he’s afraid of what will come out if he raises his voice. He plays Kerr as someone unused to vulnerability and suddenly drowning in it; you can see him trying to muscle through feelings the way he once muscled through opponents, only to discover there’s no gym for this. It’s a risky performance, and Johnson makes it count. Emily Blunt plays Mark Kerr’s real-life former girlfriend Dawn Staples As Dawn Staples–Kerr’s partner in love and, at times, in tempestuous battle–Emily Blunt is flinty, funny, and heartbreakingly practical. She refuses the “long-suffering wife” cliché, giving Dawn sharp edges and quick intelligence. Their scenes crackle with recognition—two people who love each other and also know exactly where to land the blow that will hurt most. The pair generate an electricity that’s less flirtatious than combustible: a match struck in a windstorm. Safdie’s sensibility—pressure-cooker humanism—evolves here. Unlike the sprinting panic attack of 2019’s Uncut Gems , this one is a slow bleed: a film that prefers the minute hand to the stopwatch. He collages archival inserts, handheld passages, and training-room textures into something that feels lived-in rather than lacquered. The editing is jagged but not showy; the images have that humid, close-quarters claustrophobia of a life that no longer fits. Safdie resists the easy arc: The Smashing Machine shows that rock bottom isn’t a single floor but a series of falls; recovery, when it comes, is rarely cinematic. What the movie captures best is embodiment—the miracle and misery of being a “machine.” Kerr is paid to convert pain into spectacle, to turn willpower into a public utility. Safdie is fascinated by the bill that comes due: the opioids that sand down the edges until there’s nothing left to feel, the way fans celebrate the mask long after the man underneath has disappeared. Johnson leans into that paradox with humility; even in triumph, he plays Kerr as a figure slightly out of phase, like the sound is a half-beat off the image. Emily Blunt and Dwayne Johnson hit the town There are soft spots. A couple of contemporaries drift in and out as sketches; one subplot hints at a wider locker-room ecosystem but never fully arrives. Yet even the elisions feel consistent with the subject: Kerr’s life, as presented here, is full of fragments—half-remembered wins, rehearsed apologies, plans that dissolve in bright light. Safdie’s refusal to tidy the narrative is starkly evident and effective. Does The Smashing Machine rewrite the sports biopic? Not entirely. The genre’s bones remain: the ascent, the cliff, the reckoning. But Safdie sands off the triumphal lacquer and replaces it with something more tactile—sweaty, anxious, human. The climaxes don’t play as crescendos so much as consequences. And the big swing—the deconstruction of one of the world’s most colossal movie personas—lands. The film debuted at the Venice Film Festival last month, awarding Safdie the Silver Lion, a validation from the most discerning voices in the festival biosphere and a signal that this isn’t just a tonal flex for Johnson (who cried at the film’s 15-minute standing ovation) but a real career pivot. Five, ten, fifty years from now, when the Dwayne Johnson retrospective inevitably arrives, the skyscrapers and capes will still gleam. But the aforementioned pivot will start here, with a film that asked him to stop being a god and try being a man. The machine smashes, yes, but the man survives. That’s the win. 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 Carol Segal / New York City Covid as the monstrous, global pandemic it originally was, is behind us, but the virus in its ever-mutating form is still very much a presence today.  I know, because I’ve got it right now.     Thankfully, my symptoms are so mild that I am able to type these words while dealing with only a bit of nose congestion, the occasional cough, and a low-grade fever that Tylenol takes care of within minutes. This is my second episode with Covid; my first time was a fairly mild case, too. I have suspicions about where and from whom I contracted the virus both times, but nothing is certain.  And although I am fully “of age,” Paxlovid was not recommended for me either time.    Still, I am surprised that Covid bit me in the butt again.  My friends and my family would confirm that my husband and I continue to take more precautions against Covid than anyone else they know. Masks have become a way of life for us..We’re comfortable wearing them because since 2020, we’ve never really stopped.   I’ve wracked my brain for the answers to the questions that plague me; Who gave it to me this time and when? And how in the world did it get through my mask? Was it that man who achoo-ed a loud, unprotected projectile sneeze in the elevator, just as I was walking in, fumbling for my mask? Or was it that one time when I was so immersed in a texting conversation as I stepped onto a bus that I forgot to put on my mask for most of the ride?   Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am frequently the only one masked up in buses, on subways, in the unventilated laundry room in my building basement, as well as with my in-person personal training clientele. I like to greet people and leave people with my bare face, but I slip a mask on once I’m working closely with anyone and in relatively small spaces.    Similarly, when I’m in an examining room with any doctor at all, I’m usually the only one of the two of us who wears a mask. I am thankful that starting with the AIDS epidemic, dentists are mandated to wear masks when working on a patient’s teeth.   I protect myself in order to protect my spouse, who has an underlying health issue which causes Covid to be a bigger threat. I also do it because my profession means working primarily with people over 70, and in close proximity. I’m protecting them, too. I don’t want to be that Covid-carrying honeybee flitting from person to person, leaving contagion behind as I go about my day. Four of my clients are over 90, and some are immunocompromised because of conditions ranging from chronic fatigue syndrome to rheumatoid arthritis to cancer.   My husband and I have been two of only a handful of passengers among hundreds wearing masks on domestic and international flights alike in the past three years. Yeah, even all eight hours to Paris and back, two years ago.   There is another major reason behind our strong efforts to avoid getting Covid: it is extremely costly.  My husband and I are both self-employed and when we can’t work, we receive no sick-pay compensations. Covid gouges an income like little else, because even an actively sick spouse at home creates an unsafe environment for paying customers to enter.   The summer of 2022 was our first up-close-and-personal introduction to Covid. My husband woke up with a nose that wouldn’t stop running and tested positive.  We panicked a bit; we threw on our N-95 masks, and the strike of fear in our hearts was undeniable. I was shocked that instantly, I was afraid to be in the same room with the man I’d been married to for over 40 years.  The terror associated with this virus had become so instilled in me over the previous two years that anyone infected with Covid was immediately considered to be an existential threat.  I was afraid to breathe the same air as my loving husband.   Some people have evacuation plans in the case of an earthquake or a tornado or a flash flood.  Others have hospital bags packed for when a woman’s water breaks and the first labor pains begin.  Since 2020, my husband and I have had a set plan should one of us get sick with Covid.   So I flew into action, grabbing my toothbrush and towel from our shared bathroom, my pillow, pajamas, a few clothes from my closet, my toiletries and my cell-phone charger, and set up camp for myself in our spare room.   Two hours later I headed to the pharmacy around the corner to pick up my husband’s prescription for Paxlovid, and he started the regimen immediately.   As we settled into this new normal and started to feel relatively safe, the novelty of it got a bit cute.  I served him the first night’s dinner on a tray which I set on the floor outside the door to our bedroom where he was in seclusion.  I knocked loudly on the door.   “Room service!” I announced with a giggle, trying to make light of the situation.   An hour later, the tray was back outside the door, all food consumed, a crisp $20 bill tucked under the fork, and a note that asked, “What time do you get off work?”   The next night included another $20 bill and this time the note asked me to come back with a French maid’s uniform on, and nothing underneath.    Damn, that Paxlovid works.   Problem was, I didn’t own a French maid’s uniform.   We texted back and forth all day long, for days.  We FaceTimed a visit before bedtime, 20 feet and two closed doors apart. By Day 4, we opened our separate bedroom doors with N-95 masks on, standing unnaturally and awkwardly distanced, looking at each other like strangers to say, “I love you. Good night.”   By Day 6, my husband finally tested negative and we cautiously resumed eating dinner together and holding hands for a walk in Central Park.  We decided to keep our separate living quarters for a few more days, just in case.   It happened on Day 8: Paxlovid rebound. We had to start his quarantine all over.  This time it wasn’t cute anymore.  I swallowed the lump in my throat as I returned to preparing his meals on trays day after day again.  The cash tips and light jokes on scraps of paper that had awaited me before the rebound no longer came.   That was three years ago. My husband and I have each had a second episode of Covid.  The terror we used to feel doesn’t rise above a low roar now. There is still the very real threat of a life-threatening outcome for my husband with Covid, but in general and with Paxlovid, contracting Covid has become more of a drudgery, something to endure.   This week was my turn to go back into seclusion.  This week my husband has been delivering the trays of meals to my closed door. Our quarantine plan has worked for us, for we’ve never contracted Covid from the other.   As soon as I saw that second pink line come up unmistakably positive, I was immediately aware of how differently we were handling it. There was no panic; instead, our moods were of calm, methodical Plan B thinking, along with understandable disappointment.  This time, I implemented our old Code Red system by walking purposefully into our bedroom---grabbed my pillow and toothbrush and other necessities and settled into this oddly familiar spare room existence again for another week or so of self-quarantine.   The upside: My room of isolation is where my computer is and now, I have endless hours to write. The downside: boredom, loneliness, and cabin fever.  This too shall pass.   Since that first attack of Covid three years ago in this home, however, one problem remains: I still don’t own a French maid’s uniform.     Born and raised in Portland, OR, Carol danced with the Portland Ballet Company for six years. After moving to New York City in 1979 and marrying a musician a few years later, she built a flourishing career as a personal trainer. Her business has spanned four decades and continues to this day, now specializing as a senior citizen fitness consultant. Two children and three grandchildren later, she is a published memoir essayist: “25 Miles to Go Now” Feminine Collection , 2018; “Warm Bread,” The Cooks Cook, 2023. Her first novel is nearing completion.

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area A wonderful quality about serving vegetables is their diverse ability to be stuffed. Many food cultures use a wide variety of such veggies. Commonly stuffed vegetables include eggplant, zucchini, winter squashes, tomatoes, peppers and even artichokes. Mushrooms are also very popular: the smaller mushrooms are used for appetizers and larger portobellos as entrées.   Food rolled up in greens such as grape leaves or cabbage has many options. Besides meat, they can be filled with grains, such as rice, or diced cook vegetables, held together with cheese or eggs.   Stuffed cabbage has a long history. There are records that show it was enjoyed by Jews over 2,000 years ago. Today, it still shows up in delis and in kitchens around the world.  Many countries in Eastern Europe, the Balkans, and the Near East claim stuffed cabbage as their own. It’s a hearty and economical dish particularly enjoyed in colder weather.   The principal idea of stuffed cabbage is the same - laying blanched cabbage leaves out on your work surface, placing the filling along one edge, and rolling it up tight. Usually, it is cooked in a sauce and or placed in a casserole and baked.   Each country has a variation of the same theme. Ground meat (beef, pork, lamb, or poultry) is the base, often mixed with rice, onions, and their traditional herbs and spices. The Europeans and Balkans generally use the garden variety head of green cabbage. As you venture east, the cabbage of choice is Napa or Chinese. When using these cabbages, often two leaves are used overlapping to create one roll.   On a recent trip to Hungary in June, I was on the hunt for a traditional meal of stuffed cabbage. I have several friends of Hungarian descent, and they claim that their country makes the best. I wanted to see for myself. But, alas, it was a more difficult task than I thought.   On our first day in Budapest, my husband Bob and I headed to the famous Central Market Hall, also called The Great Market Hall. It was pretty great! Not only was it a huge, beautiful example of neo-Gothic design, it had a variety of food purveyors on the main floor. Paprika and sausages were not in short supply. Upstairs was a jam-packed corridor of prepared foods to take away or eat teetering your plate on a narrow ledge or your lap if you were lucky enough to cop a seat. (clockwise from top left): The Neo-Gothic Central Market Hall; the main hall of the Central Market, flanked by food stalls; there was no shortage of sausages; an abundance of paprika, We decided to check out the entire hallway before we made a selection. The first booth had good-looking goulash, grilled sausages, and yes, stuffed cabbage. I took a mental note of it all. After perusing all that was available, we returned to the first booth. I was really disappointed. The stuffed cabbage was all gone!   On our last night in Budapest, we went to a charming traditional Hungarian restaurant. I would surely get great stuffed cabbage here. But no, they didn’t make it on Tuesdays, and we were there on a Monday! It was not meant to be.   After being shut out of the one entrée that I couldn’t get on my trip, I decided to make my own, dammit! I will tell you, stuffed cabbage is a labor of love.     Stuffed Cabbage   Yield:  8-10 servings (16-18 rolls)    There are four main steps before you actually cook it: the sauce, the filling, preparing the cabbage, and assembly.  Separating the cabbage leaves is my least favorite task. If you want to have even sizes rolls, you may need to purchase two heads to ensure only the largest leaves are available to use. If you choose to make a double batch, it might be helpful to enlist a friend or family member to pitch in on the stuffing and rolling. That part is actually fun.   My recipe is a traditional one from Eastern Europe. I would offer up my mom’s recipe, except she used sour salt, which is not easy to come by. Instead, to create the sweet/sour taste, I mix brown sugar and vinegar into the sauce. I also use a combination of ground beef and turkey to cut down on the fat. Feel free to do only one of the meats or a combination. The results will be great regardless.   NOTE: The whole recipe can be assembled the day before your dinner. Do the baking part the day that you are serving. Take the dish out of the fridge a couple of hours before reheating. The baking time may take as long as 45 minutes. 1 lg. cabbage (maybe 2)   Sauce: 2 Tbsp. vegetable oil 2 lg. onions, small dice 1 celery stalk, small dice 1/2 red pepper, small dice 3 Tbsp. minced garlic 1 28 oz. can tomatoes in juice, coarsely chopped 1 8 oz. can tomato sauce 1 c. dry white wine 1/2 c. brown sugar, packed juice of 1 lemon 1/4 c. red wine vinegar   Filling: 2 lb. ground beef (or turkey, pork, veal, lamb or any combination) 1/4 c. grated onion 3 Tbsp. minced garlic 1 8 oz. russet potato, peeled and grated 1/4 c. raw rice 2 lg. eggs 2 tsp. salt fresh ground black pepper and nutmeg   Prepare cabbage: Remove the core from the bottom of the cabbage. Submerge the whole cabbage for a few minutes In a large pot of boiling salt water.  Peel away the leaves. Any leaves that are not pliable, return to the boiling water until just tender. Drain upside down.  Reserve.   Make sauce: In a large ovenproof pot, heat the oil over moderate.  Add the onions, celery, pepper, and garlic. Sauté until softened.  Add the remaining ingredients. Bring to a boil; turn down to a simmer for 30 minutes. Season with salt and fresh ground black pepper.   Make filling: In a large bowl, combine all of the ingredients.    Assembly: Lay the cabbage leaves on your work surface, insides up.  Remove any large veins from the core.  Place 1/2 cup oval of filling in the bottom of each leaf.  Roll the leaf over once.  Fold in the outer edges.  Roll up egg roll style.   Place the rolls in the simmering sauce, seam-side down.  Cover and cook for 1 hour.  Bake in a 350° oven for 20-30 minutes. Using a large sharp knife, remove the core from the cabbage. Carefully peel the blanched leaves away from the cabbage head. Soften the vegetables in the oil. When adding the whole canned tomatoes, squeeze them in your hand to help break them up. Mix together all of the ingredients for the meat filling. Lay the cabbage leaves, inside up, on your work surface. Place a 1/2  cup portion in the bottom edge of each leaf. Bring the bottom of the leaf over the meat, then fold in the sides. Roll up tightly like an eggroll. Place the rolls in the simmering sauce. 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 Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich. I have known Gideon Levinson since he was born. My husband Jeffrey and I are close with his family and live across the street from them. For 30 years I have watched Gideon mature into a determined, intelligent, confident, compassionate and adventurous young man. I was at Gideon’s bris (the Jewish ceremony of circumcision), bar mitzvah, and every play he performed in from high school to the University of Michigan. And on the evening of Sunday, August 31, I watched as Gideon walked down the aisle to marry the love of his life, Jacob Rosenblum. Jacob and Gideon met in Chicago when Gideon began medical school at Loyola University. They connected through a dating app and their relationship immediately began. It was a natural progression of meeting for dinners, having long conversations, and taking in the sights around Chicago. While Gideon attended classes, Jacob, who graduated with a degree in Statistics and Social Policy from Northwestern, was working at Crown Family Philanthropies and involved in charitable giving. Additionally, Jacob taught high school students about this cause. It was called Young Community Change Makers. He then began a master’s program in Urban Planning and graduated from the University of Illinois. It didn’t take long for Gideon and Jacob to realize they were meant to be together. Two homes became one and their lives were forever intertwined.. After a year and a half of a committed relationship, Gideon decided it was time to pop the question. Unbeknownst to Jacob, Gideon secretly put plans into motion. Family came in from Michigan and Maryland, a party room was secured in downtown Chicago, food was catered by Chipotle (Jacob’s favorite), and engagement rings were waiting. When Jacob walked through the door, he was blown away seeing family and friends ready to participate in this special moment. Then  a  move to Colorado was made for Gideon’s residency in anesthesiology, and a fellowship program was lined up for September 2026 in pediatric anesthesiology — his passion.  Jacob became the director of Jewish Charitable Giving for the Rose Community Foundation in Denver. Two months before the wedding, a shower was thrown for the perspective grooms. I was one of nine women who planned the event. The excitement in the air was palpable as guests ate lunch and watched as Gideon and Jacob opened their gifts. They were thrilled with the beautiful presents that were selected from their registry. Gideon ‘s parents, Marty and Elise, gave the couple lovely Judaica pieces– a menorah, Shabbos candle sticks and a honey dish. When Jacob looked at these gifts he exclaimed, “Baruch Hashem (Hebrew for Thank God), we can use this on Rosh Hashana.” Jacob‘s parents, Robin and Jay, surprised them with a generous gift card for massages — a true stress reliever. And then the sweetest gift was sent by Jacob’s 90-year-old grandmother, Joy, who couldn’t attend the shower or wedding due to health issues. She gave Gideon and Jacob a substantial check — funds to be used for adoption or IVF. Gideon, for years, dreamed about having a beautiful wedding: “I just wanted my own version of a fairytale, romantic, thoughtful, bright, and with a partner for life.”  He took the lead with the venue, floral arrangements, invitations, tablescapes, clothing, and music. The wedding was planned with infinite care and decisions included both sets of parents. Every detail was examined with a meticulous eye. The wedding was held at the Cambria Hotel in the heart of downtown Detroit. This art deco hotel is stunning and combines history with modern features. The original structure was built by architect Albert Kahn in the 1930’s and housed the WWJ 950 AM radio station. Two years ago, it was transformed into a luxury party venue. When the wedding weekend finally arrived, the grooms were more than ready. This wasn’t a one-day affair: it spanned four. Drinks and conversation on Friday night, a welcoming dinner on Saturday, the wedding on Sunday, and brunch capped off the festivities Monday morning. The air was electric as Gideon and Jacob, along with many friends and family members (34 in total), joyfully walked down the aisle. While exchanging vows, Gideon and Jacob shared stories about their inevitable journey to the chuppah (Hebrew for wedding canopy) Jacob’s rabbi even flew in from Maryland to officiate. After the ceremony guests gathered to congratulate the happy couple. Appetizers and cocktails were served as people meandered around the roof top of the hotel. Shortly after, guests walked to the garden to find their seating for the reception. To everyone’s delight, there was a freestanding wall with brightly colored envelopes decorating the surface. Names and table numbers were placed on the exterior of each envelope and inside a heartfelt letter written to each guest –all 240 of them. Jeffrey and I teared up as we read our notes. Looking around, most people had the same reactions. Writing these letters was truly an act of love. The wedding was a continual celebration of the undeniable bond that Gideon and Jacob have created. Gideon serenaded Jacob from the balcony of the ballroom, accompanied by close friends while guests chimed in. Family members delivered speeches, and the atmosphere was nothing short of happiness on steroids. Gideon’s dream of a fabulous wedding celebration certainly came to fruition. And his hope for a partner to love unconditionally was found in Jacob. Here’s to a long life filled with health and abundant happiness. L’chaim! 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.

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area Happily back in my own kitchen on September 17th,, noshing on rugelach Ricky Ricardo from “I Love Lucy” said this best back in the ’50s. There was never a truer statement coming out of my mouth. I have just completed a 15-month journey that I hope you won’t have to experience.   My story is about pain, fear, anxiety, grief, and gratitude. My experience began in June 2024. I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of lymphoma, occupying a lymph gland between my esophagus (where your food travels down to your stomach) and my trachea (windpipe). I was admitted to Stanford Hospital for chemotherapy.  The good news is that the chemo worked immediately and so well that the tumor shrunk. The bad news was that it created a fistula (hole) between my two pipes. In lay terms, if it wasn’t repaired, everything that I ate or drank would go into my lungs and I would surely die.   This situation is often not survivable but thank goodness for the great medics at Stanford. They saved my life by inserting stents (tubular supports) in both my esophagus and trachea. This was basically like a finger in a dam. I was whisked away to the ICU where I was intubated, a tube down my throat to keep me breathing. I wasn’t able to swallow food or drink for 5 weeks. I had a suction in my mouth most of the time. I felt like I was going to drown.   The drowning aspect caused me great anxiety. I grew more anxious by the day. I was so bad off that my husband slept in my hospital room for moral support every night, with occasional relief from my son or my sister. I was also fearful being hooked up so many tubes and needles. Being on so many medications made every day and everything one big blur. I even had hallucinations at one point. I couldn’t separate what was a dream and what was real. A nightmare! To make matters worse, I lost the ability to speak. Nothing came out. My vocal cords were damaged during the ordeal. My kids were worried that they would never hear my voice again. When I was discharged, I had a long road ahead. I could barely utter sounds and I was too weak to sit up. My devoted husband, Bob, sleeping in my hospital room In September, I began a never-ending cycle of going to Stanford every month to have a bronchoscopy (a scope down the trachea to see what was happening). The procedure was done in a surgical suite and I was under sedation. This scenario went on twelve times through the upcoming months. I had a frequent flyer card! Sprinkled in were several endoscopies (scoping the esophagus). When the nurses start to recognize you, it’s not good. “You’re back again?” Now for the real kicker: for the next several months, I coughed incessantly. A violent cough, so much so that I fractured seven ribs.  Talk about pain, whoa!  Eating and drinking became problematic to say the least.  It triggered the cough to the next level. I lost over 30 pounds. It’s a tough way of dieting!   For most of those months, I basically just existed, not really living. I coughed, struggled to eat, didn’t go out or have visitors. I didn’t feel well and I was depressed about what was happening to me. I sat with my grief.   If things weren’t bad enough, in late December I literally almost drowned on dry land. I sprung a leak between the two pipes and the water I drank went into my lungs. My oxygen level was 65%,–it should be 100%. An ambulance took me to the ER. I spent another 10 days in the hospital, where they took out stents and put them back in, trying to see what would work. I also had pneumonia, which was a common ailment for me.   During the first few months of 2025, I went to physical therapy, watched a lot of TV, and basically vegetated. I felt like I lost a whole year of my golden years, time that we don’t get back. I sat with my loss and grief.   I managed to rally in April, May, and June 2025. I began to feel stronger and was able to go out. I started to cook again, even hosting overnight guests. The highlight of this time period was a European cruise as described in The Insider , August 1  issue. I actually felt pretty good, except the eating/drinking still triggered coughing.   Upon my return, I became very sick which began the domino effect of medical events. I had my final bronchoscopy where the surgeon informed me that he was going to insert a feeding tube in my stomach and I wouldn’t be able to eat or drink for 2 1/2 months. Let that sink in. He also informed me that I was going to have to have major surgery to fix the holes permanently.   On August 12, I had reconstructive surgery at Stanford. The surgeon warned me it was a rough recovery. She wasn’t wrong. I was an in-patient for two weeks, most of them filled with pain, anxiety, and fear. Was this going to really work? Was I going to be “normal” again?   Fast forward to today, September 16, when my surgeon told me the surgery was a success and I could start living again. And I’m cancer-free! I actually drank and didn’t cough. My first meal was a nod to my childhood, a comforting bowl of buttered noodles. The real heroes of my story were the doctors and nurses at Stanford. They kept me alive and as comfortable as possible. Also, my husband, Bob, has been my saint. He drove me to all my appointments (an hour to an hour-and-a-half drive), he doled out my medications and fed me through my gastric feeding tube. He never complained or whined. My sisters were my supporting cast. And lastly, my devoted children, who drive five hours up from Los Angeles frequently and called me every day.   For this, I am grateful. My first drink of water after 2 1/2 months My first meal, a comforting childhood favorite, buttered noodles 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 Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Odor in the Court: (top row) Chief Justice John Roberts; Justices Clarence Thomas; Samuel Alito (bottom row) Neil Gorsuch; Brett Kavanaugh; Amy Coney Barrett   At the Nuremberg Trials after World War II, the German judges who had enforced Adolph Hitler’s laws argued that they were merely following the law as set out within the framework of the existing legal system. Of course, that legal system had been constructed by Hitler’s Nazi regime. The ultra-conservative six-member majority on the Supreme Court, comprised of Chief Justice Roberts, along with Justices Alito, Thomas, Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, and Coney Barrett are, in their way, even worse than those Nazi judges because they are active architects and equal partners in the destruction of the U.S. Constitution. They are deliberately and fully collaborating in its replacement by the autocratic Project 2025 regime being constructed by Donald Trump and his cabal. The Scotus Six fully embraced dictatorship by one-man rule the moment they gave Trump constitutional immunity in Trump v. U.S. , making him exempt from accountability for violating laws enacted by Congress.  “The President is the only person who alone composes a branch of government,” Roberts even declared during oral argument in a different case in 2020. Based on the Court’s decisions since then, Roberts must have meant that the president is a law unto himself. The Court has taken to issuing decisions in their so-called shadow docket, in which they ensure that Trump’s violations of the Constitution remain in place. While these ostensibly are interim decisions, effective only while cases wind their way through the appellate process, in reality, they permit Trump’s actions to become fait accompli . These six right-wing justices have accomplished this by choosing to allow Trump’s lawless efforts to eliminate constitutional guarantees to stand pending appeal rather than act to protect those guarantees during that period. They have done so in cases involving birthright citizenship under the Fourteenth Amendment; arbitrary deporting of immigrants to dangerous countries with which they have no ties without the due process required by the Constitution’s Fifth Amendment ; and violation of the Constitution’s posse comitatus  prohibition against using the military within the United States. Furthermore, the Court’s shadow docket decisions have almost all been issued with no stated rationale. Apparently, the Scotus Six have decided that the law is whatever they say it is, no justification or reasoning needed. And never mind what the Constitution says. Most recently, they have shredded the Fourth Amendment’s guarantee against unreasonable search and seizure by the government, including searches without a legal warrant signed by a judge, and arrest without probable cause that the arrested person has committed, is committing, or will commit a crime.  A federal district court in California found that ICE raids in Los Angeles likely violated the Fourth Amendment because ICE was stopping people based solely on their apparent race or ethnicity, whether they spoke Spanish, or English with an accent, the type of location at which they were found (like a car wash, a bus stop, or a Home Depot parking lot), and the type of job they do. The district court concluded that stops based on these four factors alone could not satisfy the Fourth Amendment’s requirement of reasonable suspicion. So, it temporarily barred the Government from continuing its unlawful mass arrests while it considered whether longer-term relief was appropriate. But five of the Scotus Six—without brief, argument or explanation--stayed the district court’s order and determined that the ICE raids could continue unabated. One of them—Justice Kavanaugh—wrote a concurring opinion that, adding insult to injury, was worse than writing nothing. Kavanaugh argued in essence that targeting those who speak Spanish, do a certain kind of work and so on, is no big deal. Disingenuously, he wrote: “Reasonable suspicion means only that immigration officers may briefly stop the individual and inquire about immigration status. If the person is a U.S. citizen or otherwise lawfully in the United States, that individual will be free to go after the brief encounter.” And exactly how are any of us—of any race or ethnicity—supposed to prove we are citizens in that “brief encounter?” Are we now supposed to carry our birth certificates with us at all times? Not that papers matter to ICE since they have been seen grabbing people and spiriting them away without giving any reason, let alone asking for documents. Kavanaugh also wrote: “[I]t is also important to stress the proper role of the Judiciary. The Judiciary does not set immigration policy or decide enforcement priorities.” So, this Justice is arguing that Trump’s illegal policies trump the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution. This piece-by-piece shredding of the foundation of American law by the Scotus Six is no accident. All six right-wing justices have strong connections to the Federalist Society, a network of Republican lawyers aimed at capturing American judgeships for ultra-conservatives. The six have been involved as members, affiliates, speakers, or through participation in Federalist Society events and the judicial nomination process. The Federalist Society, hand in hand with the Heritage Foundation (the right-wing think tank that authored Project 2025)   have been working towards this moment for decades. The creation of an autocracy is what Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025 is all about. And the Federalist Society’s carefully selected right-wing justices were maneuvered onto the Court to accomplish that goal. It appears that they have succeeded.   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 .