A Quest for a Nobel Peace Prize Turns Ignoble

Donald Trump traveled to Alaska to secure a golden platform for his bid to receive a Nobel Peace Prize. Instead, after his meeting with Vladimir Putin intended to achieve a cease-fire between Ukraine and Russia, he appears to be a shoe-in for the Ignoble Award for reincarnating Neville Chamberlain’s capitulation to Hitler over the future of Czechoslovakia. 

The Russian spymaster played him. He shifted Trump’s massive body into submission, getting him to back off his repeated threats of extreme sanctions if Russia did not agree to a cease-fire. No doubt, Putin prepared for meeting Trump, right down to the nickname Trump has earned as a TACO (Trump always chickens out). 

Trump told Sean Hannity after the summit, “In the sense we got along great, and it’s good when two big powers get along, especially when they’re nuclear powers. We’re No. 1 and they’re No. 2 in the world.”

Trump failed to use his position of superiority to sell Putin on a cease-fire. Instead, I’m not sure Putin had to use all his skills as a spymaster to turn Trump into mush.

He fed Trump’s ego. The “great negotiator” capitulated. Putin fed Trump all of his embittered talking points about being robbed in the 2020 election. That it was rigged. He burnished Trump’s abhorrence of mail-in ballots.

As he did in previous summits, Trump swallowed Putin’s words as gospel, not those of his own first-term attorney general and countless election, cybersecurity and judicial officials in the months and years after 2020. 

Trump is so obsessed with securing “peace in our time” that he has forgotten who started the war in Ukraine, who  seized Crimea from Ukraine, who invaded Georgia under false genocide propaganda. 

Trump plays the bully when dealing with almost every world leader, corporate titan, university head. But with Putin he is an admiring sycophant.

Come Monday, Trump will turn into a bully once more as he meets with Ukraine’s president Volodymyr Zelensky who he has now tasked with conceding land to Russia as part of an overall peace plan. He has the power to withhold armaments, intelligence, medical supplies if Zelensky does not comply with his demands, that is, Putin’s demands. 

I wonder what Zelensky will wear to his meeting with Trump. In a previous White House visit, Zelensky wore stylish black battle fatigues as a sign of support for his armed forces. Trump and his minions disparaged him for disrespecting the Oval Office. 

Trump is a fan of Winston Churchill. I wonder what Trump would have said about Churchill wearing military attire—a so-called “siren suit”—to his meeting with President Franklin D. Roosevelt? 

But then, Trump is not a student of history. Anything that does not align with his “reality” is “history,” as in no longer important or does not exist, as Zelensky and Ukraine, indeed, the rest of the world, are about to find out.

***No A.I. was used in the writing and editing of this post. The only intelligence employed was my own.***  

A Visit from an Unexpected Intruder

Have you ever looked a raccoon in the eye? Up close, with no barrier, no mesh between you? 

Ascloseasthissentenceoftype?

No? Well, I have, and let me tell  you—it was a scary experience. 

As Gilda and I were watching television Monday night, we were disturbed by the sound of our garage door opening. Gilda’s iPhone has an app that pings every time the door opens or closes.  

We feared a home invasion. Did we call the police? Of course not. We weren’t thinking. 

I slipped into my shoes, walked to our mudroom adjacent to the garage and heard clanking noises coming from the other side of the door. Quickly I opened the door a crack. Even more quickly I shut it as I realized a small raccoon was staring back at me from a storage ledge six feet off the ground. 

As I composed myself in the mudroom the raccoon knocked down several more cans of bug spray. 

A standoff began. We grabbed two small flashlights and went outside to the driveway. To get to the ledge the raccoon must have climbed up some lattice work stored along the back wall closest to the mudroom door, then touched the garage door opener as it made its way to the storage ledge. 

We shined our flashlights on the ledge. Two eyes were illuminated. We surmised the raccoon was a youngster, probably as frightened and distraught of his predicament as we were. He, or she, was not moving. 

We further reasoned that the raccoon had surreptitiously entered the garage about five hours earlier when Gilda  returned from exercising. We figured the only option was to leave the garage door open throughout the night while locking the access door to the mudroom and hope the raccoon fled. 

Our stratagem worked. But we did not know that until a wildlife control specialist came and checked out the garage. We engaged his services for a week—two traps, one outside near Gilda’s vegetable garden where some animal(s) had foraged on her tomatoes, one inside the garage just in case there was a secret hole in the wall that provided access. 

Thursday morning a poppa raccoon awaited his discovery in the cage near the vegetable garden and eventual relocation to Putnam County. 

The garage trap was moved to the yard. Both traps were baited with a raccoon’s delight—tuna fish (who knew?). No new guests Friday morning.

So far this experience has been just another joy of home ownership. But really, how stupid was I to open the door to what could have been a two-legged predator? I didn’t even have a bat or knife in hand to attack or defend myself. 

I would have known better had I recalled what transpired some 45 years ago in our first house, a small Tudor with a slate roof. 

After an especially deep snow fall, we were getting ready for bed when rumbling started, lasting about six seconds. I thought someone had rolled up the garage door and was breaking into our home.

I yelled to Gilda to call the police as I threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers, grabbed a baseball bat from the closet and raced outdoors to confront the intruder. 

Outside I saw the garage door had not been opened. I spotted a pile of snow on an otherwise smooth blanket of snow. I looked to the roof and realized the snow had rumbled down the slate. I felt foolish.

But not as concerned as Gilda felt. The police had cautioned her I should not be outside lest they suspect I was the suspected burglar, armed as I was, with a bat. The patrol car arrived just as Gilda opened the front door and screamed for me to get inside.

Not so fast. After due process, the police let me go with an admonition never again to play the brave fool. 

I remembered that sound advice too late for its appropriate implementation Monday night.  

In Pursuit of a Nobel Prize Trump Courts Putin

In pursuit of a Nobel Peace Prize, Donald Trump will travel to Anchorage, Alaska, Friday to meet with Vlad the Warrior. 

If Trump can wangle at least a cease-fire agreement from Putin, get ready for non-stop boosterism for a Trump Nobel Peace Prize. Will Trump dangle the possibility of Putin sharing the accolade with him as a means of obtaining Vlad’s agreement to stop sending explosive drones and missiles into Ukraine’s population centers? 

Does Putin care about earning a Nobel?

Democracies are hoping Trump firmly asserts to Putin the inviability of borders, that Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022, regardless of pretext, cannot stand, that Russia must withdraw to pre-war lines. And that the United States and its allies will initiate severe sanctions on Russia and its trading partners if Russia does not comply. 

Sitting with Trump as he recites his demands Putin no doubt will smile, at least inwardly, from being lectured by a man who has bullied his allies about taking Greenland by force if not sold to America, who has issued crippling tariffs on his two largest trading partners in hopes Canada will become the 51st state and Mexico will allow U.S. troops to operate freely within its territory, and has advocated for a forced evacuation of Palestinians from Gaza so the seaside land can be turned into a resort, no doubt sited with Trump-branded hotels. 

Ah, the hypocrisy of it all. The chutzpah. The delicious irony that it is Putin who has it in HIS power to reward his adversary with a path to a Nobel, not the other way around. 

As in the Pulitzer Prize musical, “Hamilton,” don’t you wish you were in the room where it happens? Will it just be Trump and Putin and their translators, sans any advisors? Will they, can they, be trusted to tell the truth, complete with details, of their conversation, of their agreement(s)? 

When they met in Finland in 2018, they each constructed their own versions. In Helsinki, Putin gave Trump a soccer ball. With the World Cup scheduled to be played in America next year, Putin might be tempted to repeat the gift. Trump’s gift to Putin, democracies are hoping, will not be selling out Ukraine. 

This time, for better or worse, we will know the outcome of the summit by the sound of quiet on the front or the pounding of bombs shattering buildings and bodies.  

Forever Changed—The Peace of Park Avenue

For 32 years, from March 1977 to July 2009, twice a day on my way to and from work and Grand Central Terminal, I walked past 345 Park Avenue, scene of the horrific killings of four innocents Monday evening. 

The entrance to the 44-story skyscraper is set back. A geometric design is laid in the stone esplanade leading to the front doors. Twin flagpoles stand in a circle from which a banner sometimes hung announcing a noon-time concert. 

During those 32 years working at 425 Park Avenue, the daily promenades were a time and place of meditation for me. Unbothered by phone calls (this was predominantly pre-iPhones) or interruptions by staff or superiors, I would enjoy being lost in thought, thinking of articles to assign, marketing ideas or new conferences to organize. 

Walking on the east side of Park Avenue during rush hour was nothing like the experience on Lexington or Madison Avenues, each one block, respectively, to the east and west. Park Avenue had few ground level stores, no bus routes, no subway station accesses. Less hustle and bustle. Almost everyone was a white collar employee in an office of bankers, lawyers or corporations paying top dollar rents for a Park Avenue address. Not just any Park Avenue address. Park Avenue above Grand Central Terminal was and still is much classier that the avenue below 42nd Street.  

Park Avenue also has two iconic edifices—the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, two blocks south of 345 Park, and, between the Waldorf and the scene of the carnage, Saint Bartholomew’s Church. 

Park Avenue offered the opportunity to star gaze. I spotted Jackie Onassis twice getting into taxicabs. I shook hands with the playwright Neil Simon. Steve Allen and his wife Jayne Meadows passed before me. 

The European-style boulevard lent itself to blocks-long art displays. Sculptures from Botero and Keith Haring as well as whimsically painted horses were among the artwork that inhabited the avenue’s center median. 

Nothing, nothing made Park Avenue feel grimy. The Park Avenue I walked was distinct from the rest of New York. I didn’t have to crisscross the city to get to or from my suburban commuter train. Nor did I have to ride a cramped bus or step underground to the crowded subway.

Just 12 minutes of fast-paced walking. No panhandlers. No discourteous crowds. An island of decency amid the bustling Manhattan island. Forever changed after Monday’s tragedy. 

***No A.I. was used in the writing and editing of this post. The only intelligence employed was my own.*** 

Wondrous Memories of the Family Bed

 If you avoided reading in Thursday’s New York Times print edition all the “TrumpStein” stories, the Trumpian bombast stories and the assorted mayhem stories from around our country and world, you might have found the lead article in the international section that either warmed your heart or repulsed you

(https://www.nytimes.com/2025/07/22/world/asia/bed-sharing-parents-children-sleep-asia.html?smid=url-share).

Count me among the former. For, as a former participant in the family bed adventure chronicled in the article, I can personally vouch for the concept’s short and long term benefits. 

My involvement in the family bed experience began a little more than 46 years ago with the birth of our first child, Dan, who went by the name Danny back then. 

Danny suffered from severe colic. He was allergic to all dairy products. Rice, as well. Fortunately, mother’s milk sustained him. Gilda became a devotee of La Leche League, the breastfeeding experts. 

Danny started out in a crib in his own room. Each time he woke during the night—basically every two hours—I would toddle off to his room to bring him back to place his mouth at Gilda’s breast. At the conclusion of his meal back he went to his crib. 

We were getting pretty sleep deprived after a few weeks. When I wound up so disoriented that I positioned his tush rather than his lips at Gilda’s breast one middle of the night we agreed something had to be done. 

We placed a high rise bed in the space between our queen size bed and an exterior wall, effectively making a super king size bed. 

We had no fear of rolling over on him. He wasn’t crawling yet. The wall prevented him from dropping off the side of the bed. 

Weeks turned into months turned into years with Danny enjoying his proximity to us, not disturbing our slumber or romantic times, and he was not negatively affected by the television that occasionally played in the background at night. Indeed, when he was around two and able to enjoy Cheerios, on weekends we would often prop him up on his mattress, place a bowl of cereal before him and turn on Sesame Street, Mister Rogers and other PBS kinder-fare while we slept in for another hour or two. 

After Ellie was born when he was three, Danny resumed sleeping in his own room while she, who also had severe colic, enjoyed the comfort and security of the family bed experience. So much so that when it was her time to leave the haven of our bedroom for the next several years we would often find Ellie sleeping in Danny’s room, on his bed or, usually, on the floor. 

***No A.I. was used in the writing and editing of this post. The only intelligence employed was my own.*** 

"D" Stands for Everything Trump Is

Donald Trump has claimed to possess the best vocabulary, but his actions appear to be stuck on attributes that begin with the letter “D,” the opening consonant of his ancestral family name back in Bavaria, Germany—Drumpf.* 

Trump is a sucker for alliteration, as in his recently passed and signed “big, beautiful bill.” His political, economic and criminal life can be best described in words that begin with the letter “D,” so here are examples that depict his D.E.I.—his Demeanor,  Executive behavior, and Impact on America and the world:

TRUMP’S DEMEANOR

Defiant. Disastrous. Divisive.

Draconian. Dangerous. Dastardly.

Daffy. Daft. Dark.

Depraved. Debased. Deceitful.

Deplorable. Demanding. Dumb.

Despicable. Demonic. Demagogic.

Derogatory. Disrespectful. Despotic.

Devious. Diabolical. Dictatorial. 

Diffusive. Discursive. Destructive.

TRUMP’S EXECUTIVE BEHAVIOR PATTERNS

Deflect. Deny. Denigrate. 

Decry. Delay. Destroy. 

Denounce. Demean. Degrade. 

Discredit. Dissolve. Disrupt. 

Deplore. Defy. Deride.

Defame. Disparage. Discriminate. 

Delude. Deprive. Disdain. 

Dispute. Distort. Distract. 

TRUMP’S IMPACT

Discord. Distress. Division.

Damnation. Defection. Despair. 

Doubt. Drama. Dread.

Damage. Dishonesty. Disorder.

* According to Wikipedia, “Drumpf (alternately Drumpft), also spelled as Trumpf, is a German surname that dates back to the 16th century. It is most commonly known as the likely predecessor to the family name of Donald Trump” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trump_family).

Welcome to Third-World America

Welcome to third-world America, where:

The prospect of free and fair elections becomes more tenuous; 

The gap between the rich and the poor gets bigger; 

Tax rates of the rich go down, while benefits of the working class and poor, including health care, keep shrinking;

The ruling family’s business keeps growing with visible links to their political posts;

Pseudo science trumps fact-based science; 

Scientific knowledge is subsumed to the will of the executive; 

Vaccines to prevent deadly diseases are not promoted, they’re even critiqued as possible transmitters of illness;

Armed military troops patrol cities though no riots are occurring;

Police brutality, especially against minorities, rises;

Educational standards are lessened;

Environmental protections are watered down; pollution causing fossil fuel industries are encouraged with fewer emissions controls; renewable energy programs are discouraged; 

Free press laws are under assault; 

Executive action supersedes legislative action and cooperation;

Unqualified personnel are placed on judiciary and governmental panels;

Judicial rubber stamps validate questionably legal executive actions; 

Unswerving loyalty to the executive is considered more important than truth-telling; 

Military and sport spectacles are promulgated by the executive as balms for the masses;

“Separate and not equal” is acceptable government practice; 

LGBTQ rights are trampled.