Trump’s former consigliere, Michael Cohen, is reported to be writing a tell-all book. Whether he’ll be writing in in a jail cell or at home is still not clear, as his pandemic-related release from prison was suddenly, unceremoniously, and suspiciously rescinded just days after it was announced in late April 2020.  One thing is certain, though: He’s got the goods on Trump and his circle.

This article first appeared on this site in 2018, just after to the FBI raided Trump fixer Michael Cohen’s office, home and hotel room,  where they found and seized a cache of old cell phones—sixteen cell phones, to be precise.  The parody song at the end of this post could be the theme song for his new book.

You have to wonder why Cohen held onto all of the phones. It is possible, after all, to transfer one’s contacts to a new phone. It’s possible, too, to destroy a phone and its memory, if it contains things you don’t want discovered. One could speculate that he kept them for sentimental reasons, or because he thought that someday a Blackberry would be a valuable collectors’ item. Not likely, though. A more plausible explanation would be that Cohen hung onto his old phones because they house, in their micro-memories, some important things that didn’t transfer over to the next generation of mobile phone. And what might those things be? Could they be saved voice mails and “taped” conversations with people Michael Cohen worked with? Cohen is known to record conversations—perhaps to retain them to play back in the future as embarrassing evidence or leverage, perhaps to use them as gossip fodder, or perhaps to play them for the merriment of his friends.

Whatever his reasons, the seized cell phones are now in the hands of the special master appointed to evaluate the attorney-client privilege-ness of what they and other documents contain. Are they the 21^st century equivalent of the incriminating Nixon tapes? We may never know. Suffice it to say, though, that Cohen is probably sweating—as are all the people he may have talked to over 16-phones-worth of conversations.

So, in honor of the 16-phone seizure, I’ve composed a parody of Tennesse Ernie Ford’s, “16 Tons.

Here is the original 1955 hit. My lyrics follow:

Okay, now you’ve got the melody. Here goes

“16 Phones: A Michael Cohen sing-along”

Some people say my ethics are stuck in the mud,

 I never had to worry: I had Trump as my bud.

I said I’d take the bullet if it came down to just us,

But I’m getting run over by Donald Trump’s bus.

You load 16 phones, and what do you get?

A lot of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t harass,

I’m holed up at home tryin’ to save my own ass.

I was born a fixer, and I’m good at the game.

Bully and Sleazeball are my middle names.

The Boss trusted me with the nastiest jobs,

And I’m consigliere to the Trump family mob.

You load 16 phones, and what do you get?

A lot of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t ask for more:

I’ve sold my soul to the Trump-any store.

I was born on Long Island, just a privileged kid,

I’m working for Trump now, and you know what I did.

I paid off some women and threatened the rest,

And now I’ve been raided, and I’m facing arrest.

You save 16 phones, and what do you get?

A lot of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t harass:

I’m holed up at home tryin’ to save my own ass.

Some people say I’ll flip and just tell it all,

Listen, you assholes, I’m not takin’ the fall.

Shut up for a change, and try to be wise,

‘Cuz I’ve got the goods on all of you guys.

You save 16 phones, and what do you get?

A ton of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t harass:

I’m holed up at home, tryin’ to save my own ass.

Parody lyrics, Copyright 2018, Gloria Shur Bilchik

The post 16 phones: Theme song for Michael Cohen’s tell-all book on Trump and Company appeared first on Occasional Planet.

Let’s play “Political gifts I wish I could give this Christmas.” I have compiled a list of things that would give me a measure of satisfaction to present to some of this year’s political headline-makers. Donald Trump has a head start on me, though: He has already delivered–in the form of many of his cabinet nominations–a very traditional Christmas gift: fruitcakes.

Here’s my list, in no particular order:

To Kellyanne Conway: Truth serum

To Hillary Clinton: A do-over

To Paul Ryan: A spine transplant

To Nancy Pelosi: A Democratic majority

To Rachel Maddow: Smug remover

To Barack Obama: 4 more years

To Ben Carson: A padded cell

To Bernie Sanders: California

To Elizabeth Warren: The 2020 Presidential nomination

To Sean Hannity/Joe Scarborough/Bill O’Reilly: A permanent mute button

To Trump’s adult children: An ethics gene

To Rick Perry: Oops, I forgot what I wanted to give him

To CNN: A kick in the ass

To FBI Director James Comey: Oh, gee, I have some stuff I’ve been digging up for him, but I’m not sure about the appropriate timing. Oh, wait, I know–I’ll give it to him at time when it will do maximum damage to his reputation.

To Vladimir Putin: A coup d’etat

To the citizens of Syria: Anyone but Assad

To Donald Trump: A come-uppance [hopefully accompanied by a good-riddance]

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With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer, the author—in 1888—of this famous poem, here is my updated, truncated, post-Trump 2016-election version of “Casey at the Bat.”

“Democracy at the Bat”

The outlook was quite rosy for Democracy that day;

The polls stood almost even, with the election on the way.

And then when Florida died at 10, and Ohio did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, “If Clinton gets Wisconsin or somewhere else Midwest,

The race will shift our way and our country will pass this test.”

But Michigan went down the tubes, and PA did as well,

And the former was a squeaker, while the latter felt like hell.

So upon the stricken multitude, grim melancholy hit,

For there seemed but little chance of Clinton finally making it.

…And as the night wore on and on, and 270 loomed near,

The world looked on in shock and awe and cried and shook with fear.

In living rooms and bedrooms, and in celebration halls,

The crowds fell mute, in disbelief, and ceased their victory calls.

…Oh, somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville: Democracy has struck out.

Here’s the original poem, so you can see which parts I plagiarized and which I parodied. This poem is in the public domain. It was first published–sandwiched between two editorials–on page 4 of the San Francisco Examiner. It went on to become one of Americans most famous–and most recited–folksy poems. In recent years, it’s been recited and recorded by famed sports commentators Frank DeFord and Ernie Harwell, by Garrison Keillor and  by Darth Vader–I mean, James Earl Jones, to name just a few.

Casey at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

 

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—

We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

 

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

 

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

 

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

 

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his

shirt;

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the

air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—

“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

 

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled

roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;

“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his

hand.

 

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;

But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

 

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered

“Fraud!”

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles

strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

 

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

 

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children

shout,

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

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I’m drawing up plans to construct an outrage meter.  Granted, I’ve never seen one nor even heard of one before, but why should that stop me? This is what happens when one polar vortex after another rolls in, dropping temperatures into the single digits or lower. Normally sane, even-keeled individuals (I count myself amongst them, but don’t ask my family), trapped indoors day after day while trying to maintain body temperature, go off the deep end and end up envisioning impossibly complicated endeavors.

My outrage meter is one such project. I imagine it as a freestanding sign on which I project my progressive outrage at a world run amok with social injustice, income inequality, empathy deficit, and unnecessary hunger and violence.  I see it as my own visual bully pulpit. I’ve pledged to myself that no outrage will be spared—be it local, national, or international.

I expect my outrage meter to inspire full-throated pushback here in the historic, upstate New York village in which I live. First, there’s the issue of my deviance from the (mostly) conservative politics of my neighbors. Second, the meter, which will be an unprecedented structure in the historic district in which I reside, will be subject to review for historic appropriateness. (And as those of you who have dealt with historic commissions know, the pace of historic review is certain to threaten the projected completion of my outrage meter before the first thaw.)

Pragmatist that I am, I know I’ll have to design my meter with a deft hand, employing subtlety and even a bit of subterfuge. I expect to forgo a flashy LED display and compromise on the shut-off hour. I expect I’ll be asked to turn off the lighting on the outrage meter no later than 9:00 pm, even though I plan to make an impassioned case that outrage never sleeps. Size will be determined by precise calculations based on the expanse of my home’s façade, as per historic standards. To satisfy the local historic commission I’ll need to submit dimensional drawings showing the changing display of outrages appropriately sized and, I expect, hand-lettered in elegant, serif fonts painted in muted tones of the most costly buttermilk paint. The fonts will be expected, of course, to reference the handful of extant locally produced, historic broadsides (of which era will surely be up for ad nauseam debate).

Besides the manner in which outrages will be displayed, I expect the materials used to construct the backing surfaces to be controversial as well. I predict that my local historic commission will require that I source late-18th or early-19^th century repurposed, local, hand-cut wood lathing matching in dimensions, thickness, and 100-year faded coloration the strips of lathing hiding behind the plastered walls in my house; patina-embellished antique iron hardware for supports; and lighting fixtures deemed historically correct (preferably, I suspect, nothing less than open-flame, whale-oil carriage lamps). Ideally, the outrage meter would be installed on my front lawn with historically appropriate setbacks from the street.

Documenting that my outrage meter meets the commission’s standards for historic precedent might prove challenging—if not impossible. Hopefully, since to my knowledge no one seems to have thought of constructing outrage meters in the 18th or 19th centuries, the commission might show leniency and give me a bye on historic documentation.

I’m a dreamer but I’m also a realist. I expect design and construction to cost me a large chunk of change. Costs will most likely soar when the commission rejects my ad-hoc design and instead requires the hiring of a recognized team of faux-historic, outrage-meter architects.

(Ignoring my pleas for mercy, I predict I’ll be forced to fly in the only architects in the U.S. who specialize in outrage meters. They’ll make their way north from either the Deep South or Texas, two areas of the country where they’ve been able to make a decent living since Obama took office.)

I’ll expect to pay my architectural team royally to draw up schematics, present them, and then revise them, perhaps a few dozen times over, depending on the ensuing uncertainty of how many shifts in debate might unfold over such a delicate and unprecedented request. Seasons will go by as members of the commission disappear for months on end searching dusty archives for historic precedents and debating amongst themselves the appropriateness of size, materials, and font choice.

My meter might be a never-before-seen feature in the landscape of my sleepy village, but outrage itself certainly is not. I may not always share the same outrage with my neighbors, but I know that all of us feel the emotion with the same strength and fervency. I know this because I have attended many a local community meeting where the issues at hand stir up primal emotions not seen since the end of the Pleistocene era.

I predict that some of those same neighbors who may object at first to my outrage meter will end up admiring the audaciousness of the project. They might even be inspired to construct a meter of their own. I can see it now: Outrage meters cropping up on lawns like dandelions in spring. No topic of outrage would ever again find itself neglected nor lacking for public debate. Outdoor wood burners, installations of sewer systems, water pollution, fracking, construction of industrial-waste facilities, pesticide use, military engagement, health care, Social Security benefits, corrupt politicians, unequal taxation, gun regulation—all might, at long last, have their full airing out here in the sun.

The post Blueprint for an “outrage meter” appeared first on Occasional Planet.

Everything is political. Even, it seems, Halloween. Just for evil grins and giggles, here’s a gallery of jack o’ lanterns from this year and previous years, variously carved, scraped, hollowed out, and/or painted to make political statements. The knife/razor/scraper-wielding skills demonstrated in this group are nothing short of amazing. If only the energy put into pumpkin carving and costume-making reflected an equal zeal for getting informed about issues–and voting–we might live in a less scary country.

[cincopa AcGATU7eKwBn]

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