What started as a good natured bit of wrassling ended up getting Secretary of War Pete Hegsdeath in some trouble. Sporting a brand new pair of silver plated shock gloves and accompanied by an entourage of supporters, including champion wrestler Hans the Avenger and pop star musician Kid Rock, the Secretary was inspecting an Army training camp in North Carolina on Wednesday. He observed an overweight soldier with slanty eyes and a large belly, which triggered testosteronal fit of indignation. Surrounding the soldier with his entourage, Hegsdeath barked, “Who is this sorry excuse for a warrior? What’s the matter with you, boy? Eating too much corn on the reservation? Or is that big gut from overdosing on egg rolls? Now get down and give me fifty push-ups or I’ll send you back to India, or wherever you came from!”

The soldier, who was Japanese American and a former Sumo wrestler, refused to obey the order from the Ethos Warrior. That was when WWE champ Hans the Avenger stepped in as a would-be enforcer. The Sumo wrestler, in a split second, slammed Hans to the ground and sat on his face. Fleeing from the violence, Kid Rock’s hat/hairpiece fell off his head, which Hegsdeath then tripped over. The War Secretary suffered a scraped elbow and was airlifted to Walter Reed Military Hospital for emergency cosmetic surgery. When questioned by the press while being taken into custody by the MP, the Japanese American soldier offered three words: “Chicken Legged Pansy.”

Related news: Not to be outdone by Hegsdeath’s silver shock gloves, President Trump received a 14 carat gold pair (dubbed Trump Love Gloves) as a gift from Kim Yong Un of North Korea. Trump says he doesn’t wear them everyday, but “Natalie likes the way they look on me. She said it reminds her of Michael Jackson in ‘Billy Jean.’ I’m not a big fan of Jackson, but Natalie, you know, she is very excitable, and I like that.”

Finally, President Trump has claimed victory in the war with Iran. He added that if anyone says otherwise, then, you know, the war was rigged.

When asked about the emergency bunker that already exists 60 feet beneath Whitehouse, and why he needs to build a new one under the ballroom, President Trump responded:

“The old one isn’t up to my standards. When I inspected it, It made me feel closed in, and I don’t like that feeling. And from what I understand, Barack Kha-meany Obama designed it. It has a Muslim air about it. Now, the one I’m building will be the world’s greatest bunker, greater than Adolf’s and Ceasar’s combined — gold doors, my famous signature etched in gold into the walls, and a McDonald’s restaurant with an arch made of real gold. And you know, I’ll have everything I need down there, even a putt-putt to practice on. If I ever need to go there, I’ll look at it like a paid vacation.”

In general, I try to avoid thinking about the past. Personally, there is always the danger of a dark page popping even as I’m trying to hone in on an otherwise pleasant chapter. Or a reminder of a failed endeavor, or the dreams that never came true. Moreover, there isn’t much point in trying to square what happened back then with what is going on now.

However, after reading an article in the OBSERVER about the “economics of aging” in Chautauqua County, I feel obliged to engage in some nostalgia — to jump into Mr. Peabody’s wayback machine to see how things have evolved here in Concord Grape Country, USA over a few generations of economic transitions.

The earth around here loves fruits, and has always been especially rife with black raspberries and wild grapes. While there would never be a market for black raspberries (kind of homely, hairy, thorny, not very tasty), grapes have ruled the local agriculture on and off for a hundred years.

It was harvest time, sixty years ago, in the vineyard high on the hill above Grace Salhoff’s farmhouse on Stockton Road. Clouds in various shapes and shades of grey swept across the October sky as we shivered in the thin, early morning air. Soon we would begin the slow walk down the leafy rows with our stained brown gloves and snippers, filling wooden crates with plump, sticky purple bunches.

Most memorable about those days was the arrival of migrant workers from Mexico and other countries south of the border. They were typically small in stature, with dark complexions, strangely expressive voices and speedy hands. To me, they were a mystery. To farmers, they were of the essence. While the weather, the market, and local labor were unpredictable, the traveling families of Hispanic workers were generally highly efficient and reliable.

Over the next two generations, however, there was a steady decline in the grape business. The demand tapered off, and more and more vineyards were abandoned. The colorful migrations of Mexicans also diminished as farmers struggled to avoid bankruptcy. To cut costs, farmers replaced human pickers with giant machines that looked like monster-insects from a sci-fi movie. It seemed that what had been a prized cash crop of Western New York was in big trouble.

Yet things would begin to change again a decade into the 21st century. The demand for grapes increased as wineries became “vogue.” Big money was invested, and megafarms flourished across the land north of the Chautauqua Ridge/watershed to Lake Erie. The tourist industry took interest, and a kind of wine touring culture emerged, including music and arts. For the past fifteen years, it seems there has been a kind of grape renaissance.

But now it’s in grave danger. The giant juice and beverage company Refresco has ditched the deal, canceling huge contracts with growers all across the region. The future of local wineries seems uncertain.

Northern Chautauqua county is at the economic crossroads again. While there is some economic hope for the future with a Wells-Ferrero expansion, along with a proposal for a nuclear site development, it seems we’re lapsing into the familiar state of borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. Which brings me to the point: According to Office for the Aging Service Director Dana Corwin, Chautauqua County is the oldest county in the Universe! (Bacon, Observer, 8/15/26). I mean, we are ancient, like the land of dinosaurs! And most of our senior citizens (including this writer) live in their own homes, at least for a while longer before some big “uh oh” moment.

So this means a lot of things. The first that comes to my mind is that, while the grape bizz may be dead on the vine, we coots, geezers, fogies, grumpy greybeards, blue tops, silver tops, yellow tops and bingo-wingers are down for business! We can’t take it with us, so might as well spend what we got, or at least keep it here rather than send it to our fair-weather children who split to Florida or Arizona (It was too cold and boring here, so they went to where the action is — wildfires, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes, chronic traffic constipation…).

Let’s support the business of aging. Invest in our local nurses, doctors and caregivers of all sorts — therapists, radiologists, masseuses, blue hair dressers, bingo callers, wheelchair technicians, musicians, thespians, painters, bus drivers, morticians and funeral home directors. Bring in the construction crews and build more assisted living homes. Let’s fast track that new fancy Kaleida hospital. Add a stairway to heaven even! Keep the money flowing to those who help those in need! Take it from me, the Grape Sage!

“It was vandalism. Someone, a witness, saw a scuba diver with a chainsaw the night before it lost all that water. He must have made a big slash across the bottom, and the water drained into the sewage system.”

When asked about the future of the lake: “You know, Lake Mead is overrated. It’s not really all that scenic. It’s too steep and rocky, and no beaches for sun bathers. I would never build anything there. It would be too costly, and, frankly, no one would pay to stay there.”

When pressed further about the effects of climate change and wasting of natural resources on capitalist projects like surf and water ski lakes in the desert, he bristled, then pointed his finger at the journalist, who was a rather tall and slender woman. “Fake News! Why don’t you go back to Africa, Giraffe-neck, and take all your environmental jihadists friends with you!”

Meanwhile, Pete Hegsdeath offers some keen insight into the morale problems on the US Navy ships: “Men who don’t feel like men don’t act like men. Testosterone injection will be made available to all soldiers who need to grow bigger balls.”

A quota system designed to provide incentive for Trump employees will be implemented across various government agencies. Todd Blanche is looking for some feisty lawyers who must simultaneously juggle at least 25 longshot investigations into non-patriots. They must be adept at manufacturing alternative facts and mind boggling evidence. Blanche is offering a variety of bonuses for any case that is actually tried by a real judge, including trips to exotic islands owned by billionaires.

President Trump is advertising on his Trooth Social a new product he calls the “Love Glove.” It’s a modified version of the Stun Glove being used by highly trained ICE agent specialists (whom Trump has dubbed ICE CREAM, for Courageous Really Excellent American Men). The President explains: “It’s gentler than the gun, but more effective than Nugenix Total-T. It gets results, even if you’re not rich.”

In fourth grade, Lamont and I were drawn together like birds of a feather. His mother and my father had both died tragically young, leaving us grounded in a dark and broken place. Yet over time, we took advantage of our respective family dysfunctions. Each of us had older sisters who, with minimal adult supervision at home, were heatedly involved with boyfriends. We began to understand the connection between secrets and alliances, establishing a somewhat reliable source of beer.

When family connections failed, there was Terry “Honda,” the mentally handicapped 20-some-year-old villager who, for a short while, managed to get a driver’s license along with access to his grandmother’s 1961 Bel Air. Terry liked beer, and we convinced him to drive us to a little store outside the village. We ducked down as Terry, cigarette fixed in the gap between his front teeth, entered the store, then returned with a six-pack. I should note that he was savvy enough to keep the change from the two bucks, along with a beer for himself.

While love of music would become the life-long bond between us, Lamont and I also engaged in sports. I was quicker, more aggressive and agile, inclined toward football. Lamont, who was taller and more patient, preferred baseball, where he patrolled center field with a steady grace. Under a pop fly, his feet were soft, not chasing, but moving in small circles. It seemed like the ball wanted to come to him.

In high school we became master plotters, not only of how to get the beer, but also where to drink it. We contrived numerous hiding spots around the village. One place I remember clearly was a dirt road that ran along the railroad tracks There we conjured up two games. The first was a version of “chicken.” Upon hearing the clatter and rumble of an approaching train, we lay on our backs, headfirst, perpendicular to the tracks. Then, with eyes on the sky, we’d inch closer and closer as the train came roaring past. This game I would win easily, making it to within a few feet of the ties before retreating.

The other game involved less daring and more skill. It was about who could walk on a rail farthest before losing balance. The sun was beginning to set when we mounted opposite rails, our feet probing for the center — that burnished silver-steel strip between rusted edges. I remember clearly the intense concentration, amazed at how we kept going forward, side by side, like we could go on forever.

Then I wavered. I caught myself, but Lamont had moved slightly ahead. Struggling to catch up, I called for a truce, suggesting we head back to the beer. We both knew who won that competition, and can laugh about it a half century later, long after Lamont followed his dreams to California.

We still communicate regularly, but I’m afraid we may never have the opportunity to drink a beer together again in person. Yet it was never really about beer. What matters is the connection between us, like railroad tracks across the continent. It’s a reminder to me of the importance of walking lightly — of having soft feet. It is akin to flying, which, after all, has infinite possibilities.

Pete Howard, author of the novel Rosebud Dreamworld, grew up in Fredonia.

Yet they have been unable to express anything profound about the journey. Their statements about love and the great accomplishments of mankind seem banal, uninspired. Of course they are astronauts and not poets, but I expected something more meaningful than “Amaze, amaze, amaze!”

A few years ago, the great actor/writer William Shatner (AKA Captain Kirk) responded thoughtfully after his short space voyage aboard Bezos’s New Shepherd rocket. Shatner, then 90 years old, volunteered because he wanted to contemplate the mysteries of the universe – black holes, novas, etc. Initially, he looked out from the dark window, away from earth. What he felt, however, did not evoke a sense of fascination and discovery: “I saw a cold, dark, black emptiness…It was deep, enveloping, all-encompassing. I turned back toward the light of home. I could see the curvature of Earth, the beige of the desert, the white of the clouds and the blue of the sky. It was life. Nurturing, sustaining, life. Mother Earth. Gaia. And I was leaving her.”

The cult classic film Gattaca offers an even more intriguing perspective on the outer space experience. Ethan Hawk plays a “genetically inferior” human who has outwitted the master-race and fulfilled his ambition to become an astronaut. In the end, as his ship heads toward Saturn, he alludes to a theory of the origins of the universe: “For someone who was never meant for this world, I must confess I’m suddenly having a hard time leaving it. Of course, they say every atom in our bodies was once part of a star. Maybe I’m not leaving... maybe I’m going home.”

All this deep thinking comes to mind because of something that happened recently in a supermarket involving someone dear to me. I’ll call her Sarah, out of respect for her closely guarded sense of privacy. Sarah had been a school teacher her entire adult life. Since her retirement, she has become increasingly introverted and reclusive. Shopping is one of the very few public activities she still enjoys.

She was in the fresh produce section when a middle aged man approached. He asked her if she was Miss [Sarah] from the old elementary school. At first Sarah was flustered, and it seemed she would run away down an aisle with her cart. Instead, she nodded and smiled. The man was happy to explain that she was his 3rd grade teacher, and that he remembered her fondly. This led to an animated conversation, during which she seemed remarkably youthful.

Most of us know someone like Sarah, someone whose ties to the real world have become increasingly tenuous. This is especially hard when it is a loved one who has partially let go, and who seems sometimes to be adrift in that space outside Shatner’s dark window. We fear for them, and for ourselves.

There is no medication or prayer that can slow the passage of time. Despite attempts to divide it into equal sections, measured in minutes, hours, rotations, revolutions, etc., the truth is that time accelerates, and the closer we get to the end, the faster it goes. The best we can do for each other is something like what that man in the supermarket did for Sarah, which is to embrace the part of the living soul that remains. To illuminate something good in this world. To be a sunlit island in a black sea. To foster faith that somewhere out there is a light so great as to dwarf the darkness of the universe.

Peter Alan Howard is the author of Rosebud Dreamworld, a novel for young and old adults.

In August of 1945, President Harry S Truman made the momentous decision to go ahead with a plan to use nuclear bombs against Japan. It was a lose-lose situation, justified in the end simply by calculating the number of potential fatalities — how many people would die if we used it versus if we conducted a full invasion of Japan. Truman’s decision has been criticised and defended ever since, and recently reexamined in the film Oppenheimer.

Truman grew up in a middle class, Presbyterian family in an agricultural environment in Missouri. His early adult life involved five years in the Missouri National Guard along with some formal business education. He struggled with poor eyesight, which initially kept him out of the army.

However, when the US entered WWI, Truman’s National Guard unit was federalized, allowing him another chance to pass the physical. Truman was deployed to France, where he was promoted to Captain of Battery D. His unit was an active ground force during the Meuse-Argonne offensive of 1918, which led to the end of the war. Truman was awarded three prestigious medals of honor for his service. His war experience carried him forward politically all the way to the ever-haunting decision to drop the Atomic bomb, which would kill or debilitate hundreds of thousands of innocent Japanese citizens.

Anyone over 70 remembers the dark day in November when President Kennedy was shot. The assassination and its aftermath are etched into our memories with eerie clarity. And most of us know something about his personal life as well as his career in the Navy.

Like Truman before him, Kennedy had physical problems that initially prohibited from serving in the military. And like Truman, he used an unorthodox method to gain admission (for Truman it was cheating on an eye exam, for Kennedy, his rich and influential father). Regardless of how he became a sailor, there is no denying his heroism as the lieutenant who survived a Japanese attack in the Pacific that destroyed his boat. He received a Purple Heart for the injuries he sustained and the Navy and Marine Corp Medal for courage and leadership.

As President, John Kennedy had to navigate the Cold War and increasing Russian aggression. A series of events involving Russian arms in Cuba brought the two nations to the brink of Nuclear war. The world stood still as Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev engaged in a standoff which could easily have resulted in a global catastrophe. It’s hard to be sure what really took place behind the scenes during the final hour of negotiations, but the fatal bullet was dodged, and the nuclear threat subsided, at least for the better part of the next century.

Today, we need to worry again. International treaties that were designed specifically to curb the threat of nuclear war have been alarmingly reduced. The START and INF treaties, which limit the number and types of warheads produced by Russia and the US, have been abandoned. Moreover, the NPT (Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty) that strives to control the spread of arms seems very tenuous in today’s war climate.

As for the current US President, his background has been thoroughly vetted. There should be no question he is a prolific liar, lawbreaker and anti-constitutionalist. He has not demonstrated the ability to admit mistakes, to be graceful in defeat, or to compromise. His complete ignorance regarding the fact that the US bombed a school full of girls in Iran proves his lack of responsibility and conscience. Trump might have said in the past that he would never consider using nukes, but it should be no surprise when he changes his mind. Such a leader — one with no military experience yet has assumed the role of Commander in Chief of the strongest military in the world — is extremely dangerous.

There are two major wars happening right now. Of the five nations involved, two are led by snakes in the grass. One by a paranoid weasel. One by a wounded fox. And one by someone who at least appears to be a decent and courageous human being. We need more like the latter, and soon.

Adolf Hitler was born to a relatively poor family in Austria-Hungary. After moving to Germany, he enlisted in the Bavarian Army at the outset of WWI, ultimately rising to the rank of Gefreiter, which is comparable to a Lance Corporal (above Private, below Corporal). He served as Regimental Message Runner, often in the trenches. An exploding shell damaged his left leg, removing him temporarily from the front. Later he suffered temporary blindness and loss of his voice from mustard gas. He was honored twice for bravery.

Harboring resentment about the outcome of the Great War and the Versailles Treaty, Hitler rose to power in the 1930s on a platform based on intense nationalism, and on the notion of the superiority of the Aryan “Race,” something he genuinely believed to be true (despite his own physical shortcomings — he was no Adonis). Over time he became obsessed with hatred of Jews and revenge against England, France and Russia. Enabled by an “inner circle” of like-minded advisors, he developed a lust for unchecked power. Chronic physical pain and a dependency on experimental drugs administered by his doctor had a profound effect on his mental state.

Donald Trump’s father was a very wealthy business man, giving nearly half a billion dollars to Donald over time through various types of trust funds and business transactions. He avoided being drafted during the Vietnam War through student deferments and a medical deferment after a podiatrist diagnosed him with bone spurs in his feet. The only battles he would fight were against banks, lawyers and competing businessmen.

Late in life, Trump rose to power in 2016 by erecting a platform based on right-wing populism, offering to “drain the swamp” of corrupt politicians. He appealed to white, mainstream voters in less educated states through conspiracy theories, especially about the previous President, Barack Obama. After losing his bid for reelection and being indicted for several crimes, Trump went about the business of superloading conspiracy theories, asserting the 2020 election had been stolen. As the economy was slow to improve after Covid, a weakened President Joe Biden stepped away and Kamala Harris became the democratic candidate in 2024. Trump found the opening he needed to regain power in 2024.

There is no excuse for what Hitler did. He masterminded the most horrific and brutal attack on humanity in history. Nevertheless, to ignore the circumstances leading up to WWII and the rise of Hitler is to invite a repeat performance.

The Treaty of Versailles was overly harsh, placing full responsibility on Germany when, in fact, all the major powers in Europe were involved in the kind of arms escalation and greed-driven imperialism in Africa and Asia that was bound to trigger a major conflict.

My point is that Hitler’s ambition was rooted in an ideology, a world view that his country had suffered a terrible injustice. It was incumbent upon him to see her rise from the ashes. It was, at least in the beginning, not about him as an individual. It was about the Fatherland, and it was Hitler’s voice that would lead the people home.

Trump’s ambition comes from a very different place. There is no ideological basis, unless it has something to do with white superiority (which I don’t think he really cares much about). He doesn’t embrace the ideals of brotherly love, or Christian compassion, or alms and empathy, or even real patriotism. He has no sense of the Arts beyond how they translate into profit. The Art of the Deal is nothing like Mein Kampf – it is devoid of the kind of soaring idealistic rhetoric that characterized Hitler’s over-the-top love of country. Trump’s game is simpler; it’s about material gain, about ego, about revenge, about reducing others as a means of elevating himself.

One of these men’s legacy might be encapsulated as follows: He was a megalomaniac who was able to tap into the raw emotions of a disheartened nation and to spur the people into unspeakable acts of violence and inhumanity through his charisma and rhetorical strength, thus making him one of the most notorious leaders in history.

The other might go something like this: He was a narcissist who was able to either fool or bribe enough of the population in order to enrich himself and become the greatest capitalist and con-man in history.

The hostess or host is eager to seat you. Their job is to lead you, no matter how many empty tables are available, to the most crowded area. There you are to be plopped between two parties. Seated at an L-shaped in the corner is an extended family of fourteen, three of whom are screaming toddlers. Four adults intermittently shush and scold them, taking turns crawling under the table to retrieve dropped items, such as dolls, forks, pieces of clothing, half eaten biscuits and rainbow colored cell phones. Meanwhile, a few teenagers poke relentlessly, deliriously at their phones until the food arrives, which seems to annoy them.

On the other side is a smaller group celebrating the birthday of someone who appears to be a centenarian wearing a hearing aid the size of a giant moth. There is quite a bit of hollering and finger pointing at the menu by the group as the waitress tries to take food orders. Here’s part of the exchange:

Waitress (to centenarian): “What would you like to drink?”

Centenarian: “What?”

Waitress, gesturing as if tipping a glass to her lips: “Drink?”

Centenarian: “No mustard!”

To avoid this scene, my advice is to stand your ground at the hostess’s station, and if she pressures you, threaten to tell the manager that she called you a priggish snob. But I should note that the hostess is probably not a mean person. She’s just following restaurant policy, which assumes waiters hate walking any farther than absolutely necessary, and that customers like to be herded into confined, noisy areas.

Speaking of waiters, they are generally very friendly and careful to get your order right. At least in the beginning. After drinks and food are delivered, they’ll say something like, “Is everything great? Perfect!” Then they’ll go on break for about an hour. Or, in other cases, like when a platoon of cotton tops on a bus trip from Texas have launched an invasion into the restaurant, the waiters are suddenly quick on the draw. They’ll slip you the bill while you’re still chewing, saying “No rush. Take your time.” This is then repeated every 30 seconds until you realize it’s time to get out of Dodge.

When things get super busy, you might spot a manager emerging from a secret room somewhere in the back. They’ll pour on the charm as they gauge the customers’ satisfaction, and occasionally they’ll pretend to help out by delivering a side salad or order of fries. The hardest part is when they have to make a deal with a dissatisfied customer. For example: customer complains that food took too long, or fries were cold, or sauce was too spicy. Manager considers two options: pour a half empty glass of beer on customer’s head, or give ‘em a free dessert.

It is important to know that one of the most hot blooded feuds in the history of mankind – more than the Hatfields and McCoys, Tupac and Biggie, or Fudd and Bugs – is between waiters and cooks, who hate each other unconditionally. Cooks are moody, artistic people, often very unsociable and resentful toward underappreciative customers. They are stuck for long shifts in superhot kitchens. They hiss and growl at dumb waiters who can’t spell, or grab the wrong plate, or bring back food to be recooked. As for the waiters, they are tired of having to be nice all the time, even to rotten customers. So they wish for bad things to happen to the cooks, like getting deep fried in a giant tub of boiling grease.

Almost all restaurants like to serve big portions. There is no negotiating here. Recently, I was not all that hungry, so I asked my waiter if she could tell the cook to choose a small fish to be fried. She told me that all the fish all come in the same size. That makes me wonder…

The chicken cuts are especially humungous, so big I’ve come to believe it’s not chicken, but rather emu. It all goes to show that restaurants can ill afford customers complaining about scant portions. They know that most Americans are Texans at heart, and they want things big, bigger, and biggest.

Peter Alan Howard is the author of Rosebud Dreamworld, a novel for young and older adults.

While all that may sound ominous, there remains some hope that we, as citizens with inalienable rights, might find a way to distinguish between truth and lies, between reality and artificiality as we stumble into a future dominated by AI. But first I want to take a broad view of the political parties as they appear today.

Educated Republicans often refer to democracy as an experiment. I think this is partly due to a built-in aversion to the root word association (democrat). It’s also likely that many Republicans who have studied Western Civilization reckon that the experiment will ultimately fail. They fall in line with Machiavelli and countless pragmatists, elitists and autocrats who have regarded the common man as incapable of participating in government because he is fickle, brutish, greedy, jealous, ignorant, vengeful and basically too stupid to make good decisions. The smarter class must make decisions for them through the art of deception by altering perception. If you can make the simple man believe what you want him to believe, regardless of reality, he will vote for you. There is an intellectual cynicism at play here, where autocracy hides behind the mask of democracy.

Most Democrats want the experiment to continue, of course, and to succeed. This means that, despite a bloated bureaucratic system plagued by the Peter Principle, they have avoided catastrophe. Today, the party is undergoing an identity crisis. The left wing socialist movement is an easy target for Trump-inspired Republicans, who will make them into the dangerous “Other” – alien communists who will steal your money and eat your pets! The moderate Dems face a less sensational image problem. Many of them are getting old and appear lackluster and out of touch despite their bouts of bluster. The democratic circus tent is so diverse, so speckled with mini-minorities, it confounds itself and is unable to strike a unifying theme. And, while charisma is in the eyes of the beholder, there is no man or woman who shines brightly. Even if Gavin Newsom threw away his brillcream, grew out his sweet hair and parted it in the middle, nobody would mistake him for Jesus.

Then of course the republicans have the Trump problem and his deathly approval ratings, especially among the independents who now make up half the voting population. The elephant in the room here is that, despite the growing trend of independents, we still haven’t heard from Joltin’ Joe Manchin about ‘28. And what about Nikki Haley? Wouldn’t she be a viable candidate to break the glass ceiling?

So it appears Reps and Dems will have at it as usual, and the lying, mudslinging, gerrymandering and finger pointing will animate the political arena with increasing vitriol as we approach November. But there is another, more dire threat.

The corrupting agent in politics has almost always been money. Power players pervert government by reducing it to a pay-to-play business league, thereby devaluing more important leadership qualities. Today, the game has grown into something bigger than political parties. A small number of super rich individuals have at their disposal a propaganda tool of nuclear proportions. Through specialized technology, they are on the brink of controlling the information available to the public.

To control information is to control people’s thoughts. The ideas of the right to a free press, to vote, to privacy, to the presumption of innocence and all the precious guarantees of our constitution would become moot. The overlords of technology will be able to rule the planet by dictating reality.

America needs leadership that will strive to anticipate problems with Artificial Intelligence, and to better police on-line crime, especially deep fakes. If we cannot find such a leader, I’m afraid the dystopian fiction of Orwell, Bradbury, Huxley and others will become reality. The words freedom, faith, soul, love and Truth will, in essence, be removed from language, and what they stood for will remain a small aching in the heart, a void, a longing for something that once was real. All we will be able to say is “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

It seems to me that the big-boom thrill felt by the backyard blasters would wear off after a few days. Out of sheer boredom, they might find some other activity to celebrate the USA, like coloring in red, white and blue flags in crayon books, or practicing a fife or drum or harmonica, or playing a marathon card game of War, or maybe even reading the Declaration of Independence. But apparently nothing compares with the rush that comes from the process of click-lighting a wick, strutting boldly away, and listening with subdued glee to the ear-splitting blast of a super cherry bomb and the swooning admiration of ten-year-old kids.

Returning to Rocco, and all the others like him who tremble and go into hiding at the sound of screeching and blasting, I am wondering what it is that causes some dogs to react that way. On a recent walk with Rocco, a neighbor wanted to meet him. I explained to this neighbor that Rocco is very shy, very unsociable with strangers. The neighbor’s comment was to the effect that his grandfather, who lived in the country, was of the belief that timid dogs, especially ones afraid of gunfire, are worthless, and that he would shoot them rather than waste money on food. Hmmm. End of conversation.

But it does bring about the topic of evolution. Geneticists might claim that fear of guns is uncommon among dogs because the gene pool of the more timid, easily frightened dogs has been depleted – fewer survived, fewer reproduced. Timidity was not conducive to evolution, and therefore most dogs are not timid and not afraid of loud noises.

Of course there is the possibility, in some cases, that a dog was traumatized by loud noises as a puppy and has never gotten over it.

But I’m getting at something else here. It is theorized that the connection between man and dog (wolf, as it were) goes back more than 20,000 years. It was a mutually beneficial relationship in that humans, with superior foresight and innovative hunting tools, could help provide dogs with a more steady diet. Dogs, with superior instincts, were beneficial in tracking prey, and served to alarm the nomadic clans about dangerous animals and enemy attacks. The bond has held ever since, in times of peace and war.

It is war that I wonder about, and its effect on the psychology of dogs. In times of war, dogs have been victimized in ways we don’t often think about. Though they probably don’t think in abstract ideas, dogs must have sensed chaos, senseless violence, and impending doom as they found themselves in the middle of a battle, or at time when the enemy has taken over the farm, or the village, or the city in which they live. And, like trained horses, they were used as sacrificial beasts of burden. It must have felt like utter madness, with death ever present. I wonder, is it possible that there is a transferral of memory, a kind of mental genetic coding, that passes through generations to manifest randomly as an intuitive, uncontrollable fear of bombs and gunshots and searing missiles?

Far fetched, yes. (Such is my MO.) But we do know that war has severe psychological effects on humans. And as evening approaches (soon now, the bellicose backyard blasters begin blowing up their baby bombs), I’m thinking about Middle East war veterans, about what they experienced. I’m willing to bet that not many of them get a kick out of this kind of noise, because what they saw and heard was something serious, not a kids game. They saw first hand the horrific effects of IEDs and gunshots.

Finally, the real fireworks, the ones that light up the entire sky at night in phantasmagoric colors and god-like images as a celebration of our birth as a nation and our growth as a democracy, are wonderful examples of the marriage of science and art. For dogs’ sake, let it be just that one day, July 4th, when we indulge in this magical tradition. It would mean so much more for all of us

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There’s a party goin’ on and you’re invited!

But first, you must choose a color in order to be admitted into the gymnasium, which is divided into two sections. Left is for blue, and right is for red. That’s it. No purple, black, white, yellow, green, etc. Although you are free to dress in whatever color or style best suits your taste, you are required to wear a blue or red headset, which will dictate the genre of music you hear and the kind of images that appear on the screens above the basketball hoop.

The people wearing blue headphones appear lively, animated. They are quite diverse in their choice of dance garb. Some, despite being conspicuously Caucasian, have clad themselves in West African style Agbada or Dashiki, or in Indian Saree. It is quite mystical. While dancing, their white faces and limbs seem to take on a Casper-the-Ghost aura, disappearing amid the colorful garments in which they have disguised themselves. Conversely, a group of dark skinned folks are sporting the uniforms of their county fair championship cornhole team.

It is certainly a mixed bag here in the blue tent. The LGBTQ community has shown up with especially daring costumes, including the Secretary or War wearing a

tutu, and a leather-clad Tinkerbell with high boots and a snakeskin whip. A group of environmentalists has brought their own tree, upon which they perform group hugs.

Isolated in one corner of the blue side is a group of wide-eyed individuals restlessly pacing back and forth. Periodically, one steps forward and raises his black-gloved fist as a gesture of defiance. They all wear T-shirts with different versions of the President who, in various prone postures, is the recipient of very unpleasant carnal retribution.

Another group consists of a dozen people dressed in the same outfits, like peasants. They have made themselves alike in other ways. The shorter ones wear lifts in their shoes while the taller ones bend their knees as they stand and walk. Hence, they all are the same height! All wear glasses, whether they need them or not, and they carry a dictionary that has only a hundred words, thus ensuring that no one is more informed or articulate than another. They are equal in every way.

Amid this roiling sea of humanity, there are also individuals, like flotsam after a shipwreck, who seem lost or uncertain as they flit from one group to the next, never seeming to fit in. Finally, there are folks who don’t speak any English, yet are aware of the blue generosity and have come to help themselves to all the free stuff.

Beneath projected Utopian images of unity and happiness, the clans of blue headset people shimmy and shake and collide while cussing at each other and complaining about the music that ranges from blues to electronic disco. It is a spectacle indeed!

The red headset people are easier to describe. Almost all are fair skinned. The men in the select seat area (a floating transparent, impenetrable bubble) wear dark suits. They have either dyed their hair or purchased silver-orange toupees costing upwards of $8000.00. To remind everyone of the real masculinity lurking under those pressed suits, they have brought with them an entourage of tattooed, leather clad motorcycle enthusiasts – patriots who were wrongly convicted by the government and who have used their compensation money to buy new motorcycles and weaponry superior to baseball bats and flagpoles. Standing guard at the half court line is a platoon of MMA athletes and professional wrestlers in speedos.

The women are stunning, their faces aglow like sweet glossy frosting on a cake. Their hair pieces are designed by some of the world’s most exotic zoo keepers, and their dresses are tailor made to prop up their most prominent features. They are walking, breathing slot machines that take gold or bit coins exclusively.

Cordoned off in the back corner near the restrooms and beer keg is a group of regular folks in their best pair of jeans who remember the rallies of ‘24. Some are so in awe of the wrestlers and MMA dudes that they break through the cordones to try and get a selfie with one of them, happy to pay the price of getting their face flattened and limbs pretzeled. Others, more ambitious and cultured in the art of finance, gaze at the bubble in awe and envy.

The red music plays for all of them, and their bodies move in various dance styles that might be dubbed the flying bugs around my head swat, the restless knee jerk, or the stomp the roach strut. All this to the music of Millie Vanillie and Kid Rock as the screen conveys images of a golden reflecting pool and an orange-headed Jesus.

So choose your color and get your ticket before it’s sold out!

We learn at a young age that it is a piece of land surrounded by water. Later, we discover it to be a part of greater land mass that extends beneath the water, and is therefore not a separate entity, but rather a part of the lake or ocean or river upon which it appears to sit. Later still, we come to understand the whole planet earth as an island of sorts, a great liquid-y orb floating through the sea of a greater solar system.

This essay is about the idea of an island, and how it plays within our imaginations as the setting for a long list of novels and films exploring the basic conflicts of man v. nature and man v. himself. An island is a place where we come to understand who we really are – our complexity and simplicity – apart from the constraints of society.

In Lord of the Flies (1954), a group of boys stranded on an island during a major war attempt to create an orderly society. Yet despite the noble efforts of a few, the clan quickly devolves into a more natural state of barbarism and moral decay. The innocent child has become the corrupt adult, and the image of the idyllic Garden has once again been destroyed.

Robinson Crusoe (1719) is the story of a young man who defies his father and takes to the high seas where he is bound to witness the injustices of the world, including slavery. Ultimately he is the only survivor of a shipwreck that leaves him stranded on an island for more than two decades. Taking refuge in reading the bible, Crusoe regains a sense of humanity and, in effect, redeems his soul by saving another’s (Friday’s).

H.G. Wells’ classic The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896) takes us to a secretive island where an overzealous scientist conducts experiments in which he attempts to infuse human chemo-biological elements into animals in an effort to “improve” them. Thus, the scientist has assumed the role of God. In so doing, he has unleashed gruesome and abominable retribution.

Similarly, the movie Jurassic Park (1993) explores the idea of an island as the setting for human interference with the natural world. A billionaire scientist/business man has cloned dinosaurs and purports to capitalize on his experiment. Of course it is human greed that plays into the story, as someone manages to steal primitive eggs, ultimately unleashing terror upon the island.

Castaway (2000). In what might be the greatest acting job in film history, Tom Hanks plays Chuck Noland, an anal-retentive company man for FedEx. A plane crash leaves him stranded on an island. After four years, he is returned to a world that had left him for dead. Now, as he is metaphorically reborn, he finds himself in some kind of limbo, between life and death, between hope and hopelessness, between the past and the future. In the end, he is confronted by the reality of having survived the unthinkable, and of now having the opportunity, by the grace of a mysterious God, to start anew. As he delivers his last, unopened (and therefore untainted) box, he is free to contemplate the roads that lie before him.

Here’s my point (finally!): Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner are not likely to delve into the metaphoric depths of island movies. I imagine their taste is more to the likes of the old TV show Fantasy Island, or any glitzy, gilded rendering of a place separate from the common, motley crew of humans. It appeals to their personal ambitions of controlling, or “owning,” a piece of the planet and shaping it in their image. The notion that this island is part of the nation of Albania poses a mere inconvenience to them.

There is another recent, real-world island story. In this one, a wealthy businessman named Jeffrey has blackmailed a bunch of other wealthy businessmen and politicians into helping him buy an island where, like in the great mythologies of old, fellow gods can prey upon innocent, delectable nymphs with impunity. It is, in effect, their self-given right.

As for Ivanka and Jared and the exclusive class of multimillionaires who will abet in the building of this new island-nation, they should be advised that their island can’t be a fortress against the rest of the world. It is an inextricable part of the planet. And as their capitalistic exploits destroy the ecosystems through the coveting of precious metals and such, this island in space may no longer be able to support life as we know it.

With some reluctance, I broached the topic of addiction in my novel for young readers, Rosebud Dreamworld. First, it is from the perspective of the character Jack, who lives with a grandparent because his parents are junkies. Later, it plays a larger part in the underlying theme of the story: Raif, the main character, has lost his father in an accident involving a time machine. In the following excerpt, Raif learns from a mysterious guardian about the machine and the Pandora’s box it might open.

“Your father, Luke Williams, was part of a team of neuroscientists and visionaries who believed that whatever was in the past still exists somewhere in the present. He believed that the human brain has the capacity to store memories containing experiences that go beyond the vague recollection of images and events. And he was certain that there was a specific place in the brain where memories are stored in great detail, but they are inhibited by neurotransmission processes that instinctively prevent them from being consciously activated.

“To put it more simply, humans have the ability to “relive” parts of their past. And his machine can tap into the part of the brain that holds all memories, and is able bring them into the present experience. This machine, his greatest experiment and the bane of his dreams, is why we are here at this time and in this place.”

“Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?” said Raif. “And that is why I’m here.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes going dim, as she seemed to disappear within herself for a moment. “But before we discuss that, I want you to experience what this machine can do.”

Raif agreed, feeling at once exhilaration and dread.

She motioned for him to sit in the chair. “First, put on the headset. Now, enter a specific date and starting time from your past. A special day, perhaps a holiday. The screen will then lead you through the activation process in which you must – and this is very important – you must indicate how long you wish to stay in that memory. This can be anywhere from one minute to one day from the start time to your return to the present.

“Depending on the season of the year, the appropriate window will open. South is for summer, north is winter, east is spring, west is summer. This is a flat window – two dimensional. At the bottom of the window there will appear a set of three steps leading upwards, into the window. Those three steps will take you into what appears to be a three dimensional world of the time you have chosen. You will then lose awareness of your true, present self as you begin to relive a piece of your past. As such, you will not be able to change anything that happened. You are there exactly as you were according to your memory.”

“But how will I be able to come back to the present?” asked Raif.

“Your return is automatic. You will have chosen it in advance, from a minute to a maximum of one day. After your time is up, the machine shuts off and you are returned here. It will feel like you just had a dream, but one that you remember much more clearly than normal dreams. Now Raif, are you ready to experience the full effect of what your father created?”

Raif entered his eighth birthday, on June 10th, at 8:00 a.m. and he would stay for just thirty minutes.

The south window opened, and Raif walked up three steps and through the threshold. There he stood, in the living room, wearing his polka dot flannel pajamas. His mother and father were seated and smiling as they motioned for him to open the presents that were in a small pile by the mantel. The joy he felt was indescribable as he began tearing the wrapping paper off the gifts. He was overwhelmed with joy when he opened the box that contained a miniature snowmobile that his father had made for him. It was equipped with all the parts necessary to travel across the snow by remote control.

Raif was smiling broadly when he returned, and the feeling lasted a few more minutes while he reoriented himself to the present time. His guardian was there, smiling with him.

“I don’t understand,” said Raif. “That was such a wonderful, magical time. And I was so happy then. What could be wrong with being happy”

“Yes,” she said softly. “And that was what your father envisioned when created the machine. But now I must tell you the rest of the story.”

Probably the most mysterious of the elites are the super rich–those who are often referred to these days as the “oligarchs.” It is almost impossible to imagine what occupies the mind of someone who can have just about anything they want. Surely they experience human foibles such as boredom, jealousy, anxiety, hatred, and unrequited (money-can’t-buy-me) love. But what really makes them tick?

For a pop star celebrity like Taylor Swift, the relationship with the public is both intimate and far removed. She is a generational talent, a prolific artist who has touched the hearts and minds of billions of folks, from pre-teens to adults. Her themes are deeply personal, yet have universal appeal in terms of vulnerability, resilience and moxie. However, I wonder how much of the common, everyday girl/woman in her songs has become a distant memory. Is that old persona merely a part of her song writing formula now that she is a superstar?

Perhaps easier to understand are the elite professional athletes. These are the folks whose name, number and picture occupy the imaginations of ardent fans, many of whom extoll them as superheroes. In Buffalo, for example, many older Bills fans extol young Josh Allen as some kind of conqueror, the one who will finally lift the curse of 1991. Number 17 represents not only a majorly talented athlete, but also hope for a city that has endured economic hardships over the past half century.

There are elite bad guys in sports as well, and fans love to hate them. Yet despite the often irrational vitriol toward the “villain” in sports, it’s nothing compared to what’s going on today in the political arena.

Elite politicians are the biggest targets of public hatred, the recipients of the most widespread and contemptuous backlash. It seems to be our nature as citizens to be dissatisfied, to demand greener grass, and to seek out scapegoats and heroes alike. Listening to politicians, our reactions range from joyful optimism and hopefulness to disgust and contempt. While many of them mean well, it appears that the level of cynicism today is extremely high, and there is a palpable air of glibness and mean spirited-ness among elite government leaders.

Yet I wonder about how the elite perceive us commoners from their high places. Certainly the super rich don’t concern themselves much with the everyday trials and tribulations of regular people. They are too busy, too preoccupied with details. They have meetings to preside over, and investments to be made. Their understanding is that if more money is not being made–if the profit margin sags the slightest bit, if Wall Street is not working for them–then they are failing, and some competitor has the upper hand. Being socially sensitive probably isn’t in their wheelhouse. And those who are active politically often hear our voices as the common cry of curs.

For athletes, there must be some disdain regarding the capricious nature of fandom. They are cheered one moment, booed the next. They witness the often ridiculous, repulsive behavior of overzealous fans. And celebrities of all kinds realize they can’t go out in public without being accosted, so they must protect their privacy lest bad things happen to their homes or possessions.

Of course all us commoners do not bear the same attitude toward the elite class. Not all sports fans are idol worshippers. Not all wish a curse upon the families of the opponents. Not all of us melt down when we see a beautiful pop star. While many of us see capitalism as a rigged system that causes environmental waste and social inequality, we are not pushing for a civil war.

Similarly, not all elite people bear the same attitude toward the common lot. They are not necessarily condescending toward us. They are not all ego-tripping or narcissistic. Some are real philanthropists. Some have family problems of their own–maybe a father in jail, a crazy drunk uncle, a sister on the streets, a handicapped brother who is well taken care of by common social workers.

Finally, I think most of us, common and elite alike, would agree that a person’s greatest quality has nothing to do with social class. It is more about what’s inside, about our ability and willingness to become better people, and to help make the world a kinder and cleaner place.

Pete Howard, author of Rosebud Dreamworld, lives in Dunkirk.

As anyone who has ever tried to escape reality can tell you, you’re more than likely to end up back in it. We can imagine things to be different. We can dream away the night, but when the sun comes up, it’s the same sun as yesterday. We find ourselves in the same material world at the same fixed place in time’s continuum. Despite our ingenuity and resourcefulness, we are still bound by natural laws. We can undergo joint replacement and cosmetic surgery, but we can’t stop aging. We can disown family members but we can’t change our DNA. We can build B52 bombers, but we can’t grow wings.

However, this doesn’t mean that we are slaves to reality. The fact that we have the desire to change things that don’t seem right, along with the imagination and the ability to take some kind of action despite the awareness that we’ll probably end up a bit worse for the wear, makes our efforts worthwhile. It is the essence of being human to recognize, either intuitively or through experience, the need for change, and to act upon it through our own free will. I think it is through the notion of willfulness that we come to understand what freedom really is.

Literature and film are chock full of stories relating the theme of freedom as a state of mind. Aesop’s fable “The Wolf and the House Dog” is about a nearly starving wolf who comes upon a well fed and healthy dog. The dog describes all the advantages to living in a house–shelter, food, warmth. The wolf ponders such a leisurely, untroubled life until it notices the calluses around the dog’s neck. The wolf then realizes the cost of domestication and decides he would rather be free in the wild than a slave fettered to a master.

In Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind (2004) Jim Carrey plays opposite Kate Winslet in a love conflict story. Both suffer from some form of emotional disorder. As a means of resolving their anguish, they choose to undergo a procedure that erases all their memories of each other. While the procedure is effective, we are left to wonder whether something important is missing in their lives. Could weathering the storm of relationship vicissitudes have provided them with a more complete and soulful existence?

In The Truman Show (1998), another great film starring Jim Carrey, Truman Burbank lives in a world in which he is being filmed constantly by a megalomaniacal producer (Ed Harris as Christoff). Although unaware that his entire life has been public, Truman begins to suspect that he is being spied on. While others (all the characters in this fake community, including Truman’s wife, played by Laura Linney) try to convince him that he is paranoid over nothing, Truman sets out to uncover the truth. Despite his fear of boats and water, he manages to sail across a fake sea to the end of the movie set, where he ultimately crashes into a wall. In what I consider to be one of the greatest acting performances in film history, Truman/Jim Carrey beats his fists against the wall in agony, overwhelmed by despair over the realization that his whole life was a lie. He had been a pawn, a puppet, a toy object manipulated by a false god. Heroically, Truman (a true man) chooses to leave the safe but artificial town of Seaside and enter the real world in which he at least can be free to discover who he really is.

There are countless stories, from the Old Testament to modern science fiction, that examine the complex idea of freedom. The blue versus red pills in the Matrix; the implanted memories in Total Recall; the golden calf in Exodus; the tin man, the scarecrow, and the lion in Emerald City–all pose the fundamental question regarding man’s quest to understand truth and distinguish between reality and artificiality. Are we complacent in a world where we have no free will? Or are we more like Truman, who would tear down the walls that imprison our souls?

The internet-driven world of today is infested with super-rich geopolitical players who use technology and psychology to control the common man’s thought process. The line between what is real and what is contrived–between Truth and lies–has all but vanished. That is the reality. There is no escape. But there is the possibility of change, if only enough of us are willing

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But I’m thinking more about windows now, about what my eyes see and my mind imagines as I look outside from the ones in my home.

North, south, east, or west–I could count a hundred windows during the day. They appear in countless variations of rectangles-within-rectangles, stacked irregularly on the sides of mostly old, two and three-story homes that are in need of some kind of repair. The high attic windows appear as perfect squares framed under triangular peaks.

The neighborhood becomes more interesting at night when the street becomes quiet. I watch out my windows from dark rooms, not wanting anyone to know I’m spying on the neighborhood. I should be clear that my vigilance is not about looking for suspicious activity. What interests me is the faint orange glow emanating from dozens of nearby windows.

While some of the windows shimmer with the light from TVs, most maintain a soft, steady ambience. Taken as a whole, the array of windows might be seen as a series of Japanese lanterns suspended in the air. And from within those windows I might spy the silhouette of a living person as he/she walks across a room, perhaps to the refrigerator or the bathroom. Lights flicker on and off.

I used to take my curiosity to the streets at night, walking through neighborhoods, looking up porch steps, trying to imagine what happens on the other side of the large picture windows. Hard concrete sidewalks and creeping police cars have brought such wanderings to an end.

Despite the fact that we live in an age of increasing agnosticism, atheism, and technology worship, many churches remain that feature magnificent stained glass windows. From inside, the windows tell the nativity and resurrection stories over and over again, lest we forget. From the outside, at night, they are kaleidoscopic eyes that hold memories of countless confessions, annointings, eucharists and baptisms.

My writing has always been imbued with religious images and allusions (a consequence of a Catholic upbringing), to which some readers have expressed disapproval. Most recently, someone quipped that religion is a hoax. I’m not sure how serious he was, but I assume he has some knowledge of a history of corruption within the church, how it periodically abused, manipulated or misled its “flock.” I give him that. Yet I would argue that, as an institution responsible for the world’s greatest art and architecture and dedicated to helping the needy both physically and spiritually, the Catholic church has done more good than most forms of government. It has eyes, ears, and a heart.

I once read a story about fish with no eyes. They lived in caves deep under the sea where eyes were not needed, and survived by relying on other keenly developed senses. With the exception of our blind brothers and sisters, we humans live in a world of light. Where there is light, there is hope, the saying goes. And without hope (or call it faith if you like) we live in a cave, or a house without windows. Without eyes to see the beauty of the world around us. Without ears to hear the music that fills our souls. Without a heart to feel the joy of loving and of being loved.