I hate even entertaining these thoughts.

The chilling idea that there are such inhuman thugs as leaders of nations who could cause such questions to be raised is the stuff nightmares are made of.  However, the context of this week’s Sarin gas murders of 80 Syrians by Syrian & Russian leadership, and the “proportional” response by Donald Trump–an Assad cheerleader as recently as last week–makes the question necessary to ask:  Were the poison gas killings of innocent Syrians orchestrated by Putin and Assad , and the carefully choreographed response by Trump carried out to benefit Trump and Putin?

Here are a few things to consider:

•  Trump’s virulent oppostion to US intervention in Syria in 2013 when 1400 hundred humans–and many more “children of God suffered such horrors,”  were slaughtered by Assad’s use of Sarin gas. Why did those deaths not matter four years ago, and now, these far fewer deaths do?

• Trump’s hollow piety that “No child of God should ever suffer such horror,” has a very short shelf life, corresponding to his tanking poll numbers.  That standard didn’t apply as recently as last week, when he supported accepting Assad in power, with help from his pal Putin. Putin’s broken promise to rid Syria of its stockpile of poison gas–made to embarrass President Obama and the United States four years ago, and to secure a foothold in the Middle East for Russia–has never mattered to Trump.  Not even now, since he is still silent on it.

•  Trump’s carefully scripted line of “No child of God should suffer such horror,” didn’t apply to thousands of Syrian refugee childen, and their parents, he campaigned to keep out of America, despite their fleeing from terrorist attacks from ISIS, the Russians and their own government.  He never expressed emotion when a dead Syrian child washed up on a beach, or when a bomb-shocked Syrian boy’s photograph became a worldwide symbol of such horrors.

•  Assad’s latest poison gas attack on his own people was  targeted and constrained, compared to the one he carried out 4 years ago.  This limited atrocity raised more questions: Did Putin know about it ahead of time? Did he collaborate with Assad in conducting the limited Sarin gas attack as a way of giving Trump the opportunity to make a limited response and thus appear “tough” vs. Russia. Did Putin see it as a way to further his foothold in Syria and the Middle East?

• With the FBI and US Senate investigations closing in on Trump’s team and possible collaboration with the Russians during the 2016 elections,  did Putin (with assistance from Assad, his client) stage these 80 murders, to give Trump the opportunity to: 1. look tough; 2. “stand up” to Russia; 3. Proclaim the moral high ground during a cynically named “Leadership Week”, and, 4. Prop up Trump’s sinking poll numbers?

• Putin &  Russia clearly gain from this as well. With the US “proportional” attack, Putin can now pressure Assad that Syria needs Russia’s presence even more, to neutralize the involvement of the US. Russia’s largest airbase outside of mainland Russia is located in Syria.

• Trump’s empty “No child of God should ever suffer such horror,” has never applied  to the other 500,000 Syrians slaughtered with conventional weapons during Assad’s reign of terror, especially since Russia’s physical and political presence in Syria began 4 years ago. Trump’s only interest in Syrian children up to this week was to keep them out of the United States as refugees, regardless of how horrible the terror at home.  Now, he sees that crusading on their corpses can bring him political gain.

• Measure the responses of Russia and Syria over the coming days to ascertain whether this action was a pre-choreographed  piece to help BOTH Trump and Russia. Expect rhetorical condemnation from Putin and Assad, but little else. They will tacitly “accept,” the US’ “proportional” response–as if 80 humans exterminated like cockroaches by poison gas  can ever be equated with missile strikes at an empty air force base.  Proportional?

• Everyone gains here, except the dead. Trump looks tougher with Russia, and changes the subject from the Trump/Russia investigations for a while; Putin gains further leverage inside of Syria, and extends his military presence in the Midldle East; and, Assad, has his hands slapped for slaughtering his own people, yet again.

•  Trump’s defenders are already mouthing the disgusting minimization of the death of “God’s Children,” by pointing to the limited missile attacks on an empty air force base (that both Russia  & Syria were pre-warned to empty) as “evidence” that Trump cannot possibly be in bed with Putin.

For thugs like Putin, Assad and Trump, children suffering such horrors are merely the cost of doing business and clinging to power.

Vincent “The Chin” Gigante being arrested by Federal Agents (NY Daily News Photo)

For weeks, some have been asking how long the lunatic, erratic, fanatical and dangerous behavior of Donald Trump can go on.   For answers, we overlooked the most obvious source of all of Trump’s life lessons: Mobsters.

New York Mob boss Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, the power behind the Genovese Crime Family during the 1980’s and 1990’s, avoided prosecution for decades by pretending to be crazy.   Nicknamed “The Oddfather,” Gigante took rambling street strolls in pajamas, a terrycloth robe and slippers around Greenwich Village, where he lived in a small apartment with his mother, who, in a screeching Sean Spicer-like defense of her son, insisted the only thing he was “boss” of was the bathroom. Paul Manafort? A “limited role.” Michael Flynn? A Volunteer. Roger Stone? A bathroom attendant.

The Chin’s “elaborate deception”—as Federal Judge Eugene Nickerson described Gigante’s behavior in declaring him mentally competent to stand trial in the 1990’s–kept him out of jail for years, and the wealthy & powerful Mob boss manufactured reams of doctors notes to swear to his lunacy. Some of those notes from The Chin’s parade of psychiatrists bore an eerie, albeit, perverse similarity to the claims made by Trump’s own alleged “doctor.” The Chin was the craziest of all crazies, according to his Docs, just as Donnie “Double Chin”—the nearly 300 pound Tweeter from the High Tower—was, physically, if not mentally, the healthiest presidential candidate in world history.

Somehow, “The Chin’s” psychiatrists missed a few salient facts: Gigante’s slipping out at night, dressed in normal clothing, to be with his girlfriend on the Upper East Side; Gigante ordering a hit on John Gotti, head of the rival Gambino Crime Family because he felt Gotti broke the Mob’s rules with the “unsanctioned” murder of Paul Castellano; Gigante ordering his underlings never to mention his name in conversations, but simply point to their “Chins;” and Gigante gingerly extorting payoffs from vendors and pocketing money donated to a neighborhood church during New York’s Annual Feast of San Gennaro. Why bother with the facts when a fake narrative keeps the cash flowing?

Like “The Chin,” Donnie “Double Chin,” profits from advancing his fairy tale: he never settles lawsuits except for the dozens he has; he is “very, very rich”, except for when his debts & liabilities exceed his assets and he pays no income taxes for 20 years; he creates an imaginary universe where Barack Obama is a Muslim, not born in the USA, who wiretapped his phones, with help from British spies; The Central Park Five, along with Ted Cruz’ father, are guilty of murder, even when none of them are; millions of illegal voters gave the popular vote to Hillary; and Trump never dealt with the Russians, except when he did, and as his son admitted, the “family” was doing, in 2008.   Also like “The Chin,”Donnie “Double Chin,” knows that his billowing bouffant layer-cake of lies can be easily deflated by those who have watched how it’s half-baked. That explains why he’s tweeting as fast as his tiny fingers can fly to delete Paul Manafort, Michael Flynn and Roger Stone from his friends list. They know too much.

It’s also why Trump—steeped in the raw sewage of Roy Cohn, Mob sycophant—demands ironclad non-disclosure documents from his underlings.   He watched how testimony from former Mob members exposed “The Chin’s” long-running charade—like a bathrobe coming undone– putting the powerful crime boss away in prison for the rest of his life.

Selwyn Raab, the incomparable New York Times organized crime writer, detailed such testimony in his obituary on Gigante, published on December 19, 2005 (“Vincent Gigante, Mafia Leader Who Feigned Insanity, Dies at 77”):

“Salvatore Gravano, testified that even Mr. Gigante’s archrival, John Gotti, grudgingly acknowledged Mr. Gigante’s craftiness. ‘He’s crazy like a fox,’ Mr. Gravano quoted Mr. Gotti as saying after a summit meeting of NYC Mob leaders in 1988.”

Raab’s masterpice of a New York Times obituary on “The Chin,” is instructive for helping us understand the apparently unhinged behavior of Donnie “Double Chin:”

“ Mr. Gigante, whose nickname was ‘The Chin’, painstakingly maintained the fiction that he was incompetent until April 2003, when he appeared before Judge I. Leo Glasser in Federal District Court in Brooklyn and pleaded guilty to obstruction of justice. Specifically, he acknowledged running a con on the legal system that delayed his racketeering trial from 1990 to 1997, while his sanity was being examined.”

How long can Donnie “Double Chin” continue to “maintain his fictions “to avoid accountability or prosecution? When will his “elaborate deception” of the US and the world come crashing down? Will some no-nonsense, law and order judge like Justice I. Leo Glasser force Trump to “acknowledge running a con on the legal system,” in exchange for his resignation from office without jail time? When will Trump’s fellow gang members turn on him?

Donnie “Double Chin” may have gone to Wharton for a whiff of time, but he has proven himself incapable of learning the most important lessons “The Chin” taught: fancy pants or silk pajamas attract too much attention, and, the only thing “golden” from yourself and your friends, no matter how it’s achieved, is silenzio.

On the 100^th Birthday of Kirk Douglas (December 9, 2016)—one month after the election of the most anti-democratic, anti-human rights government in American history—it’s time for ALL of us to step up and become as courageous as “Spartacus!”

NOW is the time for all of us to declare, “I’m Spartacus” and stand up for each other, when anyone of us is threatened: Muslims, Jews, Christians, LBGT, Immigrants, the disabled, union leaders, political activists, and socially responsible corporate leaders. Threats or actions against any one of us, are a threat to all, and a danger to individual liberties and human rights.

The 100^th birthday of Kirk Douglas, a Jewish actor born of poor immigrant parents in upstate New York, who played Spartacus in the film written by the politically blacklisted writer Dalton Trumbo, is the perfect date to launch a nationwide movement to protect and fight for each other’s individual liberties. That’s what the “I’m Spartacus” movement is all about.

We’ve spoken with Americans of good will from Churches, Synagogues and Mosques across the nation about each of us standing up for each other, as Spartacus’ fellow soldiers did when his life and liberty were threatened.

I’ll have more details about the “I’m Spartacus” call to action all across social media as we move forward in the coming weeks. For now, know that the inspiration comes from each other, from Muslims, Jews, Christians, union activists and members of the LGBT community who have been targeted by hate groups—on-line, and in our communities. Our inspiration comes from political outcasts, like Trumbo, and religious/ethnic outcasts, like Kirk Douglas: examples of courage during times of violence and oppression.

Now, it’s OUR time to stand up for each other, fearlessly, and declare “I’m Spartacus!” It’s time for us to stand strong whenever anyone of goodwill, just wanting a peaceful and safe life for themselves and their families, is threatened or bullied.

“I’m Spartacus!” Stand up with each other and FOR each other, and fight the forces of hate, lawlessness, and darkness. If you’d like to take part in our “I’m Spartacus” movement, let us know by hitting the “like” button under this posting, or by sending a message of support to which ever social media or communications site where you see “I’m Spartacus” standing tall. We’ll have more information and more avenues of involvement becoming available over the coming weeks. Stay tuned.

I’m Spartacus! And, so are you.

When I was a kid and visited my father where he worked in midtown Manhattan, I was mesmerized by a game I observed on street corners all over New York. All I had to do was weave my way through of a small circle of spectators to get a front row spot for watching a slick street dude flipping what looked like three cards on top of a cardboard box. The con man usually had slicked back hair, and was wearing fancy foreign-made clothes.

Inevitably, after a few seconds, somebody in the crowd would put money down on what was clear to all of us was the wrong card. If you watched these con games enough, as I did, you could almost predict to the exact second, when “the shill” would make his move, to set up an unsuspecting “mark” to step forward and challenge the dealer, convinced he could win where the “shill” did not shine.

The other, more sinister, part of the 3-Card Monte con going on, was happening out among the crowd. My father, a street-smart son of Brooklyn, would motion to me to look at a few strategically spaced guys around the perimeter of the spectators’ circle and watch how smoothly they could pick the pockets of the people around them, all distracted by the intensity of the game being played on the cardboard box. The hands of the con men were quicker than almost everyone’s eyes, if you didn’t know what was going on.

Three Card Monte has been on my mind a lot during this Presidential election, since Donald Trump has perfected the technique and conned millions of Americans to watch his lips, no matter how revolting the words flowing from them are, while his tiny little hands–and his minions– were quickly moving elsewhere. Like a 3-Card Monte player’s outrageous moves in plain sight up on the cardboard soapbox, Trump trash-talks Mexicans, women, the disabled, immigrants, blacks, babies and Gold Star military families. His histrionics are so unfathomable to normal people, indefensible and continuous, that few of us are watching what his shills are doing out among the crowd.

Pulitizer Prize winning author and journalist James B. Stewart collapsed Trump’s flimsy cardboard soapbox this week in his New York Times, “Common Sense,” column entitled “Tax Cuts for Americans Like Trump.” Stewart, who has written such powerful non-fiction books Den of Thieves, Tangled Webs, and Blood Sport, is skilled at explaining the intricacies of Wall Street and the tax laws to his readers. He pointed out that the Trump tax plan will not only preserve the Real Estate tax breaks which have made it likely Trump has paid no income taxes at all for decades, but the Small Handed Scam Man will further enrich himself and fellow Real Estate developers to the tune of one trillion dollars in tax breaks over the next decade, at the expense of Americans who do pay their taxes.

The Trump ploy is so audacious, and the con so enormous, that it too, like virtually everything else emanating from this 3-Card Trumpy Trash Talker is beyond belief, unless you look at everything else Trump had done to enrich himself at the expense of others throughout his miserable lifetime. Nothing else matters: words, slurs, insults, laws, contracts, handshakes, marriages, morality, mobsters…nothing. He learned the technique of 3-Card Trumpy from his father, Fred, a con-artist in his own right, who lied about being Swedish for decades because it wasn’t good for his business during Hitler’s rise to power to admit he was German, and was sanctioned by the Federal & State governments for refusing to rent to Blacks.  The Small Handed Scam Man’s other amoral mentor, Roy Cohn, paid zero federal income taxes throughout his entire lowlife, by scamming the City of New York, and taking millions of dollars under the table from Mobsters he represented in court.

So, don’t be distracted by the bluster and belching of fear and hate coming from the flatulent sounding con man standing atop the cardboard soapbox. Watch what his shills and sidemen are doing behind your back, and hold on to your pockets and your dignity, while I call the cops.

I Am An Angry White Man

We are a large, but silent, fraternity, we sons who have lost our fathers. We look at each other when the topic of one of our fathers’ deaths comes up, lock eyes for a moment and then quickly look away, for fear of awakening our own pain, never really asleep; lurking just below the surface and easily aroused by a place, a face, anything, anything that reminds us of our fathers.

When we learn, for the first time, that each of us are sons without fathers, we sometimes embrace, but are uncertain how to comfort each other to ease the pain of loneliness left by a dead man we once loved. Rarely, do we open up to each other to talk about the hole in our souls left by our missing fathers. We change the subject, averting our open wounds, just as we did our eyes.

We are not as smart as women, we stupid, vain, posturing men. We think we can bluff our way through the bottomless ache we feel, and believe we are meant to bear it alone because that, after all, is what men do—what we were taught to do by the fathers we mourn.

Each time I hear of a friend’s loss of his father to cancer, or a heart attack, or simply to time, I watch his eyes gather tears which never fall because he doesn’t know how to let them go. I stammer and search for something to say, something to save my friend from spinning down into that dark cavern of grief where I spent far too many hours.  I grab his shoulder and struggle to let him know that I have been where he now dwells, and lived through it, though not without difficulty.

This is another Father’s Day without my father. He died on my 21^st wedding anniversary, making each anniversary that follows a bittersweet occasion. Each day for weeks, I watched my father die a painful death from cancer, until the disease paralyzed his back and legs—a merciful numbness sparing him from feeling the torture of each one of his body’s systems shutting down. Each day, as he edged closer to the end of his life, I sat by his bedside, reading him the sports section and reciting to him last night’s Yankee boxscore.

I acted as I had been trained to behave as a man, staying strong for my mother, my sister and my father’s surviving sisters, most of whom are gone now, too. When no one else was around, I took long walks along the beach and cried uncontrollably, praying for the strength to make the right decision when my father pointed to the clock above his bed, mouthing the words “time to go.”

My father spared me that terrible task, choosing to make his final decision himself, demonstrating far more dignity in death, than he had in life. In the end, he gave me a gift that many other sons without fathers were not as fortunate to receive: he let me watch him take his last breath, and utter the last words he heard, which were “I love you.”

I still think of my father often these days, and catch myself wanting to call him to talk about the Yankees or the Belmont Stakes or the Warriors, or just to hear his voice, or hear him say my name. Each Fathers’ Day reminds me how much I love being a father with a son, and how painful it still is, years later, to be a son without a father.