10 November—Tanya Chutkan, a United States District judge in the District of Columbia, has just told Donald Trump that he and his ass-kissing cronies can’t use the doctrine of executive privilege to conceal all their evil deeds. Bravissimo, though it’s no surprise. So here’s a brief history of executive privilege in the United States to bore you:
First, executive privilege—the right of the president and other members of the executive branch to maintain confidential communications under certain circumstances and to resist certain subpoenas and oversight by the legislative and judicial branches of government—isn’t mentioned at all in the Constitution. But the Supreme Court has ruled that executive privilege derives from the separation of powers, which, while that doctrine also isn’t specifically mentioned in the Constitution, is clearly implied in several articles and amendments.
SCOTUS generally tends to come down for executive transparency. But it can always change its mind. Most litigation over executive privilege is negotiated and settled anyway. And, lest we forget, cracking executive privilege usually is for political rather than legal or altruistic reasons, despite what the pols may claim.
The first president to invoke executive privilege was George Washington. Of course. He and his cabinet used it twice: first, in 1792, to keep the House of Representatives from discovering details about a disastrous military loss to Indians (a.k.a. Native Americans); second, to essentially keep the details of the Jay Treaty between the United States and Great Britain secret, if you can believe it. Washington relented in both cases, but, as in so many things, set the precedent. For better or worse. And that was before it was called executive privilege.
In 1807, Thomas Jefferson tried to avoid testifying at his former vice president Aaron Burr’s trial for treason. Jefferson had in fact had Burr arrested. Chief Justice John Marshall, who presided at the trial in Richmond, Virginia, ruled that the President was subject to the same laws as everyone else. Jefferson didn’t testify, but he did “voluntarily” provide documents sought by Burr’s lawyers. Burr, who was Tapping Reeve’s brother-in-law and student (as if anybody cares), was acquitted.
Andrew Jackson told the Senate where to get off in 1833 when it wanted to see a list of financial advisors. The Senate censured him, but Jackson never gave up the list.
Grover Cleveland refused to give Congress documents relevant to presidential appointments in 1885. And Theodore Roosevelt refused to give the Senate documents about antitrust prosecution of U.S. Steel. “The only way the Senate or the committee can get those papers now is through my impeachment,” he insisted. He didn’t produce and it didn’t impeach. Well, the House had to charge first.
In 1954, Dwight Eisenhower told Sen. Joe McCarthy and his red-baiting committee, “I will not allow people around me to be subpoenaed.” Eisenhower used executive privilege 44 times. And McCarthy fell. Deservedly so. The term “executive privilege” came to be used during the Eisenhower administration, by the way.
Richard Nixon invoked executive privilege in 1973 to cover his ass in the scandalous Watergate screw-up, but in 1974 SCOTUS ruled that it couldn’t be used to withhold material sought for a criminal proceeding.
Ronald Reagan invoked executive privilege three times.
Willy Clinton misused executive privilege 14 times in 1998 (about Monica Lewinsky, of course), but was told where to go by SCOTUS.
George Bush Jr. (a.k.a. Bush 43) copped executive privilege six times and Barack Obama took seven years to negotiate a settlement about the Fast and Furious fiasco.
As for Trump, we can only hope that he and his horde of culpable sycophants are forced—by SCOTUS, if necessary—to turn over every single incriminating document generated in his disgusting lifetime . . .
9 November—It didn’t take long for the pack of predatory ambulance chasers to pounce after Friday’s catastrophic stampede at the Astroworld Festival rap concert in Houston’s NRG Park. Were the bodies of the dead victims even cold when the always ready, always eager to sue shysters solicited guaranteed lucrative new business from living victims and families of the deceased. We read about the first lawsuits on Saturday.
It’s not that nobody should be made to answer civilly and even criminally for the Astroworld catastrophe, but couldn’t the ambulance chasers—who are first and foremost out for themselves—have allowed the families and victims at least a little bit of time to grieve and recover?
It brings to mind a recent comic strip, with Garfield watching television. “And now tonight’s feature film,” the text in the first two panels reads, “The Giant Bloodsucking Leech Versus the Personal Injury Attorney.” In the last panel, Garfield muses, “This one could go either way.”
8 November—When the Swedish termagant is right, she certainly is right. In addition to rousing the useless demonstrations of the climate claque with the raucous “What do we want? Climate justice! When do we want it? Now!” dialogue, Greta Thunberg aptly characterizes the accomplishments of COP26 in Glasgow as nothing but “Blah blah blah, blah blah blah.”
That’s because not only is the latest United Nations dog and pony show on climate change all about gas in the atmosphere, it’s full of gas and nothing but gas around the conference tables. And that’s because the gassy participants from all over the world know—or should know—full well that you simply can’t screw with Mother Nature.
They’re first and foremost trying to defensively divert attention from the fact that they’ve all been asleep at the wheel and haven’t done a bloody thing to deal with natural climate change, which happens now to be in the global warming cycle. Not until now, anyway.
Whose fault is it, for instance, that intensive building development has been going on dangerously close to sea level all over the world for millennia? Didn’t it occur to any of the heedless monarchs, developers, or authorities until recently that sea levels rise and fall?
Earth has been experiencing cycles of cooling and warming since the beginning, even before plant and animal life, let alone industrialization and fossil fuels. Only the most dyed-in-the-wool climate morons refuse to admit that, while blaming it all on politically expedient irresponsible industrial scapegoats.
Anthropogenic climate change is politically correct because it’s touted as the consensus of divers alarmists—politicians, educators, and scientists—who choose to ignore the lack of true, reproducible scientific evidence to prove their thesis. But that doesn’t matter at all. If their purpose is served by fake science, what the hell. Go with it.
In fact, man-caused climate change is largely a fiction created by opportunistic political whores desperate to find ways to keep the gullible public from realizing that the pols aren’t actually doing anything worthwhile to justify their election . . .
7 November—“What do we want? Climate justice! When do we want it? Now!”
Guess who has been leading that theatrically uproarious provocation of impatient unreasonables in Glasgow. That’s right, it was obnoxious, histrionic teenage harpy Greta Thunberg, who miraculously manages to be wherever global warming is being discussed by VIPs. Truth be told, the Swedish spitfire is every bit as good as Donald Trump at rousing the rabble, although her well-intentioned if misguided suckers certainly don’t appear to be anywhere near as dangerous as Trump’s ill-intentioned malfeasant morons.
The UN’s COP26 event in Glasgow is a joke, of course, merely an opportunity for over 120 international heads of state like old Joe Biden from the USA and young Boris Johnson from the UK to bullshit their way into headlines—which they both do very well. To their credit, Vladimir Putin of Russia and Xi Jinping of China haven’t wasted their time (or dignified the event) by visiting Glasgow, instead sending lesser functionaries to fall asleep during the endless sessions.
If anyone is interested, by the way, COP26 stands for Conference of the Parties in its 26th year. Couldn’t they come up with a better name? So what has it accomplished in all that time? Worthless agreements and promises, to be sure. But nothing, really, beyond confirming the undeniable fact that Earth’s climate is changing. By whatever means.
To her credit, Greta Thunberg has lambasted the UN-brokered climate summit for being just another public relations exercise. She certainly knows what she’s talking about there . . .
6 November—Brigitte Ruthman reports in this morning’s Republican-American that a rookie state trooper, Romello Lumpkin, was caught on camera stealing a 10-round magazine for his Sig Sauer service pistol from the Newington Gun Exchange. Lumpkin graduated from the police academy in August and is assigned to the Hartford barracks.
Given the video evidence, the details of the incident evidently aren’t in question, but the state police are conducting an internal investigation, whatever that means. Twenty-six-year-old Lumpkin wasn’t arrested and remains on the job. That’s because the store management refused to press charges against the young cop.
What’s particularly interesting and curious is that the gun-shop management, after contacting Lumpkin directly and getting back the stolen magazine, reported the incident to the state police but—to repeat—have refused to pursue an arrest. They just want Lumpkin to keep away.
Lumpkin reacted as might be expected when confronted by a Newington policeman. The rookie claimed it was all a misunderstanding, even though the video clearly shows intent. But I mustn’t say that because in the circumstance of no arrest or admission of guilt everything must remain alleged.
It’s entirely understandable that the Newington gun dealers didn’t press charges after reporting the theft of a $40 item to the authorities. They’d probably do the same for anyone committing a Class D misdemeanor, the least serious kind. Putting the fear of the lord in the perp was good for PR and business, especially, one would expect, with other cops.
What I don’t get is why Lumpkin (allegedly) lifted the magazine in the first place. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence, perception, and experience—especially a cop—would know that CCTV cameras were virtually everywhere—and especially in gun shops. Didn’t they teach him that at the police academy?
Even if Lumpkin had debts, he had been paid almost $1,000 a week while at the police academy and almost $1,200 upon graduation. Plus fantastic benefits, of course. So why would he risk his career for a $40 pistol magazine of all things? Can we trust this cop’s judgement?
And it must be noted that in this unconstitutionally anti-gun state, as of 2014, the 12-round magazine that Romello Lumpkin actually paid for would be illegal for anyone not in law enforcement and a few other vocations to purchase or possess outside of one’s own residence . . .
5 November—With this year’s election out of the way, consider what actually gets candidates elected. Here are many of the variables to consider, presented in alphabetical order, with overlapping and implicit repetition.
They include: advertising; appearance of candidates; associations of candidates; boredom; bribes; campaigns overall; credentials; debates; distrust of opposing candidates; door-to-door; election fraud; endorsements by press and others; experience; family connections and reputation; fear; friends in the right places, including but not limited to voters; gerrymandering; giveaways; hope (which springs eternal in politics).
Impatience; influence; intelligence of candidates and campaigns; intelligence gathering (spying); knocking copy, true or false; lies; location; luck; mailings; money; opposition; paid workers; party affiliation; payoffs; perception; personal appearances; personality; polls; presentation; promises; record; reputation; scandal; signage; spending; threats; time for a change; timing; trust; volunteers; voter suppression.
Does any one of those factors determine the victor and loser of any election? Of course not. But most play a part to a greater or lesser extent. And, notwithstanding allegedly expert polling, predicting an election (or referendum) result is as much art as science—and not very reliable.
Trump’s victory over Clinton in 2016 is a prime example. Few pollsters gave Trump any chance at all. And he spent only about half of what she spent. (And, of course, lots of his spending was with his own companies.)
Newspaper endorsements are generally an ego trip for editorial boards and pretty well ignored by voters. I remember, for instance, back in the good old days when the Waterbury Republican, as it was then, endorsed a liberal Democrat for a seat in the Connecticut General Assembly over a conservative Republican. Twice. And the Republican won hands down both times.
Do people actually read political mailings before they toss them? And if people do read the mailings, do they take the campaign verbiage—most of which is meaningless clichés—seriously?
And, according to the blessed experts, lawn signs—usually called yard signs around here—have minimal influence on elections. But, like baseball caps and sweatshirts, they identify people with groups. And people have to identify with groups and show their friends.
All things considered, then, the results of an election boil down to nothing more than good old-fashioned luck. Am I right or am I right? And the candidate who gives out dark chocolate bars . . .
4 November—I didn’t experience the aurora borealis son et lumière in Connecticut either. So as a consolation, here are some pictures taken by my son in Alaska almost a decade ago. Be sure to visit his website, PMRosenbergPhoto.com. You’ll be delighted you did . . .
3 November—“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed to my radio yesterday, “Now those schmucks wanna stick corks up cows’ asses!” That was my immediate, real-time reaction while listening to a correspondent, a reporter, and a news reader on left-wing radio gush with unrestrained joy and admiration over Joe Biden’s announcement from Glasgow that America’s latest cure for global warming would be a mandatory reduction of methane emissions. The obnoxious adolescent activist harpy Greta Thunberg must have had an orgasm over the announcement.
Really, I did. And she probably did. And that’s even before I heard that close to 100 other countries have signed the Global Methane Pledge that requires a 30 percent cut in methane emissions by 2030. Will there be any cows left with uncorked asses before they’re slaughtered?
Farters of the world, unite!
It’s well known that livestock—mostly cattle—are responsible for emitting about a seventh of the methane that alarmists allege is responsible for a quarter of global warming. What’s not well known, however, is that cow burps and manure rather than cow farts are responsible for 90 percent of that methane. So cows are guilty at both ends.
Modern industries—mostly transportation and fuel production—and agriculture in general are also responsible for generous methane emissions, to be sure. But so are decomposing plastic bags and vegetation. And flatulent little creatures like arthropods and insects (and arthropodal insects) also are major contributors to methane production.
Termites are especially methanogenic. There are so many of those little bugs and they eat and fart so much that the world’s termite population is estimated to emit almost ten times more methane into the atmosphere than cows.
The few living creatures that don’t fart include sloths and octopodes. Or octopuses, if you prefer. And, of course, ladies and gentlemen never fart, even when they’re alone.
On the other hand, there are old farts like Joe Biden and me, of whom no more will be said.
Editors note: Remember when fart, a four-letter word, was never uttered in polite society? And now it’s freely used in print and on the air. And the FCC doesn’t give a fart . . .
2 November—Among 30th District Senator Craig Miner’s many areas of expertise is mycology, the science of fungi. Mycology is primarily non-political, of course, but also entirely appropriate in the State Capitol. Obviously, Craig is truly an expert mushroom picker because he’s still alive.
So yesterday, as I was hobbling home from Town Hall, Craig took a break from scouting out mushrooms on the Litchfield Green to schmooze with me. (It’s refreshing to report that the sacrosanct Green is good for something besides yellow ribbons and useless, silly Green New Deal demonstrations like the one last weekend.) Among the things we talked about was the overpayments the state made to many unemployment recipients.
Although I had written about the myriad abuses of the ludicrous COVID-inspired Paycheck Protection Payments giveaway, I hadn’t really given much thought to the supplementary payments made to state unemployment insurance recipients. I knew the payments tended to be excessive, largely unnecessary, and counterproductive. I also knew that many were made because the state screwed up, not because the recipients submitted fraudulent claims. But, what the hell. That’s what the welfare state and vote-buying are all about, after all. Live and let live. And Republicans were every bit as guilty as Democrats.
But Senator Miner brought up an excellent point: Why shouldn’t the state claw back the unjustified payments, even those made inadvertently, through no provable fault of the recipients? Why should Connecticut taxpayers be forced to foot the bill for still more of the state’s irresponsible largess? Without doubt, many if not most of the people who received more goodies than they deserved were fully aware of their undeserved windfalls, so make them repay what amounts to their interest-free loans.
And even if the allegedly unemployed people weren’t aware, even if they assumed the state’s computers and overpaid functionaries knew precisely what they were doing (what a joke!), why shouldn’t the lucky stiffs have to pay back the excess? Ignorance of the law is no defense, after all. (Except for cops and prosecutors, of course.)
But what if those people have spent all their unearned, undeserved dollars from heaven on necessities or frivolities? What would King Solomon do? And more to the point, what will allow Connecticut Democrats to retain their incontestable power?
Screw the Democrats, I say. Get it back . . .
1 November—Rather than bore readers with predictions about tomorrow’s local elections, I’ll bore you with a story I wrote in 2015 for Litchfield.bz, strategically updated. Suffice to say, my grumpy neighbor hasn’t changed a bit.
With the advent of this year’s election season, before we forget about previous elections, here’s a shocking revelation about the race for the fifth congressional district. For it’s not generally known that Congresswoman Elizabeth Esty, a Democrat, owed her 2014 victory to a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, a former treasurer of the Litchfield Republican Town Committee.
What, you’re wondering, could have caused such an incredible political aberration? Make that perversion. Well, to cut to the painfully pompous chase, it was an act of treachery pure and simple. Here’s the story:
Just before Election Day 2014, Litchfield Republicans put up on the vast lawn on state right-of-way in front of my neighbor Harold X’s manse a quartet of identical signs for the GOP gubernatorial ticket, along with only one solitary sign for Litchfield’s own congressional candidate, Mark Greenberg. And no other signs. The signs were supposed to have been placed on the narrow strip of greensward abutting my driveway, but the Republicans missed the mark. Not that putting up lawn signs anywhere is worth the trouble or expense anyway.
As it happened, while Harold X had no problem with the several Foley-Somers signs or with the Chapin and Miner signs I put up, Harold X wanted me to take down the lone Greenberg sign. Me. And just the Greenberg sign. That I hadn’t even put up. I demurred on principle, of course, while assuring him he was welcome to do it himself. But Harold preferred to phone the selectmen’s office and was advised that since the unwelcome sign was on state, not town, property, he could call the state or do it himself.
(Remember Foley and Somers, by the way? It’s incredible they lost to Malloy and Wyman, whom nobody admitted to voting for.)
I happened serendipitously to be in the selectmen’s office when Harold’s call came in. Suffice to say, the reaction to it was risibly hysterical. I can only presume the reaction at the ConnDOT garage was similar.
Come to think of it, many years earlier, when the crew reconstructing my rather long driveway left some arboreal detritus overnight on what was actually my side of the property line, Harold X had, instead of complaining to me, prevailed upon the first selectman to complain to me. And Harold was lots more neighborly and rational—and even friendly—back then. Go figure.
Anyway, that afternoon, Harold X, having been rebuffed by me and the town—and presumably the state—did what any petulant child would do in the circumstance and, instead of simply removing the Greenberg sign, went to the trouble of painting a big X in silver paint on each side of the offensive placard as it stood. (That’s why I call him Harold X, by the way, rather than Harold A, B, or C.)
Thus, it’s perfectly obvious that Harold X’s purposive desecration of that one Greenberg sign put a curse on poor Mark’s candidacy, inevitably dooming it and assuring the re-election of Congresswoman Esty. (Remember her?) I mean, what else could have caused Mark to lose? Didn’t his campaign sign boldly proclaim “Because You Deserve Better”? Well, even though he almost single-handedly helped Chabad Lubavitch of Litchfield County Inc invade and desecrate Litchfield, Mark Greenberg certainly did deserve better than to have his sign desecrated and his campaign cursed to oblivion by Harold X.
And the aftermath is even more pitiful. And more incredible. And more ridiculous. Because I refused to do his bidding, a few weeks after the cursed election Harold X confronted me and, boasting “I never forget,” banned me from ever again walking across his lawn. Yes, I was and am summarily banished from the consuetudinary verdant path that I and generations of Scotties had been treading for over four decades, ever since Harold X’s ancient harridan of a grandmother, Me-Ma X, haunted the manse from her bed, well before adult [sic] Harold X inherited the property.
Affable, neighborly, non-confrontational recluse that I am, I humbly apologized to Harold X for my thoughtless refusal to acquiesce to his asinine demand. But he wasn’t willing to forgive. Or forget.
Shortly thereafter, Harold X peevishly confided, “One thing I hate is phonies, you’re a phony, and you’ve lied ever since I’ve known you.” What can I say? Next thing you know, he’ll nominate me for governor. Or president. (To Harold X’s credit, however, he was resolutely, surprisingly, and creditably opposed to Donald Trump. So he’s not all bad. But that’s another story.)
To exacerbate the silliness, Harold X put up “no trespassing” signs facing a part of my driveway and our beautiful neighbor’s house, presumably for my benefit. Our beautiful neighbor found them ugly, not to mention tacky, disgraceful, and unbelievable. He took them down within the month. And our new beautiful neighbor has no idea Harold X’s “no trespassing” signs had ever befouled my driveway.
In his haste to sock it to me, Harold X even went over the line, as it were, posting a sign effectively warning me to keep off my own property. I’m still incredulous that Harold X actually sprung for the signs, as he’s even cheaper than I. Will he spring for closed-circuit TV or a fence? Or a Prozac?
When Harold X is in Litchfield—he actually lives in the notorious first congressional district and comes here for rural recreation and to reassure himself that his manse is still standing—he still can be observed every now and then diligently patrolling his perimeter, armed with what looks like a camera and who knows what else, hoping to catch and perhaps dispatch a certain trespasser in the act.
But isn’t that what neighbors do when they have hissy fits? Let’s hear it for dirty old men! Whoops. Freudian slip showing. Make that grumpy old men, as my percipient son calls us.
In all events, I apprised Congresswoman Esty’s minions of the invaluable assistance Harold X’s curse on Mark Greenberg rendered her 2014 campaign and of the debt Connecticut Democrats owed at least one grumpy old Litchfield Republican. Mrs. Esty should therefore have done the right thing and thanked Harold X for doing his part to keep Connecticut’s congressional delegation all Democrat. But I wasn’t counting on it . . .
31 October—The bright spot in this year’s rather perfunctory Republican campaign to regain majorities on Litchfield town boards is the town committee’s SAY NO TO HARTFORD lawn signs. The pithy and pointed admonition, while really extraneous to the municipal campaign, is right on the mark and needs to be emphasized at every opportunity. By everybody.
SAY NO TO HARTFORD is a concise and polite way of telling the politicians who have ruled Connecticut for far too long that Litchfield, like most small towns, neither needs nor wants state government—controlled by highly partisan, power-crazed, complacent Democrats—imposing mandates inimical to the interests of the towns.
If the mandates in things like zoning and education actually benefited the towns, there’d be no problem; but the proposed and actual mandates coming out of Hartford these days, besides being insulting, serve only to further the questionable, self-serving ends of Connecticut Democrats by promoting the interests of likely Democratic voters. If, for instance, small-town zoning were to be corrupted in order to force low-cost residential construction, that would encourage Democrat-inclined families to move in, multiply, and eventually displace established Republican-inclined voters and time-tested administrations.
One problem for Litchfield Republicans this year, however, is that the town’s incumbent first selectman, Democrat Denise Raap, emphasized the need to keep Hartford out of Litchfield’s affairs at her debate last month with Republican hopeful Dan Martineau and, since being elected two years ago, has, along with other small-town CEOs, been working diligently to achieve that end.
The other problem is that, while virtually all small-town administrators and administrations—regardless of party—want to maintain a degree of autonomy (a.k.a. home rule) and keep Hartford off their backs, an election for local municipal offices is not the vehicle for actually limiting Hartford’s intrusion and interference in local government.
It’s no secret that the poorly managed larger cities depend on Hartford’s largess and ability to prey on well-managed small towns in any number of ways in order to bail out the cities in perpetuity. As Karl Marx put it, “From each according to ability, to each according to need.” With that principle as practiced by Connecticut Democrats, the cities have nothing to worry about. Ever.
Thus, the most effective vehicle for saying anything at all to Hartford is actually the biennial election of state, rather than local, officials—senators and representatives in the Connecticut General Assembly—as well as the quadrennial election of the governor and other constitutional officers.
Next year, Connecticut Republicans must regain the governorship and/or a majority in at least one of the houses of the General Assembly, lest the state sink even deeper into the cesspool of debt and domination created by Hartford’s self-serving spendthrift Democrat busybodies. If the Democrats are allowed to retain unbridled power, residents of smaller towns are certain to feel the pain more than anyone else. And the people who are forced to pay punitive taxes in several guises and suffer legislation that enables and supports the irresponsible extravagance and social agenda of Connecticut Democrats will be even more impotent and victimized.
Sad to say, right now it doesn’t look like Connecticut Republicans are up to the task . . .
