Blame it on Rio

Normally when I write this blog, I let emotion drive the words. I write about what I feel—my anger, frustration, or joy—at what’s happening in the world around me. Without getting too bookish or nerdy, it’s my own soliloquy from Hamlet:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.”

I emote, but I rarely get personal—not in judging individuals or describing my own life. This week, though, I’m breaking that rule. I’m getting a little more personal, opening my emotional kimono wider than usual.

Why now? Because this week I attended a significant high school reunion. I won’t tell you which one, but let’s just say the number was higher than our parents’ ages when we graduated.

It’s a cliché to say that high school is a transformative—and often traumatic—time. We’re larvae just trying to survive long enough to build the chrysalis that will protect us while we transform into whatever final form awaits. My high school years were no different. But I believe I was luckier than many. Our class of nearly 400 students was, at least from my perspective, particularly close. Sure, there were rivalries and petty differences—probably some bullies and other unpleasant folks—but time has sandblasted most of those memories away.

What I’ve carried with me all these years is the sense that if I were to unexpectedly meet any of my Summit High School classmates on the street, I’d be genuinely happy to see them—eager to learn where life’s journey had taken them and hopeful the years had brought them joy.

So why was I so nervous about attending this reunion?

Other than the usual pre-game jitters, much of my anxiety stemmed from my outspokenness about what our feckless leader Delta Tango and his toadies are doing to this country. I’m not shy about my opinions. I believe that if we don’t speak out now, we may lose the opportunity to speak at all. But classmates warned me that not everyone shares my point of view and that I should tread carefully.

My worrying was a waste of time.

From the minute I entered the Broadway Diner (we’re from New Jersey, after all), I felt the warmth one feels upon seeing an old friend after a long time apart. There’s no single English word for this emotion, so let’s make one up: reunionglow.

One of the first sparks of reunionglow came when I realized my memory hadn’t failed me. Despite the evolution from feckless teenagers to senior citizens, I could still recognize people by name—without relying on name tags featuring our yearbook photos. These days, when the neurons deliver information in real time, it feels like a major accomplishment.

Another source of reunionglow was hearing the arcs our lives had taken. It was like picking up a book I’d once loved, set aside, and was now resuming. No one I spoke with had lived in a straight line. Everyone’s path had zigged and zagged, hit potholes, and carried on. There was the woman who began as a lounge singer, went through a few detours, then entered medical school at fifty and is now a board-certified obstetrician. The friend who, despite five arterial stents, still generates more energy than a small nuclear plant. Even the girl who once would’ve been voted “Most Likely to Party” is now a devoted grandmother. I loved hearing it all.

That night, when I got home, I could barely fall asleep. I hadn’t felt that overstimulated since… high school.

The next day we met at our alma mater. Since moving back to my hometown over a decade ago to care for aging parents, I pass it almost every day. To me, it’s a familiar sight that—despite several additions—looks much the same. Looks deceive. The mid-century building has transformed into a modern learning facility that resembles a small junior college more than a modest small-town high school. That’s both good—and a little horrifying.

The good: the school is fully equipped to prepare students for the century ahead. From STEAM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics) labs and production facilities to courses in entrepreneurship, Mandarin, financial literacy, and the culinary arts, it embodies a well-rounded liberal-arts education.

The horrifying: the extensive preparations for active shooters, bomb threats, and other horrors of our times. I’m glad they’re prepared, but devastated that our world has sunk so low that such readiness is necessary. My generation let this happen—it’s a stain on whatever legacy we claim.

Two things I saw that day gave me hope. First, four large black-and-white portraits in the cafeteria—Einstein, John Lennon, Mother Teresa, and Beethoven—reminded me that today’s youth are encouraged to identify with dreamers who enriched the world with kindness, brilliance, and music.

The second was a poster that read: “Hanna Weschler: We hold your promise. Never forget.” Beneath the image of a woman holding her daughter’s hand was the caption:
“Depicted above are Hanna and her mother walking together in Kraków, Poland, following World War II. Both are survivors of Auschwitz and the Holocaust. Adopt a Survivor Project: Fall 2021.”

As the son of a survivor—and the relative of many who did not—seeing that poster gave me hope. Despite our current political turmoil, this generation will not forget.

The penultimate moment of reunionglow came at a party held in a mansion that serves as headquarters for an old-school women’s charitable organization in our town called The Junior Fortnightly Club. It’s a throwback to a time when families didn’t need two incomes to survive—when women busied themselves with charitable work and men took the train into the city, self-medicating in the bar cars on the way home. Walking into that mansion from a past that shares little with today’s realities, I couldn’t help but feel that we, too, were relics.

Inside was a roaring party—rooms full of people getting reacquainted, sharing stories, reminiscing about the days when our world consisted of this town and these very people. The energy was palpable; it could have overwhelmed even the most hardened cynic.

Three distinct emotions defined that night for me.

The first came as I posed for a photo with classmates I’d known since elementary school. Looking at those faces—people I’ve known since the world was young and still dewy—I realized I could see them as they are now, burnished with time, and as they were then. It wasn’t Einstein’s space-time continuum so much as Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism: a blending of past and present that felt wondrous and unique.

The second emotion was hope. Many at the party had seen my outspoken political posts. Several sought me out to share their own thoughts on the maelstrom we’re living through. It gave me optimism that all is not lost—that we’ll emerge scarred but better for the struggle.

The last emotion came as I stood before a poster titled “In Loving Memory” honoring classmates who had passed. Second column from the left, third from the bottom, was my best friend, Rich. Seeing his name gave me pause—not only because I miss him every day, but because I could imagine our conversation about the reunion. He’d have refused to come, insisting that if you hadn’t maintained a friendship through the years, there was no reason to reconnect now.

I know what I’d have told him: “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

And I can hear his answer: “You go, and you can tell me later.”

Which, I suppose, is what I’ve just done.

I was just rolling over in bed for the first time when my phone rang.

I despise when my phone rings early in the morning. Not only does it rob me of that first cup of coffee and those few peaceful moments when the world still seems at ease with itself, but at that hour it’s almost always bad news. You know that saying, “Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.” Its corollary should be, “There’s no such thing as a positive phone call before 7 a.m.”

I glanced at the screen. It read “The Ecru House”—the independent-living condo association where Uncle Trump lives. Perhaps this was good news. I know, that’s a terrible thing to think, but lately I’ve been waking up half-hoping to see the news that he’d passed peacefully during the night. Don’t get me wrong: I mourn any death. But he’s become such a burden that his release from the mortal coil wouldn’t exactly draw tears from me.

I answered with reluctant anticipation. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. It was Linda Landsman, the community association manager at Ecru House.

“Mr. Damroche, I’m sorry to call you so early,” she said, “but we’re having some serious issues with your Uncle Trump, and we need to talk to someone in the family.”

“I’m not sure why you’re calling me,” I replied. “Have you tried his children—Mike or John? They’re supposed to handle emergencies.”

“We’ve tried, but they don’t answer. Your cousin Mike did send us an offensive meme of someone wearing a sombrero, though.”

“Can’t this wait until they return your call?”

She sighed. “We’ve been trying for days. It’s almost as if they’re afraid of him. And the problems are getting out of hand. We hate to burden you, but could you come down and talk to us?”

I really didn’t want to. I had my Saturday planned, and a trip to Ecru House to discuss my uncle’s bad behavior was not on the agenda.

“Can you give me some examples of what’s going on?”

“Honestly, I don’t know where to start,” she said, exasperated. “Did your uncle tell you about the duck pond incident?”

“No.”

“He complained about some Canada Geese in the pond—said they were an invasive species taking resources from the Mallards. I explained they’ve been nesting here for thousands of years. He got angry, called me ugly names, and stormed off. The next day, a company called ICE Wildlife Management showed up, attacking the geese with German Shepherds and pyrotechnics. They started rounding up the rest to take to an ‘undisclosed location.’”

“Were you able to stop them?”

“Eventually, but it took some doing. Apparently, your uncle promised them a bonus if they finished quickly.”

“Okay, that’s awful, but it’s under control now, right?”

“If only. Has anyone told you what he did in the clubhouse?”

I hesitated. “No… what now?”

“He went around taping up copies of the Ten Commandments—thirty-point font—on every door. When staff told him that violated the condo rules about religious postings, he launched into a long, rambling monologue about how this is a Christian country, that we’re violating his free-speech rights. When we started taking the posters down, he stormed off. The next morning, we were served with a $100 million lawsuit.”

“What did your lawyers say?”

“They said it’s a nuisance suit and we’ll likely win—but it’ll cost time, energy, and money. The board might just settle to avoid the headache.”

“Wouldn’t that set a bad precedent?”

“No doubt, but they’re worried a drawn-out lawsuit will hurt property values.”

“Oh.”

“And that’s not even the latest incident.”

“Should I ask?”

“You shouldn’t—but in for a penny, in for a pound. Yesterday your uncle was golfing on the condo course. His group was painfully slow—multiple tee shots, endless mulligans, lining up every putt. Foursomes were stacked up behind him, missing their tee times. We sent a marshal to speed him up and asked him to let others play through. He refused. When a couple of players confronted him, he became so abusive that he was asked to leave the course.”

“That sounds awful.”

“I’m not done.”

“Shit.”

“Last night, several golfers from that group had their doorbells rung around midnight. When they opened the door, your uncle was standing there—dressed as the Grim Reaper, scythe and all—pointing at them with a bruised hand, saying, ‘I am the Reaper, and you will pay for your sins.’”

I was speechless. “I’ll come down and talk to him,” I said finally.

When I arrived that afternoon, my uncle greeted me in golf clothes three sizes too small, revealing far more of his girth than anyone needed to see, topped with a bright red baseball cap that read, “I’m Right About Everything.”

“Oh good, you’re here,” he said. “You have to see what I built.”

He led me to the dining room. On the white tablecloth sat a series of Lego buildings labeled with the names of Ecru House facilities. Surrounding them was a phalanx of toy soldiers, rifles aimed at the miniature condos.

“What is all this?” I asked.

“The people aren’t listening,” he said tersely. “It’s time to send in the troops.”

Pointing to a collection of toy soldiers in a pile off to the side I ask “What are those soldiers.”

“Oh they were the generals. They wouldn’t laugh at my jokes so I fired them.”

Flabbergasted I responded “Maybe instead of sending in the troops,” I suggested, “you should listen to what people are saying.”

He pointed to his hat. “No. There’s no conversation to be had. The time for talking is over. Now we act.”

“But have you actually tried talking?”

“Why bother? They’re too stupid and too crooked to understand the truth.”

“The staff ran a poll,” I said carefully, “and they say most residents are angry about what you’re doing. Don’t you think it makes sense to change course before things get ugly?”

He glared. “Only a very evil person would ask a question like that.”

A few minutes later, I was in Administrator Landsman’s office.

“Well?” she asked.

“Clearly he’s off his meds,” I said. “He was crazy before, but now he’s got a full-scale diorama on his dining table. Things are about to go from weird to ugly. Isn’t there anything you can do—call in a psych evaluation or something?”

“We can’t. Legally, only his sons, John and Mike, have that authority.”

“And they won’t do a thing. They won’t even answer the phone.”

“Yep.”

“Shit. We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Oh yeah.”

I Have a Very Kind and Loving and Much Younger Sister

A couple of days ago, I arrived at my much much younger sister’s home unannounced and uninvited. I do this from time to time—especially if, as in this case, I haven’t seen her in over a month. And, lest you think me rude, I came bearing gifts: a box of Brazilian chocolates with little pieces of banana embedded inside (they keep your mouth happy for hours afterward), and a box of Reese’s-flavored Oreos.

That last gift may sound odd. After all, my sister has written the definitive cookie cookbook—The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies (available now on Amazon)—but it’s our thing. Whenever I find a new Oreo flavor, I bring it to her, and together we make the definitive decision about whether it deserves a spot in the pantheon.

My much younger sister was just leaving the house when I showed up. She could easily have given me the stink eye and said, “Great, you just ruined my plans to escape to Paper Plane coffee shop to get some writing done.” But she didn’t. As I said, she’s the kind of sister who is loving and kind.

We walked inside, weaving between greetings from Norman Bates, her enthusiastic 60-pound puppy, and disdainful glares from her two cats, Clyde and Calvin. She noticed I was limping as I lowered myself uncomfortably onto one of her kitchen stools. I explained that since returning from Brazil I’d been suffering from sciatica, with semi-predictable, extraordinarily painful cramps in my left buttock.

As she broke open the Oreos, she asked all the right questions:
– When did this begin? (On the walk from our airplane in Miami to customs and border control.)
– What was I doing to relieve the pain? (Naproxen and McKenzie Method exercises.)
– Had I called the doctor? (Yes, I had an appointment with my physiatrist next week.)

The conversation paused while we tested Oreo’s newest flavor. (Two thumbs up, although we split on whether they should be dunked in plain milk or Fairlife Chocolate.) Then she said, “I’ve got a person. Her name is Sharon Miamiga. I’ll make you an appointment. You’ll feel totally different afterward.”

Two days later, I found myself sitting in the entryway of a late-nineteenth-century home-turned-medical practice, waiting for Ms. Miamiga to see me. The pain had only escalated. She greeted me warmly and ushered me into what was likely once the parlor. After a few preliminary questions and tests, she invited me to lie on the treatment table.

As she began to work the muscles of my lower back with acupressure, she asked when the trouble had started. I told her about my long flight home from Brazil, but also that the pain hadn’t appeared until I stumbled at border control when confronted by a portrait of the Great Leader.

She nodded. “Sometimes long flights can exacerbate incipient conditions.”

I shrugged. “Maybe, but I’ve taken this flight plenty of times and it never happened before.”

She pressed further: “When else do the attacks happen?”

“Well, the other day I was at the gym on the Stairmaster. Normally it doesn’t trigger attacks, but I made a mistake. I started my workout right as our Commander-in-Tweet was giving his address to the UN. Every TV was filled with his image—and worse, closed captioning. Despite my best efforts to ignore him, I heard him lecturing the UN on how immigration was ruining countries, how climate change was a con job, how he had solved all the world’s wars, and how Christianity was the most persecuted religion on earth. Finally, I had too much. I stepped off the machine, and my left cheek seized so badly I could barely walk.”

Shirin, now focused on my hamstrings, asked, “Any other times?”

“Yes. The other day I was at my desk when alerts popped up about Captain Combover’s big news conference. He claimed acetaminophen was a major cause of autism. It was horrifying—he couldn’t even pronounce the drug properly. The studies he cited were about correlation, not causation. By that logic, you could say pickles cause autism. Many pregnant women eat pickles, after all. Major studies around the world have debunked this link, but instead of funding real autism research, billions will now go toward nonsense that financially benefits RFK Jr. and Dr. Oz. By the time I got up from my desk, my buttock was spasming so badly I had to sit back down. .”

She started to massage my stomach to stimulate my lymph system. “And?”

“Well, on the drive here I made the mistake of listening to CNN. Hair Force One was announcing his new executive order on domestic terrorism. But it wasn’t about domestic terrorism. If it were, it would have focused on ultra-right-wing nationalist groups—the very ones the FBI (back when it wasn’t run by presidential toadies) identified as the chief domestic threat. Instead, it targeted Black Lives Matter, Antifa, and so-called George Soros projects. This wasn’t about terrorism. It was about suppressing opposition. And then, as if that weren’t enough, the report was followed by news that Secretary of War Hegseth had convened unprecedented secret meetings with all his generals and admirals. By the time I parked, I could hardly get out of my car.”

As she worked the rigid muscles of my neck, Sharon said, “Hmm. I think I know what the problem is.”

On my way home, I called my much younger, extraordinarily kind sister (whose cookbook The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies is also available at Barnes & Noble) to thank her for sending me to Shirin Irani.

She asked, “Did it help?”

“Yes. I feel much better. And she thinks she discovered the source of my problem.”

Curious, my sister said, “What does she think is causing it?”

Smiling, I replied, “She says Donald Trump is a pain in my ass.”

We had made it! 

By “made it,” I mean we were finally sitting in our seats on American Airlines Flight 1801 from Miami to Newark, NJ. Not the easiest task these days. First, we had to endure the eight-hour, fifty-five-minute flight from Rio to Miami in economy, in front of a very talkative Brazilian family who violated the unwritten “whisper only” rule on overnight flights. Then came the really stressful part: navigating Immigration control. 

Virtually every day in the Brazilian press, there’s another story about Brazilians caught up in Delta Tango’s misguided, brown-shirt-like tactics against undocumented immigrants. Like Luciano Draco, pulled over in Martha’s Vineyard and detained despite having legal documentation by ICE agents who failed to identify themselves. Or Marcelo Gomes da Silva, a high school student detained on his way to volleyball practice—though not a target—who was held for a week without a shower and forced to sleep on concrete floors. Or Caroline Dias Goncalves, a Utah nursing student pulled over by sheriffs, handed to ICE agents, and detained for fifteen days in Aurora, Colorado. 

Add to this the current administration’s overt hostility toward Brazil, largely because the Great Leader has a fondness for Jair Bolsonaro, the convicted felon and former president (sound familiar?). That hostility includes 50% tariffs on all Brazilian imports and visa restrictions against Brazil’s Supreme Court Chief Justices, their families, and allies—ironically for “free speech violations.” (The Brazilian constitution makes hate speech a crime… but that would never happen in the U.S., right? Stay tuned.) 

It was enough to make my wife ask me, for two weeks straight: *“My darlingo, do you think they will let me into the United States? Do you think they will arrest me?”* 

She was serious. I answered with a confidence I didn’t fully feel: *“Don’t worry. Those cases are outliers. You’ll be fine.”* 

Still, we were both nervous when we separated at Border Control—Elaine to the non-citizen line, me to Global Entry. (Trust me: worth every bit of the $75 fee and interview hassle.) She asked me to wait for her on the other side, and I promised I would. My Global Entry took less than a minute—facial recognition and a wave—and then I stood in the hallway, anxiously scanning every group of passengers for her. It felt like hours, though it was only twenty-five minutes. When I finally saw her, the relief was overwhelming, and the hug we shared had the strength usually reserved for long-lost relatives or when the doctor says the bump is nothing to worry about. 

Then came baggage claim (always stressful), customs, the baggage re-check line, and the even longer security line—each delay eating into our connection time. Finally, we faced the long walk from Gate D30 to Gate D4. For the uninitiated, that’s nearly a kilometer, fifteen to twenty minutes at pace. 

So yes, settling into seats 14E and 14F felt like a true accomplishment. I closed my eyes for a well-deserved nap as the flight attendants shut the doors. That’s when the pilot came on the PA. 

He started off wrong: *“Welcome to Flight 1801 from Miami to beautiful Newark, N.J.”* His tone dripped with the same snideness “Laugh-In” used for its “Beautiful Downtown Burbank” gag. I grew up in New Jersey. I live in New Jersey. Newark is many things, but “beautiful” isn’t usually how people describe it. Still, Mr. Captain, you don’t get to disparage my state. Not your city. Not your place. 

Then came the real gut punch: *“We are all aware of the terrible events of last week. Charlie Kirk was a patriot…”* 

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. 

Let’s start with basics. Airline pilots are bound by a code of conduct that limits PA announcements to operational information. (I checked: American Airlines strictly prohibits political commentary by captains.) In my 3.2 million miles on AA, I had never once heard a political pronouncement from the cockpit. Until now. 

Charlie Kirk was not a patriot. Not even close. 

Among other things, he said: *“One of the reasons we’re living through a constitutional crisis is that we no longer have a Christian nation, but we have a Christian form of government, and they’re incompatible.”* One cornerstone of our democracy is that it is secular. The Founders wrote extensively about the dangers of state religion, having seen the damage it wrought elsewhere. 

He also said: *“This is a Christian state. I’d like to see it stay that way.”* A patriot holds the Constitution sacred. Declaring the U.S. a “Christian state” undermines our founding principles and disqualifies you from that label. 

What Kirk was, is a Christian nationalist. That is not patriotism. Some might even call it a version of fascism. Despite his despicable death, he was a controversial political figure—not someone who should be eulogized over an airplane PA system. 

I sat in my seat and seethed. 

The fire was stoked by the fact that, just the day before, Jimmy Kimmel was suspended for saying: *“MAGA gang is desperately trying to characterize this kid who murdered Charlie Kirk as anything other than one of them, and doing everything they can to score political points from it.”* That was factually true. But ABC suspended him after the head of the FCC pressured networks, saying: *“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. These companies can find ways to change conduct … on Kimmel, or … there’s going to be additional work for the FCC ahead.”* He even said he wasn’t done yet in dealing with “perceived issues in the media ecosystem.” 

And this, from an FCC that said nothing when Brian Kilmeade suggested homeless people should be given involuntary lethal injections. To me, calling for the mass murder of the homeless in Nazi fashion is far worse than pointing out that MAGA was exploiting Kirk’s death. 

Somewhere over Delaware, I realized I was returning to a country I no longer recognized—a place where you can say anything you want as long as it aligns with MAGA principles. A country where you’re welcome only if you’re white and Christian. A place where empathy—dismissed by Kirk as a “made-up New Age term”—is reserved only for those who look and worship like you. 

It left me wondering why I came back at all.

I doomscroll. 

There, I admitted it. And honestly, it feels good to get it off my chest. I’m not proud of it—I know it rots my brain faster than RFK Jr.’s brain worm. It keeps me from doing things that are actually productive, like reading a book or even enjoying a quiet moment of reflection. But when my brain is too fried to string two thoughts together, and my energy has dipped to drooling levels, doomscrolling requires the fewest neurons and only exercises one muscle: my index finger. 

And since this is now a confessional, I’ll admit one of my favorite things to doomscroll: MAGA Karens and Kens losing their minds over things most people with a shred of civility would simply let it roll off their backs like morals at a Jeffrey Epstein party. 

Defining the Species
Before going further, let’s define a “Karen” or “Ken.” According to Urban Dictionary: 
*A middle-aged man or woman, typically white, who makes other people’s problems their inconvenience, even though they aren’t remotely affected.* 

Examples: 
– Karen sues the city council after it installs a stop sign that blocks her sunlight for two minutes a day. The sign was put up because a schoolboy was killed by a speeding driver. 
– Ken refuses to wear a mask for a five-minute grocery run during a pandemic, harasses the workers, demands the manager, and threatens to sue. 
– Karen complains that her favorite parking spot was replaced by a wheelchair ramp, parks there anyway, and films a vlog about it. 

If you think any of these Karens or Kens are on the side of righteousness, now’s a good time to stop reading and resume doomscrolling. 

A Banner Week for MAGA Karens and Kens
This week has been particularly horrifying—and entertaining—for doomscrolling MAGA Karens and Kens. 

First up: Tori Branum, a MAGA congressional candidate, decided to report workers at a Hyundai battery factory to ICE simply because they were Korean. She had no idea whether they were in the U.S. legally or whether they were specialists brought in for their skills. She just didn’t like that they weren’t white. The fallout? Eight thousand jobs lost, an international incident, and Korean companies now rethinking future U.S. investment. 

Then there’s Rep. Nancy Mace, who went full Karen by blaming Democrats for the horrific murder of Charlie Kirk. She said: 
> “This is what the Left has done to brainwash people who are already mentally ill, already mentally fragile… This is about fighting for what’s right. I mean, all he did, all he used, were his words, and he was murdered for his words.” 

When asked whether Republicans, by the same logic, bore responsibility for the murder of two Democratic lawmakers in Minnesota, she snapped: 
> “Are you kidding me? We don’t know what condition Charlie Kirk is in right now… Some raging, leftist lunatic put a bullet through his neck… And you want to talk about Republicans right now? No.” 

I’ll grant her some grace—it was the heat of the moment. Still, refusing to accept any responsibility while casting all the blame elsewhere is peak Karen/Ken. Worse, her comments made me think: had she herself ever said anything incendiary that might encourage her own “mentally fragile” supporters to commit violence against Democrats or progressives? 

Turns out, yes. Among her quotes: 
– “Democrats were completely unhinged.” 
– “Looks like Charleston County libraries are more interested in grooming kids than educating them.” 
– “This is about grooming kids and transitioning them when they’re young prepubescent kids.” 
– “You people on the Left are absolutely f—ing crazy. So I went off…” 
– “Some books in libraries are child porn.” 

And here’s the kicker: she was wrong about Kirk’s killer. Tyler James Robinson’s family described themselves as “100% MAGA.” Robinson had no party affiliation. His hatred of Kirk stemmed from believing Kirk spread hate and fascism. In other words, the very kind of disinformation Mace traffics in fueled the mentality behind Kirk’s murderer. 

A Personal Reminder
I grew up during a violent era in American politics. Before I turned ten, John F. Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, and Medgar Evers had all been assassinated. For a child, it was terrifying—and it remains a brutal reminder that political violence has no place in a democracy. 

The Fuse of Intolerance
Whether MAGA Karen/Ken culture contributes to violence is for you to decide. But intolerance itself is an incendiary device waiting to go off. 

You see it all the time: 
– People insisting our culture be ruled by *their* religion, contrary to both the Constitution and basic humanity. 
– Folks believing someone else’s gender identity or sexual orientation is their business, though it has no effect on them. 
– Individuals convinced DEI is an affront, instead of a way to give long-marginalized people a fair shot—when in fact a representative society uses all its talent to the fullest. 

I could go on. But when you’re intolerant of others and believe your way is the *only* way, you’re not only betraying democratic principles—you’re lighting a fuse on a bomb. 

Which means doomscrolling these days isn’t just a guilty pleasure. It might actually live up to it’s name.

That morning, twenty-four years ago, began like so many others for me. I rose early, completed my morning ablutions, walked the dog, and was in a cab heading to my office at The Sporting News before 7 a.m.

You could not help but notice it was an extraordinarily beautiful day. The heat and humidity of summer had given way to clear blue skies and crisp, fall-like weather. The kind of day my mother used to describe as “positively Swiss.” It was so beautiful that I hesitated before entering my building, wanting to savor it before putting my nose to the grindstone.

At 8:15, I was convinced the most exceptional thing that would happen that day was that my assistant had actually arrived on time and kindly brought me my second cup of coffee. I thought it was going to be a good day—even when I heard an airplane flying low and fast over our heads. I casually remarked to her that the FAA didn’t take kindly to aircraft flying so low over the city.

That plane turned out to be the first, lined up with the neighboring Empire State Building, flying down Fifth Avenue at five hundred miles per hour. We learned the truth when someone came running into my office shouting that the Towers were on fire. We ran to the southern windows of our 27th-floor office. From there, we watched in horror the moments that changed us forever.

We saw the second plane hit, erupting in a burst of orange flame. We watched the first tower crumble and fall. And then the second. We had no way of knowing, or comprehending, what had just happened:

• 246 people who had boarded their flights minutes before had cruelly died when their planes were turned into missiles.
• 2,606 people innocently working at their desks lost their lives in clouds of flame and dust.
• 343 firefighters ran into the Towers and never emerged.
• 60 police officers disappeared into the buildings, never to be seen again.
• 8 paramedics went to save lives and lost theirs instead.

I had no way of knowing that my childhood friend and neighbor, Todd Rancke—the first boy I met when I moved to Summit—was among the victims.

After making sure my staff had a plan to get home, and my address in case they couldn’t, I began my walk back. I remember seeing dust-covered people, heads down, no doubt in shock, mechanically moving uptown.

On Madison Avenue, cars were lined up bumper to bumper, yet there were no horns, no impatience—just the tramp of feet as pedestrians made their way home.

Crossing the park, I saw groups of people huddled around boom boxes listening to grim news broadcasts. Overhead, unbelievably, fighter jets patrolled the skies. Warplanes. Over my city. At the Imagine mosaic, someone had already laid flowers. I thought of Lennon’s lyrics:

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…

Never had those words felt so far away.

I withdrew money from an ATM, knowing cash could come in handy in a disaster. I shopped at an empty Fairway, worried food supplies might run out. Then I went home, turned on CNN, and waited for the displaced and the dispossessed to arrive. They came. They went. Together, we watched endless loops of the Towers crumbling.

I remember the frustration of trying to reach my parents. The collapse of the towers had destroyed a major AT&T switching station, and cell lines were jammed. Only my BlackBerry worked. Hours later, when I finally got through, I will never forget the relief of being able to tell them I loved them.

The next morning, I rose early and went for a long run as I was training for the Chicago Marathon, just weeks away. Running south along the West Side Greenway, I could see smoke rising from the pile and the nearly mile-long line of ambulances waiting to help those who would never need help again. I felt I had to do something.

After finishing my run, I went to the American Red Cross HQ near my home and waited sixteen hours to give blood we hoped would be needed. When I emerged, the wind had shifted. The smell from Ground Zero now engulfed the city. It was unlike anything I had ever encountered—the smell of death, fire, and concrete dust. I wondered if this was the smell of hell.

That night, I didn’t lie awake thinking about lessons. I was simply grateful that most of those I loved were safe. But in the twenty-four years since, I have thought a lot about that day and what it taught me.

Some lessons were immediate:

• Be grateful for everything. Every day is precious. Savor it.
• Open your heart wider. Love more. Accept others for their gifts.
• Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. And if the worst comes, still look for the best in people—even if they haven’t earned that trust.
• My family—my wife, sister, brother, brother-in-law, nieces, and nephews—are my most precious gifts. I do what I can every day to make sure they know they are cherished.

But the most important lessons of that day seem to have faded. This is especially true in these MAGA days.

I think about how together we felt as a country in the days that followed 9/11, and how good it felt when everyone had each other’s back. Donald Trump did not bring us together; he divided us. He and his political allies chose to fracture rather than include. And to be blunt, I have grown intolerant of their nonsense.

To them I say: September 11 should have taught you that we are all in this together.

That you need to look out for your family, friends, and neighbors. And that means being woke when woke simply means treating people as they wish to be treated. Pronouns, sexual orientation, religion—these are personal and private choices that do not affect you, and no one should feel “less than” for being who they are.

When someone is homeless or mentally ill—or both—they should not be arrested or vilified. We have an obligation to help them up. Capitalism is as broken as communism if it creates a permanent underclass that cannot afford housing or food because wages have not kept up with costs.

Facts are facts. Cut the crap. Vaccines save lives. Get vaccinated. If you choose not to be vaccinated, you are choosing to separate yourself from the group—the society—that depends on one another to protect the vulnerable: the elderly, the immunocompromised. Being part of society comes with obligations as well as benefits. If you refuse the obligations, you are not entitled to the benefits.

If that day taught us anything, it is this: we do not get to choose the moments that define us, but we do get to choose how we show up for each other. Honor the dead by choosing well.

Every family has one.

That uncle, aunt, cousin, or distant relation who shows up at family gatherings and immediately creates a scene by expressing an opinion that alienates almost everyone else. You know the type. The person who walks into the kitchen and, if they see a male relative cooking, asks to see his estrogen patch. Or who insists the moon landing was faked, the earth is flat, cranberry sauce is a government tracking device, and pumpkin spice lattes are a communist conspiracy designed to decimate American agriculture.

They have an opinion about everything, backed only by “facts” picked up from Fox News, Joe Rogan’s podcast, and however Alex Jones is pushing out conspiracies these days. Every encounter leaves you wondering what meds they’re on and hoping they won’t be invited to the next reunion. But somehow, they always are.

I am ashamed to admit that I have one too. We call him Uncle Trump. And I wouldn’t bring him up, except I was guilted into visiting him last week. My cousin called and said, “None of the siblings will go, and you know how cranky he gets if people don’t visit and tell him how wonderful he is. Please.” So I took one for the team. I needed the mitzvah points.

I found him sitting on the porch of his “home.” He was wearing a bright red hat that read in capital white letters: I AM RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING, and a t-shirt stretched to its structural limits: Most Honest Man Alive. In front of him were the remains of his lunch—two Big Macs, two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, and a Diet Coke.

“Uncle Trump,” I said, “that’s quite the lunch. I thought you had started a new health regime?”

“This is healthy! I didn’t have a shake or fries.”

“But didn’t Dr. Kennedy tell you to eat more organic food and less fast food?”

He gave me a look. “First of all, he’s not a doctor. Doctors only tell you things you don’t want to hear because they have”—he raised his fingers in air quotes—“‘the facts.’ I like advice from people who think outside the box and give me explanations that make sense to me. Plus, he has the same tanning coach I do. Second, fast food is good for you. It’s always prepared the same way, tastes the same everywhere, and no one can slip poison into it. Just think how many lives fast food has saved from poisoning.”

“And who am I to argue with the man who is right about everything,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“But doesn’t that diet make you gain weight? That’s a couple thousand calories, and you don’t exercise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I weigh the same as I did in college. Two hundred and ten pounds. Kennedy told me so yesterday.”

I could have told him I also weigh 210 but with a waist eight inches smaller and six inches shorter. But since he’s “right about everything,” I tried a different tack.

“And what do you do for exercise?”

“I golf every day.”

“But you drive a cart.”

“Yes, and you have no idea how hard that is…”

I did. It isn’t. But why argue with the man who never lies?

So I switched subjects. “When are you going to get the new COVID vaccine?”

“You know I invented it.”

“I do. You remind us all the time. So are you going to get it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Kennedy says it doesn’t work.”

“But didn’t it save millions of lives during the pandemic?”

“Kennedy says that’s a hoax by researchers who only care about facts, not conjecture. And I believe that.”

“I’m confused. Didn’t you just take credit for inventing it?”

“Yes. I should get a prize.”

“Then why not get the vaccine?”

“Because we get too many shots.”

“But haven’t they saved hundreds of millions of lives, trillions in medical costs, and prevented countless illnesses?”

Uncle Trump looked at me as if I were being difficult. “What’s your point?”

I took a breath. “Don’t you think getting advice from Kennedy is a bad idea? Wouldn’t it be better to listen to someone who actually went to medical school or is at least a trained scientist?”

He shrugged. “I like contrary opinions.”

“Yeah, but Kennedy used heroin as a study aid, had a worm in his brain, and lets his grandchildren swim in polluted creeks. Don’t you think there are more qualified, less compromised people for contrary opinions?”

“But he laughs at my jokes. And when I offer an opinion, he always agrees with me.”

“Oh.” Since this was going nowhere, I asked, “How’s your friend Jeffrey?”

“You didn’t hear? They threw him out of the home! Said he was diddling the candy stripers.”

“Didn’t you hang out with him all the time? Whenever I visited, you two were thick as thieves. You didn’t know?”

He winked. “Of course not.”

“How could you not?”

“Well, I mean, I knew he liked young girls. Who doesn’t? But not that young.”

“What’s ‘that young’?”

“You know… young young.”

At this point, I’d had enough of Uncle Trump. “I have to go. I left Rosie the Wonderdog in the car, and she gets antsy if I’m away too long.”

He shot me a horrified look and whispered urgently, “You shouldn’t have done that. Don’t you know this place is crawling with Haitian immigrants? They steal pets and eat them. Kennedy told me.”

“Oy,” I thought. Out loud, I just said, “Guess I’d better run then.”

One of the most amazing discoveries while packing up our mother’s home was a stash of letters I had sent her from Camp Skoglund when I was ten. My favorite find was a letter I wrote on the one day I didn’t receive one from her. In it, I accused her of breaking her promise to write me every day. Reading it now laid me out. Why, for God’s sake, had my mother kept that ungrateful little missive for fifty years?

Ironically, finding it made me want to write her a letter to tell her what I had uncovered in her attic. You see, my mother taught all of us the art of the note. She never insisted that we put pen to paper (remember when people used pens?), but instead led by example. When she went on vacation, she sent us postcards that were clever and witty. When we were away at college or gone for any length of time, she sent us letters.

I remember when I was living in England with my buddy Rich. A note arrived from her describing an August day in New Jersey, which she called “positively Swiss” because the summer heat had finally broken. Rich and I were so charmed by that phrase that we talked about it even decades later.

Writing was imprinted onto our DNA. My brother David has published nine books and was the editor of Foreign Policy for years. My sister, whose cookbook The Secret Life of Chocolate Chip Cookies is now available for preorder and will be released on September 16 (our mother’s 96th birthday), teaches journalism to college students. Then there’s me—the black sheep—with just one novel and a blog to my name.

Still, I did follow her example. I wrote to her whenever I traveled (and with nearly 3.5 million American Airlines miles under my belt, that was often). Sometimes I sent postcards, though I never managed to make them as witty as hers. Occasionally I wrote longer letters, as when I was in Paris, alone at the Café de Flore, imagining what it must have been like for the Lost Generation she so admired. Later in her life, I sent her a daily email to let her know what I was up to or to share something that had caught my fancy.

I miss her. She has been gone nearly five and a half years, and I still sometimes pick up the phone to call her (she’s still on my favorites list) or start an email to her. Especially these days. She hated Donald Trump the way evangelical Christians hate Satan—and for the very same reason. She was convinced he was the devil incarnate. In her later years, she would sit watching MSNBC and curse at him with words that seemed to defy her Ferragamo loafers, “never leave the house without lipstick,” grandmother-of-four image.

This morning, as I walked through our neighborhood in Barra da Tijuca, admiring the newly bloomed orchids (Mom loved gardening), I began to wonder what note I might send her now, along with pictures of those opulent flowers:

—

Dear Mom,

It is a positively Swiss day here in Rio. The sun is shining, the temperatures are in the low 70s, and purple, white, and pink orchids are emerging from their long winter’s nap. Outside our home, a tree is giving birth to jackfruit. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to watermelon-sized fruit growing on a tree. It feels as though we’ve landed on another planet.

Last night we went to a reception for Elaine’s grandniece, celebrating her graduation from medical school. The ceremony was a curious blend of pep rally (students had cheering sections with balloons, banners, and chants), religious ritual (each graduate was blessed as they received their diplomas), and academia—complete with long-winded speeches about the future. To be fair, perhaps the speeches were less boring for those who understood Portuguese.

My favorite part of the evening was talking with the grandfather of the new doctor. He’s a Harvard-educated, reformed lawyer who spent his career in banking. You’d appreciate this: the first words I said to him were, “I’m so sorry for our President.” He laughed and immediately accepted me as a kindred spirit.

I told him I admired Brazil’s judicial system, especially the foresight of creating a separate court solely dedicated to electoral matters. Elections are the bedrock of democracy, and making sure they don’t get bogged down in an overburdened legal system allows for swift resolutions. If the U.S. had such a system—and had convicted Trump for interfering with the election, as Brazil may soon do with Bolsonaro for insurrection—we might not be in our current pickle.

He agreed, though sadly, saying it pained him to see the world’s greatest democracy sink so low, led by a man who makes policy decisions based on personal slights and greed. I told him I admired how Lula has handled Trump’s bullying, especially when he said: “No gringo is going to give me orders… Trump is not the emperor of the world.”

I asked him, as a former banker, how the tariffs might affect Brazil’s economy. He assured me Brazil would weather them easily. The government has already pledged to buy up excess honey and distribute it to schoolchildren. Beef producers have shifted focus domestically, lowering prices for citizens in this land of enthusiastic carnivores. And China is buying all the soy that once went to the U.S. (“Soy what?” I quipped, and he laughed.)

“What about coffee?” I asked. He smiled proudly: “The world loves Brazilian coffee. If we don’t sell it to the U.S., someone else will. The only thing a tariff on coffee will do is make Americans’ trips to Starbucks a wallet-breaker.”

Mom, that conversation reminded me why I love Brazil. Brazilians love the United States. They love us gringos. They want to be friends and they want to be friendly. But if we refuse to treat them with respect, they will be sad—then they’ll move on and find others who will.

Love you to the moon…
pdr

PRESS RELEASE

FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION

The Starbucks Revolution: Coffee Cargo Dumped in Santos Harbor in Protest of Global Tariffs and Corporate Overreach

SANTOS, BRAZIL – [Today’s Date] – In a stunt equal parts historic homage and caffeinated mischief, a group of Brazilian citizens staged what they are calling the “Starbucks Revolution” by sneaking onto a cargo vessel docked in Santos harbor late last night. The activists, dressed in costumes meant to resemble Indigenous Brazilians, tossed dozens of sacks of premium Arabica coffee beans—destined for Starbucks stores across the United States—directly into the waters of the Atlantic.

The group’s action, which they described as “performance protest with a splash of saltwater,” was deliberately modeled after the infamous Boston Tea Party of 1773, where American colonists protested high tea tariffs by dumping East India Company cargo into Boston Harbor.

“This is our Boston moment—only stronger, hotter, and with better crema,” said one masked participant, his face partially obscured by feathers and faded carnival paint. “If the American patriots could stand up to King George over tea, Brazilians can certainly stand up to exploitative coffee tariffs and Starbucks’ empire-building.”

History Repeats Itself (With a Dark Roast)

The activists, numbering roughly two dozen, claimed that their protest is aimed at drawing attention to tariff structures, trade inequalities, and the stranglehold multinational corporations hold over Brazilian coffee growers. The protestors issued a collective statement that read:

“For centuries, Brazil’s farmers have supplied the world with coffee, yet global profits funnel to boardrooms in Seattle, not the fields of Minas Gerais or Espírito Santo. We throw these beans into the sea not out of disrespect to our labor, but to honor it. Let the U.S. taste a harbor brew for once.”

Observers on the docks reported the scene as “half carnival, half chaos.” One dockworker noted that the costumes resembled “a mix between school pageant, Carnival rejects, and something from a bad tourism poster,” but conceded that the group’s energy was undeniable.

Starbucks Responds (Sort of)

While Starbucks headquarters in Seattle has not yet issued a formal comment, an anonymous regional executive suggested off the record: “Frankly, we’ve dealt with oat milk shortages, pumpkin spice hysteria, and frappuccino blenders on strike. A little maritime cosplay protest isn’t going to derail our Q3.”

Still, analysts noted that the cost of lost cargo could amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars, given that the vessel was reportedly carrying premium-grade coffee earmarked for U.S. holiday promotions. “That’s a lot of Gingerbread Lattes floating around the Atlantic right now,” one industry insider quipped.

Echoes of Lula and Trump

The group also tied their protest to broader political themes, quoting Brazilian President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, who earlier this year criticized former U.S. President Donald Trump for attempting to meddle in Brazilian legal affairs.

“President Lula reminded the world that Trump once tried to stick his orange fingers into Brazil’s judiciary and political system,” said another protester, adjusting a papier-mâché jaguar mask. “If Americans once dumped tea to resist an English king, Brazilians can dump coffee to resist political interference and economic domination from across the equator.”

Their statement drew laughs from onlookers but also sparked serious commentary among local journalists, who pointed out the irony of invoking American revolutionary imagery against American corporations.

A Brewing Movement?

Whether this “Starbucks Revolution” is a one-off prank or the start of a broader movement remains unclear. The group hinted at future actions, suggesting they may stage “latte blockades” in front of shopping malls or “macchiato marches” through São Paulo’s Avenida Paulista.

Local police, meanwhile, expressed mild exasperation. “It’s technically theft and destruction of cargo,” said one officer. “But on the other hand, it’s the most educational reenactment of U.S. history we’ve seen in Santos.” Authorities confirmed that while a few activists were detained, no serious charges have yet been filed.

The Snark Factor

Critics of the protest were quick to point out the contradictions. “Dressing up as Indigenous Brazilians to make a point about coffee tariffs? That’s cultural cosplay at best, appropriation at worst,” said a São Paulo academic. “But then again, Americans in Boston dressed as Mohawk Indians while protesting British tea. If anything, the Brazilians are just following the script.”

Meanwhile, Twitter (or X, depending on one’s loyalty to Elon Musk) lit up with hashtags like #StarbucksRevolution, #BostonBrew2.0, and #HarborLatte. One user posted: “Finally, a protest I can support AND make into an Instagram Reel. Dunk the beans!”

Closing Thoughts

Though it remains to be seen whether the Starbucks Revolution will alter trade policies, rattle Starbucks’ balance sheets, or simply amuse bored grad students writing theses on protest symbolism, the event has already carved its place in the annals of quirky political theater.

As one protester shouted while tossing the final burlap sack into the ocean:

“In 1773, they had tea. In 2025, we have coffee. The revolution will be roasted, not televised.”

“Don’t believe everything you read, and only half of what you see.”

Contact:
The Starbucks Revolution Collective (unofficial, unverified, and currently offline due to poor Wi-Fi in harbor warehouses)
Email: 8647@protonmail.com; forobolsonaro@protonmail.com
Instagram: @StarbucksRevolution