Blame it on Rio

The official motto of my alma mater, Summit Junior High School (now Lawton C. Johnson Summit Middle School), is “Knowledge is Power.”

Summit High School’s motto is “Creating the Future and Honoring the Past.” It emphasizes personal growth and preparing students for citizenship, learning, and employment in a changing world.

Syracuse University, where I earned my bachelor’s degree, uses the Latin motto “Suos Cultores Scientia Coronat”, which translates to “Knowledge crowns those who seek her.”

Each of these institutions did their best to indoctrinate me into the idea that knowledge is a good thing. That understanding our history can help us make fewer mistakes and achieve better outcomes in the future. That having a foundation in science and the scientific method enables critical thinking and more informed decision-making for my family, my friends, and my community. That reading—whether fiction or nonfiction—can build empathy, spark imagination, and fuel dreams.

It’s probably unfair to place all the blame on these schools. My parents were just as complicit. It was my mother who taught me to read and, in doing so, transformed books into magical portals to other times, places, and lives. And it was my father, a research scientist, who trained us to “turn over rocks” to see what lay beneath. His own unquenchable curiosity shaped my lifelong habit of asking “why,” “where,” “how,” and “who.”

Together, they ruined me. They doomed me to a life of never being satisfied with what I know. I’m addicted to discovery—constantly adding books to my library (both metaphorically and literally) and turning over metaphorical rocks in search of insight.

Last summer, this curiosity led me to I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I can’t recall what prompted me to finally read it, but I remember the power of her poem “Still I Rise,” which begins:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

That poem made me wonder who this woman was and how she had found her voice. Her memoir gave me a glimpse into what it was like to grow up in the Jim Crow South during the Depression. Its themes of racism, resilience, self-empowerment, and oppression moved and horrified me. How could a country—the so-called greatest democracy in the world—allow such things to happen?

That question led me to Isabel Wilkerson’s The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration. It chronicles the racial violence, economic inequality, and desire for freedom that drove nearly seven million African Americans to leave the South in search of better lives.

Both books made me angry. Of course, I was angry about the racism and injustice. But I was also angry because—despite having taken AP U.S. History, multiple American history courses in college, and owning three shelves of U.S. history books—I had never heard of the Great Migration in any depth. I knew about the Jim Crow South in broad strokes—the Klan, lynchings, and the civil rights movement. But I didn’t understand its magnitude or the long-lasting impact of that era.

Why was my knowledge so incomplete?

Some of it, surely, was timing. I was educated in the 1970s, when African American studies were still emerging. Some of it was geography. Summit, NJ, was an affluent, predominantly white town, with an African American population under 5%. There wasn’t much institutional incentive to teach the darker sides of American history.
And some of it was my own fault—for not asking the very questions my schools and parents trained me to ask.

But it also underscored why the U.S. Department of Education was created. Since its inception in 1979, the department has:

• Integrated African American history into K-12 and adult education
• Endorsed academic programs in Black Studies
• Funded and supported HBCUs

The cynics among us might argue that this is exactly why some politicians—like the current President—want to dismantle it. Maybe it’s because many of his supporters would rather we learn only the whitewashed version of history. Maybe that’s why he dismissed Juneteenth as “too many nonworking holidays.” Maybe that’s why he promotes lies like “ivermectin works,” “it was the biggest crowd ever,” and “white genocide in South Africa.”

Because knowledge is power. And truth threatens propaganda.

So if you want to understand why Juneteenth matters—not just for African Americans but for all Americans—read Heather Cox Richardson’s excellent Substack piece on it: June 18, 2025 – Wednesday.

In the meantime, remember: Knowledge crowns those who seek her. And it’s up to us to seek it which yet another reason Donald Trump will never be a king.

The Admiral’s Club lounge at Rio’s Galeão–Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport is, oddly enough, one of my favorite places to kill time.

Tucked in the middle of a long, wide, unnervingly white and deserted hallway—straight out of a horror or dystopian sci-fi film—it offers sweet sanctuary from the chaos and drama of airport life. By Admirals Club standards, it’s not huge (just 6,500 square feet), but it punches above its weight. Multiple seating zones, a kids’ room full of toys to keep tiny terrorists occupied, two food buffets, a bar with free booze, and a fridge full of cold drinks. You’ve seen worse.

I usually head for the TV room, which features three massive screens and deliciously cushy mid-century modern chairs—plus strategically placed charging hubs. That last bit is key. It’s also quiet in there: the TVs are muted, and the crowd is glued to their screens, not looking to make friends. I love that. Silence is a rare and underrated luxury. It gives me space to wrangle the emotional clutter that inevitably builds when I’m about to leave.

For the past thirteen years, I’ve sat in this lounge three or four times a year, each time getting ready to leave my beautiful wife behind. And it never gets easier. She’s the center of my universe, and picturing thirty, sixty, even ninety days without her is like standing at the base of Everest with a paper bag and sneakers. The view is bleak.

But over the years, we’ve developed rituals. We email each other daily—sometimes quick notes, sometimes long, meandering novels. We use WhatsApp, FaceTime, and all the other modern crutches. We might be apart, but we’re not disconnected. Technology’s good for that, even if it also enables people to tweet like maniacs.

As hard as leaving Elaine always is, I’ve usually looked forward to going home. I love my sister, Rosie, and her family. I like the rhythm of my life back in the States. I speak the language. I get the systems. I know how to get decent pizza. And don’t even get me started on the superiority of American Chinese food.

So why, last Wednesday, did I sit in the Admirals Club and feel absolutely no desire to come home?

I had been in Brazil for a month. I was ready for a slice. But for the first time in thirteen years—pizza be damned—I didn’t want to return to the United States.

It took a bit of reflection (and a generous pour of cachaça) to figure it out: I don’t recognize the country anymore. The United States I grew up loving is gone. Compassion, kindness, the idea that difference is something to appreciate, not fear—all seem to have been traded in for paranoia and power grabs. I no longer feel safe there, and when “home” stops feeling safe, that’s a problem.

And this past week didn’t help. It was like watching a Constitution-burning circus.

• National Guard troops were deployed in Los Angeles over a mostly peaceful protest, despite the Governor and Mayor explicitly saying, “Please don’t.” Apparently, “states’ rights” only matter when it’s convenient.
• Active-duty Marines—literal warfighters trained for foreign combat—sent to patrol American streets. Not only legally dubious, but also a stellar way to snuff out free speech with a Kevlar boot.
• Trump’s pardon spree continued: white-collar crooks, violent January 6th rioters, Oath Keeper leaders, and apparently anyone whose mom wrote a big enough campaign check. Meanwhile, he sends troops to silence actual peaceful protesters. Rule of law? That’s adorable.
• Then there was the $150 million military parade—because nothing says “secure in your masculinity” like rolling tanks down D.C. for emotional Viagra.
• Confederate base renamings are back on the table too—because why not re-celebrate treason and alienate Black Americans all over again?
• Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth is out here acting like the Constitution is a loose suggestion.
• Senator Padilla got detained by the FBI for daring to speak out during a press conference. Yes, a sitting senator. That’s how banana republics do it.

I could keep going, but I’m trying to keep my blood pressure in the low triple digits.

The bottom line: I still love my country. I just don’t like what it’s becoming. I’ll keep calling it out when we lose our way, but I have limits. If we can’t find our moral compass again soon, I may choose sanity over pepperoni.

I still have hope. But for now? I’m doubling down on my Portuguese lessons.

This past week was a goldmine for those of us convinced that Delta Tango (DT) is not just unfit for office, but a genuine threat—to the country, global stability, and even our retirement plans. For those keeping score at home, let’s break it down:

Steel & Aluminum Tariffs, Redux
Doubling these tariffs isn’t about revitalizing U.S. steel. We can’t scale that fast. This is performative power—intended to juice the egos and portfolios of MAGA’s inner circle. (See Autopilot, which tracks Congressional stock moves.)

TPS Revoked for Over 500,000 Refugees
Hundreds of thousands—350,000 Venezuelans, 9,000 Afghans among them—now face deportation to nations plagued by chaos and violence. We welcomed them. Now we betray them. It’s cruel, and a disgrace to our national ideals.

Student Visa Interviews Suspended
All new student visa interviews are on hold, pending Orwellian social media screenings. Instead of welcoming the best and brightest, we’re ghosting them. The hypocrisy is rich—and shortsighted.

Habeas Corpus, On the Chopping Block
Stephen Miller floated suspending habeas corpus to accelerate deportations. This isn’t just fringe talk—it’s a direct attack on due process. The idea that critics of the regime could be detained without recourse is no longer the stuff of dystopian fiction.

Pardons for Donors and Drug Offenders
Trump handed out pardons like party favors—to dozens of wealthy donors and more than 20 major drug offenders, many of whom funneled millions into his PACs. So much for law and order.

Watchdogs Fired
At least 17 Inspectors General have been ousted. These are the people tasked with oversight. You don’t fire the referees unless you’re planning to cheat.

Targeting Lawyers
An executive order stripped federal contracts and clearances from firms seen as politically hostile. Undermining the adversarial legal system? That’s straight-up authoritarianism.

Historical Erasure by Executive Order
Denali is back to “Mount McKinley.” The Gulf of Mexico is now the “Gulf of America.” It’s petty, jingoistic, and an insult to history—and indigenous peoples.

Trade War, Unplugged
Trump has reignited global trade tensions, alienating allies, raising prices, and crippling small businesses. For those who slept through history: Pearl Harbor was preceded by a trade war.

The Chaos Strategy

Military strategists warn that in a target-rich environment, it’s easy to lose focus. Too many threats, no clear priority—and you either freeze or strike the wrong target.

That’s the game plan.

Trump and his team generate chaos not just to distract, but to overwhelm—to keep critics disoriented, reactive, and ultimately ineffective.

And disturbingly, it’s working.

We’ve Got the Wrong Strategy

One thing I learned at Xerox: negative selling doesn’t close deals. You don’t win customers by trashing the competition—you win by offering a better solution.

We’ve become addicted to doom-scrolling the latest outrage. We’re preaching to the choir while undecideds hear only static.

“Trump Derangement Syndrome”? That’s projection. But while we fight the villain, we’re not selling the alternative. And that’s the real failure.

Lead with Vision

It’s time for a reset.

We need to lead with values, articulate what we stand for, and show how our vision benefits real people. Then, and only then, should we contrast it with Trump’s chaos.

We can’t be the anti-Trump movement. We need to be the pro-democracy, pro-future, pro-human movement.

That’s where I’m headed—less reaction, more direction. Less fire alarm, more blueprint.

But hey, it’s still this week.

So… about Elon’s black eye—should we take comfort in the fact that a kindergartener can knock him out? Or just note that, once again, X marks the spot.

At around 11 p.m. on November 4, 1980, I found myself drunk and stoned, sprawled across the hood of a red Ford Mustang in the parking lot of a two-star motel in Key West, Florida. No, I wasn’t trying to pay tribute to Hunter S. Thompson. My condition was a direct response to Ronald Reagan winning the presidency earlier that evening. His landslide victory had precipitated the consumption of four Hurricanes (2 oz light rum, 2 oz dark rum, 1 oz lime juice, 1 oz orange juice, ½ oz passion fruit juice, simple syrup, grenadine) and the smoking of a rasta-style blunt filled with prime Afghani weed.

I was upset.

Jimmy Carter was a good man. As president, he always tried to do what was best for the country. He signed the Camp David Accords, created a more efficient government through civil service reform, and championed human rights and the environment. He had his failings, for sure—he handled the Iran hostage crisis poorly and failed to get stagflation under control, just to name two. But you always knew he was a man of substance—someone who used his brain and tried to do the right thing.

Ronald Reagan wasn’t a bad man, but he lacked substance. He was 98.6% sound bite and packaged charm. He made people feel good, but I had grave doubts about those he invited into his party tent: evangelicals like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, who believed the U.S. should be a “Christian” nation; Phyllis Schlafly, who didn’t believe women deserved equal rights; and the National Right to Life Movement, which wanted to restrict women’s reproductive healthcare rights. Worse, he was selling a lie—trickle-down economics. The core of the idea was: feed the rich and they’ll feed the rest of us. I didn’t believe it then, and time has proven that feeding the rich mostly benefits the rich.

The reason I bring this all up now is because the person who tried to talk me off the hood of that Mustang was my ride-or-die, Richard Magrath. May 19 marked the fifth anniversary of his death, and May 21 would have been his 69th birthday which would have amused to him to no end and the source of too many bad jokes. So ou can understand why I’ve been thinking about him a lot this week, especially what he said to me that night to calm me down: “Paul, it’s going to be a helluva party, but the hangover is going to be a bitch.”

He was, of course, right. The hangover from Ronald Reagan is Donald J. Trump. And Rich knew it. In the years leading up to Trump’s presidency, and during its first few years, we talked a lot about “Delta Tango” and what kind of greedy con man scammer he was—and still is. At one point, Rich even tried to convince me to start a website called ohthatdonald.com, a place to post all the stupid things #47 had said and done. (I demurred. I shouldn’t have.)

My hangover on November 5 was epic. Even lying under a blanket in a shaded room, wearing dark glasses, was too much light. A mouse fart was too loud. Two IV bags and a tank of oxygen couldn’t have revived me. It was so bad, I never got that drunk again. (Okay, that’s a lie—but never that drunk, and the number of times since could be counted on one hand.)

But the political hangover we’re still living with—from Reagan to Trump and this current version of the Republican Party—is far worse. They want everyone, regardless of religion, to adhere to Christian principles despite what the Constitution says about separation of church and state. They believe LGBTQ folks belong in the closet, are broken, or are somehow less than. They believe the burden of taxation should fall on the middle class and poor, while clinging to the myth of the benevolent rich. And they believe our borders should be open only to wealthy white people, because apparently we already have “too many” poor and brown people.

I could go on. But you all know the symptoms of this hangover. The worst part, though, is that I don’t have Rich to bitch about this with anymore. We talked every day. We didn’t always agree, but he always made me laugh when I started taking this stuff too seriously. Still, there’s a part of me that’s glad he’s off exploring a different level of existence. At least he doesn’t have to suffer through the hangover the rest of us are still trying to

When I was 15, I landed a job at Baskin-Robbins on Beechwood Road in Summit, New Jersey. Honestly, I don’t remember how I got it. Maybe I walked in off the street. Maybe I found it on the high school job board—back when that meant actual bulletin boards with 3×5 index cards thumbtacked to cork.

The owner, Sy Nankin, was a trained engineer who’d traded his slide rule for an ice cream scoop, trying to build a better life for his family. He took a liking to me. Maybe it was because we shared a religion in a town where that was rare, or maybe it was because I wasn’t afraid to hustle. Sy taught me how to scoop a perfect 2.5 ounces, how to make a milkshake (tip: use semi-frozen milk), how to portion tubs, and how to count change—because back then, cash registers didn’t do the math for you.

For me, it was the perfect job. I got to work around my favorite food, ice cream, and talk to people all day—ideal for an extrovert. The pay was $1.50 an hour. A single cone? Just 25 cents, tax included. That meant you had to sell six cones to earn an hour’s wage. Today, cones go for $4.60 and minimum wage is $15.49. That’s only 3.3 cones per hour. If you’re wondering why the math doesn’t feel right, welcome to the broken reality of wage stagnation. But that’s a rabbit hole for another post.

We had fun, too—especially when Sy wasn’t around. We made Jack Daniels milkshakes and rum-infused Daiquiri Freezes. High school acquaintances became close friends. (Shoutout to Judy, Kevin, Larry, Craig.)

We also spoke our own language. A black-and-white shake? Vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup. A brown cow? Root beer with chocolate ice cream. A dusty road? Sundae with chocolate syrup and malt powder.

But the phrase that stuck with me was “86 that.”

One day, we got our usual delivery of ice cream, syrups, cones, and paper goods. I—yes, it was me—dropped a tub of ice cream onto a sleeve of cones, crushing them. Sy was not amused. He called me a klutz and said, “86 the cones.” I blinked. “What?” He sighed and said, “Don’t you know what ‘86’ means? It means get rid of. Throw them away.”

Which brings me to today.

Recently, former FBI Director James Comey posted a photo on Instagram of seashells arranged to read “8647.” The caption? “Cool shell formation on my beach walk.” That’s it.

But MAGA-world exploded. Fox News howled. Comey’s being accused of calling for the assassination of Donald Trump. The Secret Service—presumably at Trump’s prompting—opened a criminal investigation.

For context: “86” is diner slang for “get rid of,” and “47” refers to Trump as the 47th president. So “8647” translates loosely to “get rid of 47.” Not a threat. Not a call for violence. Just a political opinion.

The irony should hit you like a melting scoop on a hot summer day. This is the same man who encouraged chants of “Hang Mike Pence,” who regularly suggests his political enemies are traitors, and who traffics in violent rhetoric as part of his brand. Yet here he is, weaponizing the federal government to chase down someone for posting a photo of seashells.

And Comey, disappointing as it is, took the post down.

He should’ve read my last blog. The only way to deal with a bully is to confront him. Punch him in the nose—metaphorically speaking.

Luckily, Trump’s reaction gave us the perfect response. Buy a baseball cap embroidered with “8647.” You can find them on Etsy. Not only does it send a message to your fellow resistors that they are not alone, it also subtly trolls the very people who tried to turn a beach walk into a felony.

I’ve been wearing mine for weeks. So far? Plenty of smiles, a few compliments, and zero confrontations. I even chatted with a guy in a MAGA hat at the airport—he had no clue what “8647” meant.

So go ahead. Buy the hat. Wear it. Be visible. Stand up for free speech, for reason, and against bullies.

Sometimes, the most patriotic thing you can do is “86” the fascism—and look good doing it.

In May 1939, as Nazi persecution escalated in Germany, a German ocean liner named the MS St. Louis quietly left the Port of Hamburg. Aboard were 937 passengers, most of them Jewish refugees desperate to escape the tightening grip of Hitler’s regime. The ship’s destination was Havana, Cuba, and for many, it seemed like the first step toward a new life—safe, far away, and full of hope.

The man in charge, Captain Gustav Schröder, wasn’t your typical officer. He was German, yes—but he was also fiercely human. Knowing full well the trauma his passengers had already endured, he did everything he could to restore a sense of dignity and calm aboard his ship. Meals on board included items no longer available to many Germans due to rationing. There were dances, concerts, religious services, even swimming lessons for the kids. Lothar Molton, a young boy on the ship, later recalled thinking it felt like a “vacation cruise to freedom.”

That feeling was short-lived.

The ship arrived in Havana’s harbor early on May 2. They were not welcomed. Instead of being they were blocked from docking. The Cuban government, under President Federico Laredo Brú, had just changed its immigration rules—quietly and drastically. A new decree required a $500 bond for each refugee and explicit authorization from government officials. The passengers had no way of knowing when they left that their once-valid entry permits were now worthless.

Only 28 people were allowed off the ship. That left more than 900 refugees stranded on the ship, just outside the coast of a country that didn’t want them.

Desperate for help, U.S. Jewish organizations and senior U.S. officials, including Secretary of State Cordell Hull and Treasury Secretary Henry Morgenthau, tried to convince Cuba to reconsider. That failed. Captain Schröder decided to turn the ship toward the United States, hoping that surely America—the land of immigrants and freedom—would offer refuge.

He steered the ship near Miami, just off the Florida coast, and waited. Pleas were made to allow the passengers to disembark. But the Roosevelt administration, caught between internal politics and rising anti-immigrant sentiment, did not act. The U.S. Coast Guard followed the ship closely, making it clear no unauthorized landings would be tolerated. At one point, Schröder even considered running the ship aground so the passengers could escape, but he was boxed in.

Next, a small group of clergy and professors in Canada tried their hand. They appealed to Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King to grant sanctuary. The ship could have reached Halifax, Nova Scotia in two days. But Canada’s top immigration official, Frederick Blair, was openly hostile to Jewish immigration. Canada rebuffed the immigrants

It left Captain Schröder with only one choice sailing back across the Atlantic, with over 900 lives in limbo. Conditions on the ship worsened. Fuel and food were running low. And still, Schröder refused to take the passengers back to Germany. He negotiated tirelessly with European governments, trying to find any country willing to accept the refugees. He even considered scuttling the ship near the British coast to force a response.

Eventually, he succeeded—partially. The United Kingdom agreed to take 288 passengers. The rest were divided among France (224), Belgium (214), and the Netherlands (181). With every passenger offloaded, the St. Louis returned to Hamburg—empty.

At the time, it seemed like a partial victory. But less than a year later, Germany invaded France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Many of the passengers who thought they had found safety were once again under Nazi control.

Of the 620 passengers who returned to continental Europe, 87 managed to emigrate before the Nazi invasion. The rest were trapped. It’s estimated that 254 were murdered in the Holocaust—most in Auschwitz and Sobibór. 365 survived, often through extraordinary efforts, hiding, or luck.

Today, the voyage of the MS St. Louis is known as the “Voyage of the Damned.” It’s one of the most tragic illustrations of what happens when the world looks the other way in a humanitarian crisis.

However the legacy of Captain Schröder endures. After the war, he was awarded the Order of Merit by West Germany. In 1993, he was posthumously named Righteous Among the Nations by Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust memorial—an honor reserved for non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews during the Holocaust.

The ship’s story is now featured at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. In Halifax, where the ship never docked, the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic hosted an exhibit called Ship of Fate. Canada also created a striking monument in 2011: The Wheel of Conscience. Designed by architect Daniel Libeskind, it features four interlocking gears etched with the words “antisemitism,” “xenophobia,” “racism,” and “hatred.” The back bears the names of the passengers denied entry.

Governments eventually acknowledged their mistakes—too late, but with humility. In 2012, the U.S. Department of State formally apologized, and in 2018, Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau issued a heartfelt apology in Parliament, calling it a failure of leadership and compassion.

The story of the St. Louis isn’t about a single ship or a failed voyage. It’s a cautionary tale of what happens when bureaucracy trumps humanity, when doors are closed, and when the world says “not our problem.” It should be an abject lesson. But sadly, it is one that the Trump Administration has failed to learn from.

Note: Much of this piece was culled from Wikipedia’s account of the St.Louis