Tomorrow at Breakfast

The Morning Star Cafe Palominas, Arizona

Tomorrow at breakfast we’ll gather around,

With tales and opinions we will expound.

A quartet of old men who’ve seen better days,

way too damn old to be mendin’ their ways.

Tomorrow at breakfast there’s one empty chair,

It’s been a few days since Bill has been there,

Some of his dealin’s were not tor the best,

Good that his demons are finally at rest.

Tomorrow at breakfast we’ll fill up our cups,

And annoy each other ‘til someone erupts.

Dave will regale us with some wild tale,

If lyin’s a crime, he’ll go to jail.

Tomorrow at breakfast we’ll order some eggs,

and squirm in our chairs on unsteady legs.

With bacon and toast we’ll eat what we can,

We get only the best from the cook’s fryin’ pan.

Tomorrow at breakfast we’ll git nuthin’ done,

To tell you the truth, it won’t be much fun.

Our Golden Years are wastin’ away,

Yackety-yackin’ at the Matthew’s Café.

LDT March 27, ‘24

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The Prospect of Breakfast

Mr. Coffee’s clock glows, its digits thin red lines like a doomsday clock.

5:59 AM. Morning light filters through the colorful fabric of the kitchen curtains. Homemade. It’s a comfortable 68 degrees. Just right for a perfect June day. The sprinklers are on rain delay due to last night’s shower. The outside air is fresh and pure. A sweeper cleans the freshly sealed blacktop. Colorful family sedans are parked in their driveways. A lark sings its merry song in a big Oak tree. The house slumbers. Will Bailey, the Yorkie Poo, awake to see the fly buzzing about his pug nose? A paper lies where the paper boy threw it from his bicycle on the lush green lawn. It brings all the news with carefully curated facts. The headlines match the stories. There will be no surprises. Opinions are carefully parsed based on common facts and reasonable assumptions. The local pages cover the progress of the community. The area economy is good. Crops are sprouting in the fields. Prices are decent. Ads and flyers proclaim deals to be had. People are helping each other. Crime is but a footnote. The house still slumbers.

6:00 AM. The numbers al change on Mr. Coffee’s clock. There is a tiny electric click. The brew light comes on. Down the hall there an alarm clock buzzes to life. Someone grunts as covers are thrown off. The buzzing stops. Mr. Coffee begins to gurgle and drip. The aroma of fresh coffee begins to fill the kitchen. Breakfast will be bacon and eggs with hash browns. A light comes on in the hall. Incandescent. A sleepy child wanders into the hallway. A roach scampers across the linoleum floor to a secret place under the sink.

Ten years hence.

Mr. Coffee’s digits are now black on a gray background.

5:59 AM. Morning light filters through the translucent designer kitchen curtains. Store bought. It’s 70 degrees on its way to 91. There is no rain in the forecast. A Raven squawks in the half-dead Oak tree. The street sweeper passes over the crumbling asphalt. The driver dodges dozens of cars with faded paint and rusting fenders that are carelessly parked on the street. Bailey still sleeps on the rug. She is too old to chase bugs. The paper carrier drove by and threw the paper on the ragged patch of lawn just as the sprinklers came on. At least he wrapped it this time. The news is not so good. There’s an overseas war. It’s not going well. Gas prices are up. The drought is stunting local crops. Home town teens have been drinking and racing their hot cars on he streets There is crime on the bad side of town. Six home foreclosures and a going-out-of-business sale are listed. There was another cutback at the local plant. The house still slumbers.

6:00 AM The brand-new Mr. Coffee quietly lights up. It will brew no better coffee than the old one. Eggs are scarce. Bird flu. Breakfast will be pop tarts from the toaster. A beeping phone alarm goes off down the hall. Someone cusses. A light comes on. Fluorescent. “Get up!” someone yells. A sleepy teenager pulls the covers over his head. A roach scampers across the newly tiled floor.

Twenty years hence.

The shiny new Keurig sits on the counter ready to brew an instant cup of flavored coffee. Its K-Cups have been filling up the trash, the landfill and the ocean.

5:59 AM. The morning light filters through the barred windows. The flimsy plastic curtains flutter in the breeze. There’s a dead bat on the sidewalk. It’s 73 degrees on its way to 95. It hasn’t rained for weeks and the heat has been unbearable. The air is a hazy brown. People wear masks on bad days. The couple next door has moved to someplace where they still have Winter. The street has gone to hell since the city’s bond rating tanked. There are junk cars in the driveways. The house on the corner has become a hub of activity. All day and night cars stop there for a few minutes, then leave. Bailey has been replaced by a Pit Bull named Bruno. He lies asleep at his post by the front door. If someone approaches the chains on his collar will clang as he rises to meet the threat. The paper is late. When it comes it will be carelessly tossed on the barren front yard. There isn’t much good news and the paper has shrunk. People get their information from cable TV and the Internet. Opinions are now divorced from facts and reason. Social media algorithms reinforce the user’s views. The rich have gotten richer and enjoy more political power and immunity from consequences. Working folks blame freeloaders for the misery in their lives. There is little tolerance for people who are different. The weather has been atrocious. Hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts, floods, you name it. Lakes and rivers dry up and then are inundated by floods. Coastal areas are suffering the most. Home insurance rates have gone through the roof. There are crop failures in once fertile places. Climate refugees are flooding into more prosperous areas. Fuel for heating, cooling and transportation is expensive. Scientist who try to explain what is happening to the environment are mocked. The local economy is non-existent since the plant closed.  Only junk yards, pawn shops and second-hand stores prosper. Those who remain are retired or on welfare. Drugs, crime and poverty have become the norm. The house slumbers. A roach stops at a crack in the tiled kitchen floor, then scampers off.

6:00 AM The Keurig sits idle waiting for someone to tend it. There is no signal that the day has begun other than the nightlight has gone off. LED. The slumbering couple has no reason to get up this early. Breakfast will be protein shakes from the fridge. That can wait.

Thirty years hence.

The Keurig is broken.

5:59 AM. The morning glare shines through the cracked window. It is 79 degrees on the way to God knows what. Nothing stirs in the empty streets. The big storm was the final blow for most folks in the neighborhood. Damaged, dilapidated houses are boarded up. The pavement has all but disappeared. Most of the residents are gone and the abandoned cars have been hauled off. The dirt from front yards has washed into the street. A vulture pecks at a dead cat. A stray dog searches for any scrap of food. Things are even worse in other places. Major coastal areas have been inundated by rising sea levels. The deserts have expanded exponentially. Other areas have become swampier. Crops now must be grown in new places or in massive greenhouses. The news is filtered through the prisms of the rich and powerful. Most people just ignore the media and try to fend for themselves. There is little to look forward to.

6:00 AM A roach leaves tracks as it scampers across the dusty kitchen floor.

LDT March 27, ‘24

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Perspective Story

Sierra Vista Writers Group March 13, 2024

Council Rock-Perspective

Council Rock- A perspective short story

        Council Rock is part of the rock wall face of the Dragoon Mountains visible from Sierra Vista. It is located on the Northwestern end of the rocky range. In 1872 an important meeting was held there. Chicahua Apache leader Cochise and General Oliver Otis Howard met to forge a truce ending an  11-year war. The meeting was facilitated by Cochise’s only white friend, frontiersman Tom Jeffords.

         It is just a simple limestone rock in the midst of a towering rock wall facing west across the San Pedro valley. Warmed by the afternoon sun, it watches over the valley and sees all that passes.  It bore silent witness as history unfolded beneath its weather-worn face. When men came, it stoically observed them scratching the land for sustenance and riches. Hunters in breechcloths stalked all manner of animals, big and small. They dug pits to live in and covered them with brush. Down by the river, they tended crops of beans and squash. Men wearing the shiny helmets of the Conquistadores passed through, but didn’t stay. Then a fierce band of warriors drove the bean eaters off. More men came from the south trailing cattle to the abundant grassland of the valley. The native warriors stole the cattle and killed the herders, but not before the grass gave way to mesquite and creosote bushes.

                        Then the pale-skinned people came with their picks and their greed. They carried a new banner with stars in a deep blue sky and some colorful stripes. At first the warriors who lived in the mountains welcomed them. Their good will would soon be tested beyond all measure. The pale faced men did not trust them and coveted their realm. Some incident in the neighboring mountains had caused them to fight. Whatever it was it started a war that raged for eleven long seasons. The Whites were losing.

         Most of the pale faces who had tried to make their living by raising cattle or digging holes in the ground for rocks they thought precious had left during the war. Only warriors wearing blue coats remained. They patrolled the valley from their camp in the big mountains to the east. They carried their red, white and blue ensign to use as a rallying point in battle. The Bluecoats  guarded travelers passing through the territory of the native warriors.

Camped near the feet of Council Rock were the Chokonen band of the Chiricahua, their wikiups hidden from view among the rocks. They called themselves the Dine’, but everyone else called them Apache. There are good reasons for this term. Apache means enemy in a dozen native tongues. They are a powerful people who survive by cunning and don’t take kindly to intruders.

      Their rocky stronghold offered a good view of the valley of the Rio San Pedro. Sentinels on the crest of the rugged mountains scrutinized the approaches from the east. No movement went undetected. The Bluecoats from the White man’s fort at the springs of the Apache could never surprise the people.

         One morning the alarm was sounded. From the top of the mountain, the cry was relayed to the tall, broad-chested leader of the band. Riders were approaching the northern end of the of their rocky sanctuary. They had travelled undetected across the valley of the Sulphur springs at night. Now they were in full view of the sentinels. There were three white men, two in blue coats. Accompanying them were two men who appeared to be Indian guides. Near the rock, the leading warriors pondered the situation. A company of Dragoons would be a threat, but a handful of White men with horses were a prize.

         Who were these people? No white man, save Red Beard, was welcome in Apacheria. A runner was dispatched to bring the intelligence needed to set the trap. Hours later, the runner returned having concealed himself from prying eyes as he scampered through the rocks.

         Leading the riders was none other than Red Beard, the only white friend of the Apache. Riding with him were two Bluecoat Nantans and two Apache warriors from another band. One of the Bluecoats was a big chief with stars on his shoulders. The other wore the two silver bars of a Bluecoat subchief. Why would Red Beard, who called himself Tom, bring these intruders to the Apache camp?

         A hurried council of warriors concluded that the Dine’ were about to be betrayed by Red Beard. Their own Nantan, called Cochise by friend and foe, was undeterred. He trusted Red Beard. Years earlier, the two had made a peace. Red Beard’s mail carriers were the only whites who could travel through the land of the Chokonen unescorted.

            The decade of war had weakened the Apache. Cochise was getting older and wearing down. Three white men were not a threat. “Let them come. Here their words.”

         Two boys on horses were sent unarmed to guide the intruders. In camp, they were greeted by a subchief. The party camped for the night with the Dine’. The children were fascinated by the visitors. The Bluecoat Nantan with the stars played with them. He seemed kindly, like the holy men who once traveled here form the missions. His right sleeve dangled uselessly at his side. This Bluecoat had been wounded in battle. He must be very brave. Later, by the firelight, he opened a black book and silently peered at its writings. The holy men in the brown robes had carried such books.

         The next day, a tall, handsome Apache appeared in the camp. He embraced his friend Red Beard. “Tom” revealed the nature of the visit. The Great Father in Washington had sent the armless Bluecoat Nantan to make peace. Cochise looked relieved. There would be a parley. The circular space in front of the rock’s stony face was selected for the meeting.

         Pollen was offered in each direction to gain the favor of the mountain spirits. Tobacco was shared. The white Nantan was called General Howard. Cochise greeted him with “Buenos dias Señor.” Then he spoke to Tom in the language of the people. “What was the purpose of this visit?”

         The General explained that he had been empowered by president Grant to make a peace with the Apache. Cochise offered up his many grievances using Red Beard to translate. Howard listened attentively. The General promised rations, cattle and farming equipment if the People would settle on a reservation. He then offered Cochise reservation land on the Rio Grande. Cochise frowned and explained that his band consisted of mountain people. “Why not Apache Pass, from the Dragoons to the Chiricahuas?” He said with a sweeping gesture.

         General Howard acceded to the request. Peace was agreed to. Nantan Howard promised to inform the troops at the white man’s fort at Apache Pass that the war was over. Accompanied by a lone Dine’ guide, he rode to Camp Bowie. By the time Howard returned, Tom and the other Bluecoat Nantan had erected a pole with a white flag on a knoll just below the camp. It could be easily seen by anyone who approached.

         That evening, the warriors held another conference, their fire illuminating the front of Council Rock. By the next morning, the peace with the Bluecoat Nantan was formalized. The final demand was that Red Beard, Tom Jeffords, be appointed to serve as their agent. Howard readily agreed. Then the one-armed Nantan offered presents. Cochise admired the peace medal with the Great Father’s image. The red, white and blue banner symbolizing the peace would hang from his wikiup.

         Before leaving General Howard placed a stone on a mesa, and said, “As long as the stone should last so long would the peace continue.”

         But the peace didn’t last. Cochise would soon be laid to rest in a rocky crevasse not far from the rock where the peace had been made. Jeffords quit as the Peoples’ agent. Some bad Indians raided into Mexico. Greedy, fearful White men would covet the land given to the Dine’ by the Great Father. The People would be forced to leave. This caused Council Rock to weep. The tears from the rocky wall rolled down the valley to where the peace rock had been placed by the Bluecoat Nantan. They soon became a torrent. The stone was washed away.

LDT March 13, ’24

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Dominos

It may be appalling, and some of it’s galling,

The dominos are falling to end the caballing,

Indictements are served for those who deserved,

Freedom’s preserved from he who has swerved.

The jails are all full, no more of their bull,

Held responsible, for what they did pull.

They all had their fun, but the griftin’ is done.

Their legal slush fund, has about come undone.

Let’s strike up the bands, put the cuffs on their hands,

All that justice demands, while our freedom still stands.

The finest solution, the U.S. Constitution,

Jail and restitution with no absolution.

Let the dominos fall, like Steve Bannon’s wall,

If they have the gall to forget to recall.

Let justice not fail, put Navarro in jail,

The Law will prevail, if sedition we curtail.

For all of the rest, we’ll do our best,

Each new arrest proves we won’t rest.

LDT March 12, ‘24

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Balcom

Husqvarna Automatic Motocrosser

Some men are forged from iron, others hammered steel,

Some men ride the easy path, others by fire anneal.

And God has granted each of us two of everything,

Two eyes, two ears, two arms, so each can do his thing.

For those who are not perfect, he helps to make them whole,

So each of us can find our purpose and our role.

John Bascom had but one leg and he used it well,

So listen to the story that I’m about to tell.

Now anyone can ride a cycle on the street,

To sit and shift and lean isn’t such a feat.

But John craved competition and the thrill of speed,

And motocross would give him all that he would need.

Bought a Husqvarna, to race the Open Class,

It didn’t have shifter and it was awful fast.

The only automatic ‘crosser in the world,

John got pretty good as ‘round the track he whirled.

At Sayers Motocross, the TV cameras rolled,

The whoopers and the jumps were there to test the bold.

At the startin’ gate he couldn’t rev it very much,

Cuz a Husky automatic doesn’t have clutch.

The starter’s flag left him last and eatin’ dust,

But soon that automatic was makin’ lotsa’ thrust.

He stood up on one peg,

with his only leg.

And when he caught the pack,

He was burnin’ up the track.

John had come to race,

And he set a torrid pace.

He hit a berm so hard,

He pushed it back a yard.

Passin’ everyone,

He was havin’ fun.

Made a double jump or two,

Proved he was a real hot shoe.

The final lap, it came up quick,

Passed the leader, made it stick.

He took the checkered flag,

Won the trophy, got to brag.

So if your life seems a bit tough,

Don’t  be gittin’ in no huff.

Be the best that you can be,

And show ‘em all, like John B.

LDT February 24, ‘24

I raced against John Balcom in the late 70’s. Once, a San Antonio TV station showed up to do a story on him. They aired a clip of him passing me.

Husky’s automatic gearbox took up no more room than a traditional wet clutch and transmission. Note that there is no shifter.

More on the Husqvarna Automatic here: LONG & WINDING ROAD: HISTORY OF THE HUSQVARNA AUTOMATIC – Motocross Action Magazine

Lines for My Mother

PVT. Frederick Buckmaster

Poem written to his mother, Mary Ann,  on May 9, 1864

                                        Clifton, Tenn.

It is a calm still night Mother, the winds are lulled and still…

The moon’s soft light is beaming bright on yonder sleeping hill…

But this soft dreamy hour, Mother, no magic may impart…

To check the teardrops from mine eyes, the shadow from my heart…

I’m thinking of the hour, Mother, I bade you all, “Farewell.”…

How like that shadow on my heart, those parting accents fell…

And tho’ full many a weary month since that sad hour has passed…

Yet with its awakening memory, the tears fall thick and fast…

Then I took the parting hand, Mother, I sought to wear a smile…

Tho’ my heart was full to bursting with its weary load, the while…

It came but dim and darkly, thru the mist of blinding tears…

So do you miss me there, Mother, at morn, at noon, at eve…

Do you often fondly breathe my name and for my absence grieve…

And when thine eyes rest that fully, upon one vacant chair…

That do you think of me, Mother, say do you miss me there…

            Buckmaster joined the 15th Iowa Infantry on November 12, 1861. He re-enlisted on January 1, 1864. He was wounded and captured by the Confederates during the Battle of Atlanta on July 22, 1864. He was imprisoned at the notorious Andersonville Prison and died there on September 9, 1864 at age 20. His mother was the Grandmother of my Great Grandmother, Nellie De Lay. The poem was preserved by my cousin Jackie Tobin.

Buckmaster’s Memorial. Andersonville, Georgia

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Bull Connor’s Dog

May 2, 1963. Bull Connor used police dogs and                 
fire hoses to attack young civil rights protesters.                

As a pup, I licked your face,

Because I loved the human race.

I could have learned most any trick,

Instead, you beat me with a stick.

I wanted to be always sweet,

But when I was mean I got a treat.

I could have fetched a rubber ball,

But I attacked at your call.

I wanted to just wag my tail,

Not send folks to your jail.

You trained me up through and through,

‘til I became just like you.

But there is just one small glitch,

I’m not the only Son-of-a-Bitch!

LDT February 11, ‘24

As Commissioner for Public Safety for Birmingham, Alabama, Bull Connor used fire hoses and dogs to attack civil rights protesters in the 1960’s.

The Children’s Crusade. Birmingham, Alabama. 1963- The Children’s Crusade | National Museum of African American History and Culture (si.edu)

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Cabin Fever

The fire’s brightly glowin.,

but the damned old wind is blowin’,

The snow is comin’ down,

Coverin’ up the ground.

The Flivver won’t turn over,

I’m stuck in here with Rover.

The window’s frosted up,

Durn near froze my cup.

The highway ain’t been plowed,

The sun’s behind a cloud.

The river’s done been froze,

I need some warmer clothes.

The TV’s on the fritz,

Sometimes it up and quits.

The big game got snowed out,

Could-a been a rout.

The temperature’s so low,

That I got no place to go.

There’s chores that must be done,

But they won’t be much fun.

I’m gonna stay inside,

Couldn’t leave here if I tried.

A chinook is far away,

So I gonna’ hafta’ stay.

And dream of tropic sand,

In some far-off warmer land.

LDT February 10, ‘24

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Buffalo Chips

Out here on the prairie, the ain’t no wood to burn,

  at least there is a trick that everyone can learn.

Everything that’s needed is lying on the ground,

  and it’s the damnedest stuff that I have ever found.

From Abeline to old Cheyenne, it makes the grasses grow,

  and if you like to pitch, it sure is fun to throw.

It simply is the best fuel that this place can offer,

  and when it warms us up, you won’t be no scoffer.

It might take a while, to gather up a pile,

  back at camp you’ll smile, it really ain’t that vile.

Find some old gray rocks and make a fire ring,

  just so you know, I ain’t cookin’ for no king.

Throw in a chip or two, a little bit will do,

  whatever you might do, don’t think of it as poo.

Crumble off a bit, and try to get it lit,

  don’t you go and quit, pull up a stool and sit.

That smoke it smells real fine,

  just like hickory and wine.

The skeeters won’t come near,

  and the coyotes hide in fear.

The taters and the bacon simmer in the pan,

  we can eat our beans directly from the can.

The aroma and the flavor,

  yer gonna wanna savor.

Add some pepper and some salt,

  I swear those ashes ain’t my fault.

Now don’t you make a fuss,

  I don’t wanna have to cuss.

Don’t you put on no airs,

  cuz out here no one cares.

And yer money and yer pedigree,

  don’t mean buffalo chips to me!

LDT February 3, ‘24

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Buffalo chip fire demonstration: https://youtu.be/fx_JXW4QwxE

Disloyal (Book Review)

I wrote this review back in 2020. Amazon said it violated its Community Standards. I presume that was because I mentioned the infamous Pee Tape.

Disloyal

Michael Cohen

Used, Abused and Cast Aside

President Donald Trump is an enigma to outsiders. In fact, he is a puzzle to his friends and close associates. He is a man of action, but his actions are based on impulse. He never prepares or plans. He acts and reacts only on impulse. Sometimes his instincts serve him well. Sometimes they lead him over the abys, taking others along for the ride.

Michael Cohen worked closely with Trump for over a decade.  He saw him in action, his successes and his failures. Drawn into Trump’s orbit he served as Trump’s fixer. When Trump or his brand was threatened, Cohen stepped in wielding a club of intimidation and tricky dealing. Cohen relished the role until it ultimately destroyed him.

Cohen is now a “reformed” man with an obvious axe to grind. So bitter is the animosity between Trump and his former lawyer/fixer that Cohen served part of a 3 year prison sentence for protecting Donald Trump. Released early due to COVID, Cohen soon found himself headed back to prison for writing this book. Why would Trump have our American government’s Department of Justice imprison someone for writing a damn book? That is why Disloyal is a must read.

The Trump real estate and branding empire was built on bluster and deceit with a ton of inheritance thrown in. Cohen was Trump’s first and last call of the day. He knew stuff. He massaged Trump’s ego while enduring a full measure of Trump’s abuse.  He bullied people for Trump. He stuck his neck out for Trump. He told a reporter he would take a bullet for Trump. He relished the chaos of Trump’s world. In the end, he lost everything and went to jail for an unindicted co-conspirator referred to as Individual 1. If you don’t know who Individual 1 is, you haven’t been paying attention.

The book begins with a deeply self-searing confession of the author’s own failings. Cohen sees himself transformed from an attack dog lackey for Trump into someone who cares about truth, integrity and redemption. You don’t have to like Cohen or believe in his reformation to gain insights from his book. He was there through most of the events that created our 45th president. If you have been reading the tweets or watching the news, you will recognize much truth in what Cohen has to say.

The picture painted of Donald Trump is both simple and straight-forward. He is a man who takes advantage of opportunities, loopholes and people. He is devoid of conscience and integrity. His actions and rhetoric only serve himself. If you cross Trump or get in trouble for doing his bidding, he hardly knew you. Countless business associates, employees, venders and cabinet officials have found this out the hard way. Cohen relates several episodes from first-hand experience. In one example, Trump ordered inferior paint for the rehabilitation of his Doral resort. When it didn’t hold up, he blamed others. The manufacturer was threatened with a lawsuit and bad publicity. They coughed up 30,000 gallons of premium paint. The painting contractor never got paid and the supplier had to sue. Several similar tales are covered in the book.

          There are some great insights into the people of Trump’s world. His view of his own kids is explored. The failings of his first Campaign manager, Cory Lewandowsky are illuminated. Cohen does a fairly good job of explaining how Trump could capture the support of ordinary working Americans. He capitalized on their fears, religious fervor, economic woes and need to blame others for their lack of success. In the end he became their messiah, the all-powerful leader who would address all of their woes. Like the Messiah, he would be perfect, decisive and bold.

          Though Cohen appears rehabilitated, there are some parts of the book that seem a trifle self-serving. He presents the Trump Tower Moscow project which he initially lied to Congress about as a half-baked deal that never got off the ground.  He dismisses the Steele Dossier as poorly researched and full of unverified rumors. At the same time, he gives credibility to the salacious “Pee Tape” by relating a similar account he witnessed with Trump in Las Vegas. He is appalled by the dossier’s frequent mentions of his own involvement with Russians. Apart from the now debunked assertion that he met Russians in Prague, he fails to mention which other parts of the dossier are not true. (To be fair, he included excerpts from Steele’s dossier in an appendix.)

          Cohen is also highly critical of the SDNY’s methods in bringing him to justice. He claims the tax evasion charges related to his side business in Taxi medallions was due to a crooked partner. He rightly asserts that he had little or nothing to do with the “catch and kill” payoff scheme for Playboy model Karen McDougal. This would leave the Stormy Daniels payoff to protect Trump his only real crime.

          Lastly, Cohen describes how William Barr’s Justice Department did everything possible, to include sending him back to prison, to keep him from telling his story. Whether you like Cohen or not, his victory in court was a big win for our First Amendment rights.

          I would recommend you buy and read this book. Many of Cohen’s assets have been seized, and he could lose the proceeds from the book as well. His only remaining asset could be the truth. That is a precious commodity in the Trump Era.

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