Author's note: Well, whataya know... the A-Listers are starting to show up. Google Bruce Springsteen's "The Streets of Minneapolis" and give it a listen. It echos the protest songs of a kid from Hibbing, Minnesota, named Robert Zimmerman, aka Bob Dylan. I think the echos are intentional. What do you think?

C.W. Spooner 

Calling All A-Listers…

 

[Scene: The basement of a small church somewhere in Minneapolis. A group of two dozen men and women meet to plan a march protesting ICE and other Federal agencies, and the tactics deployed in the city. The group leader, Bart Knutsen, speaks…]

“Okay, we’ve notified the authorities, we have our permits, and here is the plan. On Friday, two days from now, we will march on 3^rd Avenue from the Convention Center, past City Hall, to the Federal Building and Courthouse, where we will hold a major rally—”

“A-listers,” a silver-haired man in the back of the room calls out.

“I’m sorry," Bart says. "What was that?” Bart peers into the back of the room, looking for the man who spoke out.

“I said, ‘A-listers.’” The old man stands up. “You should have some A-listers to lead your march.”

Bart recognizes the man. It is his father. “Oh…Hi, Pop. Thanks for coming out. Everyone—that’s my dad, Bart Sr.”

[The room erupts with cries of “Hi, Pop! Welcome! Glad you’re here!”]

“Let’s get back to reviewing the plan, shall we?” Bart tries to regain control of the meeting.

“I cut my teeth on protest marches in the sixties,” Pop says. “We always had celebrities up front, leading the march. Guaranteed to lead the evening news and get front-page photos on every newspaper in the country.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Pop—” Bart is clearly annoyed.

“Harry Belafonte. Sydney Poitier. Marlon Brando. Rita Moreno. Paul Newman. Sammy Davis Jr. They all came out,” Pop says.

“Okay, moving on—”

“And Pete Seeger, and Joan Baez, they always showed up. Didn’t even need to ask. And Joan would drag Bob Dylan along, too.” Pop smiles as the memory warms his heart.

“Tell us more, Pop!” someone in the crowd shouts.

“Pete singing, ‘This land is your land…,’ and Joanie and Bob singing, ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’ Everybody joining in on ‘We Shall Overcome.’ I tell ya, it was beautiful.”

“Ah geez…” Bart drops his chin to his chest; his audience has been hijacked.

“But…sad to say, all those old lions are either gone, or they’re just too old,” Pop continues. “Dylan—he don’t march no mo.” The crowd chuckles. Pop has their rapt attention. “So… I’m kinda out of touch. Who are the young lions today? Who can step up and take the torch, so to speak?”

[People in the crowd look at each other and shrug their shoulders.]

“How ’bout that beautiful girl, used to sing with Destiny’s Child?”

“You mean Beyonce’, Pop?”

“Yeah, her. And she could bring her hubby. What’s his name…Jazzy?”

“It’s Jay Z, Pop.”

“There ya go. And Jay Z could bring Chris Rock. And Chris could bring Will Smith.”

[The room explodes with laughter. People begin to shout suggestions.]

“What about Taylor Swift? And she could bring Travis.”

“And Travis could invite Patrick and Brittany Mahomes.”

Pop grins from ear to ear. “That’s the spirit! That would be a fine front line for your march. The press would be all over it. And don’t you have some sports heroes in this town? What about Anthony Edwards and Justin Jefferson? What about the Hall-of-famer Joe Mauer?”

“Okay, calm down, everybody,” Bart cries. “It’s a little late for A-listers. Besides, let’s face it, none of ’em want to come out in Minneapolis in January.”

[The room goes silent. Several people nod their heads in agreement. If only this were July or August.]

“Maybe you’re right, son,” Pop says. “Maybe it’s too cold for A-listers. Or maybe it’s because brown people don’t buy tickets…but the MAGA folks do.” In Pop’s mind, Pete Seeger and Joan Baez are singing, “Where have all the flowers gone…”

[Pop turns to leave, climbing the stairs to street level. The people watch him go in silence. Finally, Bart resumes the planning session…]

“Okay, the march will step off from the Convention Center at 10 am sharp…”

_____

Nightmare on Mayfair Street

 

In the early morning hours, an old man falls into a deep sleep. As the morning light begins to fill the room, his eyes flutter, and his worst nightmare streams through his mind. He is standing next to his vehicle at a Shell station, filling his gas tank, when ICE officers approach.

 

“Hey. What are you doing there?” The officer in charge adjusts his face mask.

 

“Me? Oh…I’m filling my tank. What are you doing there?” The old man smiles.

 

“Smart ass, eh? Are you a citizen?”

 

“Last time I checked.”

 

“Can you prove it?”

 

[The group of officers has surrounded the old man.]

 

“Yeah, I’ve got my passport in the glove box.”

 

“Do you always go around with your passport?”

 

“Only since Inauguration Day, 2025.” The old man grins.

 

“Okay, cut the crap.” The officer’s voice is firm, a little too loud. “We know who you are. You’re the wiseass who writes snarky satirical pieces, making fun of Trump.”

 

“Nah, that’s a guy named C.W.”

 

“Nice try, pal. We know all your aliases—C.W., Charles, Chuck, Charlie, Chazzle, Papa. Now you’re gonna answer for all that stuff you wrote.”

 

[All of the officers nod their heads and shuffle their feet.]

 

“But I’m just exercising my First Amendment rights,” he says.

 

“Not so fast, old man. You’ve broken the law, and you’re gonna be held accountable for it.”

 

“Oh no! Are you talking about the garbage thing?”

 

“Maybe. What about it?”

 

“Last Thursday, I didn’t get my garbage can out to the curb in time. But they hadn’t emptied the ‘recycle’ bin yet. So, I put my garbage in the recycle bin.”

 

“Say what?! You put household garbage in the recycle bin?!”

 

[The officers take a combat stance, long guns at the ready.]

 

“I’m sorry!” the old man cries. “It will never happen again. I promise.”

 

“Too late, gramps. You’re under arrest, and you’re goin’ down.”

 

[Slam. Splat. The old man is face down on the pavement. Knee in the back. Cuffs applied.]

 

The lead officer reads him his rights—sort of. “You have the right to remain silent…uh…whatever you say will be used against your ass…uh…etc., etc., etc.”

 

Another officer pipes up: “Turn him over, Chief, so I can pepper spray him.”

 

“Nah, not necessary. Maybe just break a couple of windows, call it a day.”

 

[The sound of breaking glass echoes through the Shell station.]

 

“Oh my God!” the man wails. “My poor car. What now? Where are you taking me?”

 

“Couple of possibilities,” the chief says. “We’re reopening Manzanar and Alcatraz as detention centers.”

 

“I’d prefer Alcatraz,” he says, hopefully. “I have family in Northern California.”

 

“Manzanar it is, buddy. Manzanar for sure. Okay, load him in the Escalade and let's get him out of here.”

 

“You’re making a big mistake!” the man shouts. “I’ll call the ACLU. I’ll call AARP. I’ll notify my writers group. You’ll have so many octogenarians picketing with their canes, walkers, and Rascals, you’ll think it’s a freight train.”

 

“Make a note, Bubba,” the chief says. “Threatening officers with bodily harm.”

 

[The officers pick the man off the pavement and toss him into the backseat of the Cadillac. As it pulls away, he is heard to shout... ]

 

“At least I got a classy riiiiiiiiiiide…”

 

The old man blinks, wide awake now. He looks around the room. Oh, thank God! This isn’t Manzanar. It was only a bad dream...or maybe…a premonition.

_____

 

The Woodshed

 

Susie Wiles, President Trump’s Chief of Staff, walks down the hall and stops at the door to Deputy Chief Stephen Miller’s office. The door is open. She taps on the doorframe and steps inside. Miller is standing by the wall, attempting to hang a framed document.

 “Good morning, Stephen.”

“Oh, good morning, Susie.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I had my statement to Jake Tapper framed, and I’m hanging it on the wall.” [He proceeds to read it aloud.]

We live in a world in which you can talk all you want about international niceties and everything else. But we live in a world, in the real world… that is governed by strength, that is governed by force, that is governed by power. These are the iron laws of the world that have existed since the beginning of time.

-Stephen Miller

“Pretty cool, eh?” Miller grins.

“Sit down, Stephen. We need to talk.”

“Ah…okay. What’s up, Susie?”

“The president isn’t happy with your statement.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding! I’ve heard him say words to that effect many times. Not as coherent, of course…”

“That’s the point, Stephen. That is a statement for the president to make. Not the Deputy Chief of Staff. If he wanted that said, he’d have said it himself.”

“Ah, geez, Susie! What is this? Am I being taken to the woodshed?”

“You’re catching on, Stephen. The message is ‘stay in your lane.’ Worry about domestic policy. Leave geopolitics to those who know what they are doing.”

“But…but…I had to say something. I mean, Marco had his fifteen minutes over the Venezuela thing, and after the Minneapolis shooting, Kristi was all over the tube, in her little outfits, wearing a frickin’ Stetson hat, talking tough. And then J.D. goes to the press room and gets all puffed up and nasty with the reporters. They think they are the tough guys. They are not. I am the designated tough guy!”

“I repeat, Stephen: stay in your lane. Okay?”

“Let me talk to him. I’ll convince him I’m right.”

“You are talking to him. That’s my job. This comes from the top. Stay off the networks for a while. No more Tapper. No Hannity. He doesn’t want to see your face on the TV screen. Just keep your head down and cast a short shadow.”

“I hear we may be flying up to Greenland. I’ll talk to him on Air Force One.”

“Don’t count on going to Greenland, Stephen.”

“What? Why not?”

“It will be very cold, there will be a lot of photographers, and he doesn’t think you’ll look good in a hat. Here, try this on.” [She tosses a knit beanie across the desk. Miller puts it on. Wiles takes a photo with her phone.] I’ll share this with the president, and we’ll let you know. [She looks at the photo and laughs.] If I were you, I wouldn’t bother to pack.”

“Oh, man! I can’t believe this.”

 “And please take your framed statement off the wall. I suggest you take it home, hang it in your bathroom, where you can see it every time you sit down.”

[Wiles stands and leaves the office. Miller sits at his desk, mumbling to himself.]

Stay in my lane…Stay in my lane, eh? Those sonsabitches up in Minneapolis better watch out.

_____

 

 

 Investigate This!

Vice President J.D. Vance held a press conference today in which he said the ICE officer, Jonathan Ross, who shot and killed Renee Nicole Good, has “total immunity.” This is consistent with what Kristi Noem and President Trump are saying. CNN reporter Ali Vitali asked about the FBI investigation into the shooting: If the administration has already exonerated Officer Ross, what is the investigation for?

Ali Vitali is a good reporter, and I think she is well aware of what the investigation is all about. The FBI is going to delve into every crevice, nook, and cranny of Ms. Good’s life. If she so much as shoplifted a jawbreaker from the neighborhood mom & pop market, we are going to know about it. If she had a boyfriend in high school and “cheated” on him with the quarterback of the football team, we’ll hear about that, too. She’s a divorced mother of three. We will learn every detail about her divorce—were “other persons” involved, and who has she been “seeing” since? By the time the FBI is through, the Good family will feel as if they’ve been subjected to a public colonoscopy, on stage, at the Donald J. Trump/Kennedy Center.

As a former (and future?) podcaster, FBI Director Kash Patel knows how to tell a story, and I have no doubt he will tell it in excruciating detail. So, Ali Vitali, that is the answer to your question. I sincerely hope I am wrong, and if so, I will update this post with an apology.

I hope I am wrong. But I doubt it.

C.W. Spooner 

_____

 

 

More Breaking News

Dear readers,

I have been mentally composing another satirical piece in which the Trump administration announced it was securing the borders of Minnesota, and nothing would move in or out without permission. I pictured Stephen Miller and Kristi Noem making the announcement in a joint press conference.

This morning, a woman was shot and killed by an ICE agent while in her vehicle on the streets of Minneapolis. So, the piece I’ve been brainstorming will remain just that—a brainstorm. This is no time to poke fun at the situation.

The facts of this tragedy will be revealed over the next couple of news cycles. Currently, all we have is spur-of-the-moment reaction and speculation. Who was this woman? Why was she there? Did she leave behind a grieving family? If so, my heart goes out to them.

And what about the ICE agent? What are the “rules of engagement” in Minneapolis? Could our neighborhoods—yours and mine—be next? Time will tell.

With a heavy heart,

C.W. Spooner

_____

 CNN Breaking News!

I turned on my TV this morning, and it happened to be tuned to CNN:

 

Anchor: …I’m Wolf Blitzer, with Pamela Brown, and you’re in the Situation Room. Breaking News! Joining us live from Pottery Barn in downtown Manhattan is Mr. I.B. Goodman, vice-president of public relations. Mr. Goodman, thank you for joining us.

Goodman: Thank you for having me, Wolf.

Blitzer: Mr. Goodman, in the wake of the events in Venezuela this past weekend, your company, Pottery Barn, has been prominently mentioned, as in The Pottery Barn Rule, as in “You break it, you own it.” Would you care to comment?

Goodman: Yes, well, first let me say that we had no prior knowledge, absolutely none, of the action taken by the Trump administration, though it is flattering to have our name associated with such a spectacularly successful operation.

Blitzer: Your company name and the iconic slogan?

Goodman: Actually, we can’t take credit for The Rule. The credit goes to Gen. Collin Powell, who, during the lead-up to the Iraq War, told President Bush, “If you break it, you own it.”

Blitzer: I see.

Goodman: Then there was Thomas Friedman of the New York Times, who referred to it as the Pottery Barn Rule. We’ve actually never enforced this rule in our stores. Breakage is just a cost of doing business.

Blitzer: Very interesting. Now that Maduro is gone, would you be interested in opening stores in Venezuela?

Goodman: We are always interested in new markets, Wolf.

Blitzer: Mr. Goodman, what is that interesting display on the table next to you?

Goodman: That? Oh, that is a scale model of a proposed shopping center in downtown Caracas, to be called The Marco Rubio Liberation Mall. It will be state-of-the-art, larger than the Mall of America up in Minnesota. Of course, our store will be one of the prominent anchors.

Blitzer: Very impressive!

Goodman: It will feature the Peter B. Hegseth Food Court and the Pamela J. Bondi Cinema Multiplex. First class all the way!

Blitzer: And what is that very tall building there on the right?

Goodman: That is the proposed Trump Tower – Caracas, a five-star hotel.

Blitzer: I see. And is that a stack of T-shirts next to you there? I didn’t know Pottery Barn carried apparel.

Goodman: Ah, yes, these are some commemorative items. [holds up a T-shirt] Here’s one with a nice likeness of President Trump with the legend, Lo rompí, lo asumo (I broke it, I own it). And here’s another depicting an oil derrick that reads, Tu petróleo es nuestro petróleo (Your oil is our oil).

Blitzer: And you say you had no advanced knowledge of Trump’s law enforcement action?

Goodman: None whatsoever, Wolf.

Blitzer: Mr. I.B. Goodman, vice president of public relations for Pottery Barn. Thank you very, very much…  Don’t go away. We’ll be back after these messages.

 

I changed the channel to the Today show, hoping to catch Al Roker’s weather report.

_____

 

 

      

 Cabinet Making 101

 

An aide to the U.S. Secretary of State knocks on the door of the ornate office and waits for permission to enter.

“Come in,” calls a tired voice from within.

The aide, Jasper “Jaz” Dinwittie, steps inside. The Secretary of State, fourth in the line of succession to the presidency, is slumped in his chair, his forehead resting on the desk, a soft moaning sound emanating from his lips.

“Mr. Secretary,” Dinwittie says, “up and at ’em, sir. The cabinet meeting begins in about an hour. Remember, you’ll be speaking first today during the public session with the cameras rolling.”

“Ah, geez, do we have to do this again? We just performed this ridiculous ass-kissing ritual last week. You’ve got to get me out of it, Jaz.”

“Sorry, Mr. Secretary. I’m afraid the president insists. You know the Nobel Peace Prize will be announced any day now.”

“God help us! Can’t the Swedes just give him the dang prize so we can all get on with our lives?”

“It's the Norwegians, sir, not the Swedes.”

“Swedes, Norwegians...po-tay-to, po-tah-to, Jaz. What if we removed their tariffs? What about that? What if we said all Volvos and Saabs were completely tariff-free? Would they give it to him then?”

“Wishful thinking, Mr. Secretary.”

“And would somebody please tell Steve Witkoff that it is the ‘Nobel Prize,’ not the ‘Noble Prize?’ No-BELL! It’s embarrassing enough when Secretary McMahon refers to AI as A-one.”

“We’ll take care of that, sir. Okay now, let’s go down the checklist. Do you have your statement praising the president ready to go?”

“Yeah, here it is.” He hands a sheet of paper to Dinwittie, who reads it aloud.

“Let’s see, ‘It is an honor to serve with a leader whose leadership shows the leaders of the world how to lead.’ Hmmm…I’m afraid this won’t do, sir. I took the liberty of drafting a statement for you. You can study it in the car on the way to the White House.”

“Thanks, Jaz. What would I do without you?”

“Part of the job, sir. Now, let’s tuck in your shirt, button your collar, straighten your tie. There, that’s better.”

“Jaz, you know he still calls me you-know-what.”

“I know, Mr. Secretary, but never with the cameras rolling, and never in range of a hot mic—so far.”

“But why, Jaz? Why?”

“I think it was that remark during the 2016 campaign when you said he has small hands, and what that implies.”

“I apologized, Jaz! Profusely!”

“It’s the ‘toothpaste syndrome,’ sir. Once it’s out of the tube—"

“And last week he played a tape—in a cabinet meeting—of my rebuttal to the State of the Union back in 2013.”

“The one where you got dry mouth and were reaching down for the water bottle while maintaining eye contact with the camera?”

“Yeah, that one. I wanted to slap him with a MAGA cap.”

“There, there, sir. We must keep our heads when others around us are losing theirs.”

“This is no time to quote Kipling, Jaz.”

“Not a quote, sir. It’s a paraphrase. Okay, I think we are ready. Grab your folio, the car is waiting, and we are on our way. And please, sir, remember to smile.”

“Oh, all right, Jaz. But if he calls me ‘Little Marco’ one more time, I’m going to plotz.”

“Plotz, Mr. Secretary? I’m not familiar with the term.”

“Let’s go, Jaz. I’ll explain it to you in the car.”

The two men exit, and once again, peace settles over the historic office.

_____