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?”

“Doesn’t work that way, sir.”

“I mean, 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.

_____

 

 

 

 

Windy City Gambit 2.0

 

Carlton “Chip” Smith leans back in his chair, enjoying a Cubs game on the flat screen TV in his spacious office. There is a knock on the door and his partner, Karen Jones, enters.

“Chip, we need to talk. I just spoke to Jamal Hemmings in the mayor's office. We may have a problem with our plans for ‘Summer with the Guard’ here in Chicago.”

Chip mutes the TV and gives Karen his full attention. “Really? What’s the issue? Mayor Johnson bought into the idea of welcoming the National Guard, treating them like honored guests. I thought everything was going according to plan.”

“You may have seen the reports … the Guard is now carrying weapons—sidearms and long guns—on the streets of Washington D.C. This is making the mayor very nervous. Many Chicagoans who planned to host guardsmen in their homes are getting cold feet. They don’t want loaded weapons in their homes.”

Chip rubs his temples, deep in thought. “Hmmm … I’ll bet that darn Stephen Miller is behind the decision to have the Guard carry weapons. We need to do something, anything to change the narrative.”

“You got that right,” Karen agrees. “Got any Ideas?”

“Yeah, I think I do. We need to put our chatbots to work and flood the social media zone. Let's get our tech bros in here right away.”

“They are right down the hall. I’ll go get ’em.” Karen hurries out the door.

 [The scene shifts to the press room in the White House, one day later, where Karoline Leavitt is conducting the daily briefing.]

Leavitt: Okay, we have time for a few more questions. Oh boy, here it comes. Up front here, Jonathan Karl, ABC.

Karl: Karoline, there is a report that the troops in D.C. are carrying weapons, but they are not allowed to carry ammunition. It’s called the ‘Barney Fife Rule.’ Would you care to comment?

Leavitt [turning to an aide]: Who the hell is Barney Fife? [The aide whispers in her ear; she turns back to the microphone.] That is absolutely false. Of course, they are allowed to carry ammunition.

Karl: According to the Fife Rule, they can only carry a single bullet in their shirt pockets, in case of emergency. We see photos online of guardsmen smiling for the cameras, holding up one bullet.

Leavitt: That is pure fake news. Just wait until we have to shoot somebody, you’ll see. … Okay, next question. Kaitlan Collins, CNN. Oy, here comes another doozy.

Collins: There is a report, backed by side-by-side photos, that Stephen Miller is Vladimir Putin's secret love child. Is the administration aware of this, and what is your reaction?

Leavitt: That is outrageous!

Collins: It would certainly explain recent policy decisions. Withdrawing support for Ukraine. The red-carpet treatment up in Alaska. And how do you account for the striking resemblance?

Leavitt: It's a scurrilous lie, and I will not dignify it with further comment!

Collins: [focused on her notes] Karoline, how do you spell ‘scurrilous’?

Leavitt: Umm…s q u i r…no, wait…s c u r… Hey, you’re a graduate of the University of Alabama, figure it out for yourself! … Time for one more question ... Peter Doocy, Fox News. Finally, one of our own.

Doocy: Thank you, Karoline. It has been reported that if Kilmar Abrego Garcia is sent to Costa Rica, he plans to open a bistro, bankrolled by George Soros, to be called ‘Kilmar’s Beach Bar.’ Any truth to that?

Leavitt: Ha! If Abrego Garcia opens a beach bar, it’s going to be in Uganda! You can take that to the bank. … Okay, that’s all for today. Same time tomorrow, knuckleheads. And let me warn you, do not—I repeat, do not—shout questions at me as I leave the podium.

[Leavitt turns and walks away. Chaos erupts, the press corps shouting…]

"Karoline, what is the correct pronunciation of ‘Ghislaine’?" … "Is Jeffrey Epstein alive and living in Saint Petersburg?" … "Will Maria Bartiromo replace Lisa Cook?" ... "Is DOJ investigating South Park?" ...

[The door to the press room closes behind Leavitt and her team as the reporters scurry away to meet their deadlines. Meanwhile, back in Chicago, Karen and Chip high-five and do the Dance of Joy. Analytics show that #BarneyFife and #MillerPutin have gone viral and are trending around the world.]

______

 

Windy City Gambit

 

In a small conference room deep within Chicago’s historic City Hall, two fresh college graduates, the ink barely dry on their diplomas, wait to speak with an aide to Mayor Brandon Johnson. One is a very attractive young woman, her short auburn hair styled in a sassy wedge, reminiscent of Dorothy Hamill. The other is a tall, well-built young man with a chiseled jaw and bright blue eyes. Both are dressed for success, as though they stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.

The door opens and Jamal Hemmings, aide to Mayor Johnson, steps into the room. Jamal is Black, mid-thirties, his shaved head glistening under the fluorescent lights. His Brooks Brothers suit is slightly wrinkled, the jacket unbuttoned, his tie loosened. He looks like an overworked political operative with too much on his plate, which is exactly what he is.

“Hello, I’m Jamal Hemmings.” He extends his hand to the young man who stands at the conference table.

“I’m Carlton Smith, but you can call me Chip.” He turns to the girl, also standing now. “This is my associate, Karen Jones. You can call her Karen.” He laughs, expecting a laugh in return, a little disappointed when his quip doesn’t land.

“Okay, Chip, Karen, what can I do for you?” Jamal glances at his watch.

Chip takes the lead. “I know your time is limited, so I’ll get right to the point—”

“Thank you.” Jamal has yet to crack a smile.

“As I’m sure you are aware, the Trump administration is planning to declare some sort of public safety emergency and deploy National Guard troops to Chicago.”

“Yes, we’ve heard that rumor. And we are prepared to fight back.”

“With all due respect,” Chip continues, “we think that is the wrong approach. We propose that you welcome the National Guard with open arms, roll out the red carpet, just as the President did for Putin up in Alaska.”

“You’re joking.” Jamal’s jaw has dropped several inches.

“We kid you not!” Karen chimes in. “You should welcome the troops to the Windy City as your honored guests. Give them a parade down Michigan Avenue. Make it a full-blown celebration of our beloved men and women in uniform. Call it ‘Summer with the Guard.’ Or fall, or winter, whatever the season.”

Jamal is gobsmacked. He looks at Karen, then Chip, unable to process what he’s hearing.

“Think of this,” Chip picks up the pitch. “Arrange tours for all service members to see the many beautiful and historic sites of Chicago. The Field Museum. Shedd Aquarium. Lincoln Park Zoo. The Art Institute. Grant Park. The Wrigley Building. I could go on and on—”

“And make sure the Guard is welcomed at all the fine eateries around town.” Karen’s enthusiasm has ticked up a notch. “I, for one, love Walker Brothers. I’m sure our troops would love to have breakfast at Walker Brothers. And how about a tour of all the great hot dog stands in the city? There’s nothing better than an authentic Chicago hot dog."

“Think of the boost to tourism.” Chip adds. “People will flock to the city to have their picture taken next to a Humvee or an MRAP. I’m sure the Guard will be happy to let kids climb in and out and all over those vehicles, even pose for pictures with their young fans.”

“And, what if we can convince them to give rides?” Karen smiles. “Leaving Navy Pier, cruising the Outer Drive and circling back. What kid wouldn’t love to ride in an MRAP? For a reasonable fare, of course.”

Jamal raises his eyebrows. He starts to say, That sounds pretty cool, but he bites his tongue. “Hold the phone,” he says. “What’s your part of this deal? What’s in it for you?”

“We are travel specialists,” Chip says. “We’ll promote the event, book travel arrangements, and provide concierge services. It goes without saying, we’ll find ways to monetize everything.”

Jamal is skeptical. “I don’t know. It’s an interesting idea, but I’m not sure the mayor will go for it.”

“We understand,” Karen says. “It’s a fresh approach, which is why we came to Chicago first. We want you to take the lead, get in on the ground floor, so to speak. Show America you are still the ‘City of Broad Shoulders,’ and ‘Hog butcher to the world.’”

“Okay, you can stop now. I’ve read Carl Sandburg.” Jamal smiles for the first time.

“We should tell you that we have meetings scheduled with several other cities.” Chip has lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “We’ll be meeting with officials in Milwaukee, Detroit, Oakland, and other major cities in blue states.”

“I mean, let’s face it,” Karen says. “We all know this is about the mid-term elections. The administration wants the National Guard in every major city that did not vote for Trump in 2024. You can be the first to have ordinary citizens—registered voters—having their pictures taken with Guard troops in front of ballot drop boxes. Think of the optics!”

“Take a look at this,” Chip says. He taps his iPhone a few times, and photos begin to scroll across the screen—National Guard troops posing with smiling civilians, Wrigley Field or Buckingham Fountain in the background, then a video clip of a chorus in camouflage uniforms singing, Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin’ town…

Jamal is shocked. “How the hell did you get those pictures and that video?”

Karen smiles. “It’s amazing what you can do with AI these days.”

Jamal is quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers on the conference table, considering everything he’s seen and heard. “Okay…send me the photos and the video. I’ll take the idea to Mayor Johnson. I can’t make any promises…but I think this idea has legs. That’s all I can say for now.”

They chat a while longer and then Jamal escorts Chip and Karen to the lobby, shakes their hands and bids them goodbye. As they hit the street in front of City Hall, Karen breaks into song.

“My kind of town / Chicago is / My kind of town…”

_____

  

 

The Dignity of Work

 

I once wrote a poem that began like this:

 

There are only five things to pursue in this life:

Love, beauty, compassion, justice, and a job.

Without those elements, life doesn’t amount to much.

 

That last element—a job—is a big one. Without a job, you can’t pay today’s bills, let alone plan for the future. This shines a very bright spotlight on the dignity of work. Let me give you a few examples from my experience.

My father, Charles Sr., served twenty years in the Navy, retiring as a chief petty officer. He began his service in 1915 during World War I. The Navy taught him a trade, and after his discharge, he found a job at Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo, California, as a boilermaker. He worked there for twenty-three years. He was in the process of filing for retirement when he died of a heart attack. He was only sixty-four. My dad was the hardest working man I’ve ever known. He had an eighth-grade education, but he knew his trade and he knew he could outwork any two men combined. He spent his entire adult life working for the federal government, and there was dignity in being a veteran, a proud union member, a boilermaker.

Another example: My former father-in-law, Tommy Beaver, served in North Africa during World War II, then deployed overseas again during the Korean War. He owned a navy-blue ball cap with the legend in gold letters, “Veteran / WWII / Korea,” and he wore it proudly. After the Army, he also worked at Mare Island. He was a machinist by trade and became an inspector in the nuclear submarine program, a program that produced seventeen nuclear ships, including seven “boomers” armed with Polaris missiles. Late in his career, he won an award for a “beneficial suggestion” to improve a process in production. A plaque was awarded in a public ceremony, and it came with a bonus which he used to take his family to dinner. There was pride and dignity in serving his country, first in war, then again in peace.

My dad and my former father-in-law were heroes in my book. But let’s look at a more mundane example. The elementary school I attended had a couple of rooms at the end of the north wing that were dedicated to Special Education. There was a group of kids who attended classes there, part of our student body, but separate and apart. Several of them managed to thrive and learn in that environment and went on to graduate from high school. Everything they needed—specially trained teachers, curriculum, supplies—would be provided today by the Department of Education. There is value and dignity in working for an agency that makes sure school districts across the country can keep the lights on for Special Ed kids and their teachers.

One more brief example: How many of you remember the day you enrolled in Medicare? Or the day you applied for Social Security? I recall sitting in a large room, metal chairs arranged in neat rows, thirty or forty people in the room waiting for their appointments to be called. I remember the rep who handled my application, who took me through the process efficiently and treated me with respect. I went through the same experience again to enroll my wife Barbara in Medicare and apply for spousal benefits under Social Security. For us, there were no complications, no problems to solve, but I’m sure that’s not true for every applicant. How many people—from all walks of life and all levels of complexity—does a Social Security Representative see in a day, a month, a year? There is value and dignity in doing that work.

I could go on, sharing experiences with the many agencies and departments that we depend on: The Post Office, Air Traffic Control, National Weather Service, National Park Service, Veterans Administration, and yes, even the IRS. It’s likely everyone reading this has a story—positive, negative, or neutral—to share about their contact with a federal agency.

Let me state clearly, I am in favor of eliminating waste, fraud, and abuse.  And if fraud is found, the Department of Justice should prosecute the offenders. However, today people who work for the federal government are under attack, told not to report to work, locked out of their offices, given fifteen minutes to pack their personal belongings and leave. Without cause, due process, or review, they receive email notification of termination. Many have long years of service in their jobs. Many are veterans. We see Marjorie Taylor Greene loudly proclaiming, “Federal workers do not deserve their jobs.” We see Elon Musk dancing around a stage like an adolescent on a sugar high, wielding a blinged-out chainsaw while shouting, “This is the chainsaw of bureaucracy.” And we see his boast about “feeding USAID to the woodchipper.”

There is no beauty or compassion in what’s going on, and certainly no love, except for the love of cruelty. A flood of lawsuits has been filed to stop what the Trump administration is doing, because much of it appears to be illegal and in violation of the Constitution. Many of those cases will wind up at the Supreme Court and the Roberts Court will decide what is the law of the land.

My father used to say, “There is a right way, a wrong way, and the Navy way.” As a twenty-year Navy man, there was no question which “way” he preferred. But if we are going to do this DOGE thing, we need to choose the right way. Do it through study, audit, and recommendation. Do it by congressional action, in accordance with the Constitution and existing law. Do it with compassion and the realization that every termination represents a human being, a person with real life responsibilities. Do it with respect for the dignity of work. 

_____

 

 

  

 

The Riviera of the Middle East

President Trump made a shocking statement this week, asserting the U.S. would “own” the Gaza Strip and redevelop all that magnificent beach-front property into “The Riviera of the Middle East.” While this redevelopment was going on, the Palestinian people would be relocated to other countries. When asked if they could return after the redevelopment, the president said, “I don’t see why they would.” Presumably, resort living is not a Palestinian thing.

This visionary proposal was made at a joint press conference with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who looked on in rapt attention. The president followed up with a posting on Truth Social:

The Gaza Strip would be turned over to the United States by Israel at the conclusion of fighting. The Palestinians, people like Chuck Schumer, would have already been resettled in far safer and more beautiful communities, with new and modern homes, in the region….

First, there are some surprises here. Who knew Chuck Schumer is a Palestinian? I always thought he was Jewish. Second, and more striking, who knew there were beautiful communities with new and modern homes ready to accept approximately two million Palestinians? Even if we assumed six to ten people per family, that’s somewhere between 200,000 and 333,000 “new and modern homes.”

I'm looking forward to a follow-up posting in which President Trump tells us where these housing units exist and how soon the Palestinians can move in. No one has mentioned money, so I'm guessing all of this will be built on spec by Jared Kushner and Mohammed bin Salman. 

I’m also hoping for clarification as to what happens to Hamas. Hamas seems to be replenishing its ranks as quickly as they are depleted. There are certainly a lot of them at each hostage exchange—heavily armed, wearing new-looking battle fatigues, sporting their green headbands. Will they go to the new communities? Or stay behind to fight it out with the IDF? Maybe they’ll stay in the tunnels and come out when it’s time to enjoy The Riviera of the Middle East.

I can’t wait for the president’s next posting on this project.