#intrusive thought of cleveland as a name might just do it

[lizbotw]

oh fuck why do i have to name the saurian what the FUCK i’m so stressed

[goaskmeanthingthings-blog]

‘The Arrangements’: A Work of Fiction

By CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIEJUNE 28, 2016

 The New York Times Book Review asked the acclaimed novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie to write a short story about the American election. A second work of election fiction — by a different writer — will follow this fall.

Melania decided she would order the flowers herself. Donald was too busy now anyway to call Alessandra’s as usual and ask for “something amazing.” Once, in the early years, before she fully understood him, she had asked what his favorite flowers were.

“I use the best florists in the city, they’re terrific,” he replied, and she realized that taste, for him, was something to be determined by somebody else, and then flaunted.

At first, she wished he would not keep asking their guests, “How do you like these great flowers?” and that he would not be so nakedly in need of their praise, but now she felt a small tug of annoyance if a guest did not gush as Donald expected. The florists were indeed good, their peonies delicate as tissue, even if a little boring, and the interior decorators Donald had brought in — all the top guys used them, he said — were good, too, even if all that gold yellowness bordered on staleness, and so she did not disagree because Donald disliked dissent, and he only wanted the best for them, and she had what she really needed, this luxurious peace. But today, she would order herself. It was her dinner party to celebrate her parents’ anniversary. Unusual orchids, maybe. Her mother loved uncommon things.

Her Pilates instructor, Janelle, would arrive in half an hour. She had just enough time to order the flowers and complete her morning skin routine. She would use a different florist, she decided, where Donald did not have an account, and pay by herself. Donald might like that; he always liked the small efforts she made. Do the little things, don’t ask for big things and he will give them to you, her mother advised her, after she first met Donald. She gently patted three different serums on her face and then, with her fingertips, applied an eye cream and ­sunscreen.

Continue reading the main story

What a bright morning. Summer sunlight raised her spirits. And Tiffany was leaving today. It felt good. The girl had been staying for the past week, and came and went, mostly staying out of her way. Still, it felt good. Yesterday she had taken Tiffany to lunch, so that she could tell Donald that she had taken Tiffany to lunch.

“She adores all my kids, it’s amazing,” Donald once told a reporter — he was happily blind to the strangeness in the air whenever she was with his children.

To keep the lunch short, she had told Tiffany that she had an afternoon meeting with the Chinese company that produced her jewelry — even though she had no plans. Tiffany had cheerily forked spinach salad into her mouth, her California voice too pleasant, too fey. Her wrists looked fragile and breakable. She talked about how much she loved Ivanka’s new collection; she talked about a vegan recipe, reciting details of berries and seaweed, as though Melania would actually ever make it. She played a recording of her singing and said: “It’s not there yet but I’m working on it. You think Dad will like it?” Melania said, “Of course.”

Now she found herself warming to Tiffany, perhaps more because the girl was leaving today. Tiffany was nice. Tiffany courted her. Tiffany acknowledged her power. Tiffany was different from that Czech woman’s children — she never disputed, with her manner, the primacy of Melania’s place in Donald’s life.

Not like Ivanka. Melania breathed deeply. Even just thinking of Ivanka brought an exquisite, slow-burning irritation. That letter Ivanka wrote to Donald after their engagement. She would never forget it. Congratulations, Dad. At least your ex-wife was pure. It lay carelessly on the desk, as most of Donald’s papers did, and Melania had read it over and over, and later, unable to control herself, had shown it to Donald. What does she mean by this? Donald laughed it off. Ivanka gets moody and jealous, he said. I am here! Melania had wanted to shout once at the girl, golden-haired and indulged by Donald, one summer when Ivanka joined them for breakfast in Palm Beach and did not once glance at Melania.

“Melania looks great, but we have to think about how to make her more relatable for the convention, maybe less contour makeup and her smiling and not squinting so much,” Ivanka said just two days earlier, at a meeting with Donald’s campaign team. Melania was seated there, next to Donald and part of the meeting, and yet Ivanka spoke of her as though she were invisible.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Donald said. He always agreed with Ivanka. Ivanka who spoke in eloquent streams of words that meant nothing but still impressed everyone, Ivanka whom Donald showed off like a glowing modern toy that he did not know how to operate.

Remember, only praise for his daughter when he is there, her mother told her whenever Melania complained.

Her phone chimed; a text from Donald. I’m leading in the latest poll. National! Nice!

It was probably what he had tweeted as well. He copied and pasted his tweets to her in text messages. Once she had suggested he hold back on a tweet and he replied that he had already tweeted it. He showed her his tweets after he had sent them, not before.

That is so great! she texted back.

She sagged suddenly with terror, imagining what would happen if Donald actually won. Everything would change. Her contentment would crack into pieces. The relentless intrusions into their lives; those horrible media people who never gave Donald any credit would get even worse. She had never questioned Donald’s dreams because they did not collide with her need for peace. Only once, when he was angry about something to do with his TV show, and abruptly decided to leave her and Barron in Paris and go back to New York, she had asked him quietly, “When will it be enough?” She had been rubbing her caviar cream on Barron’s cheeks — he was about 6 then — and Donald ignored her question and said, “Keep doing that and you’ll turn that kid into a sissy.”

She forced herself to stop thinking of Donald winning. There was this evening to look forward to, with Donald and her parents and a few friends, food and flowers, the butler’s creaseless service, and the magnanimous ease of it all.

Barron had told her last night that he would not join them at dinner. “Too boring, Mom,” he had said in Slovenian. She missed his delicious younger days, when he was pliable and happy to go everywhere with her, when she would brush his hair and hold his perfect little body close and feel it almost one with hers. Now, he had an individual self, separate and wise, with knowledge of golf and video games; when she kissed him he twisted away. At least she had persuaded him to come down and say hello to the guests after they arrived.

She had asked the chef for a menu that was both “old and new,” and he suggested steak and watercress and quinoa and lobster and something else she did not remember. Her mother would like it. When she was growing up, her mother used the French or English terms for the food she cooked, as if the Slovenian would make them unforgivingly ordinary. She would serve a ragout for dinner, after a long day at the textile factory, her lips still carefully rouged, her waist tightly cinched, always striving, always trying to escape the familiar. A woman had to hold herself together, her mother said, or end up looking like a wide middle-aged Russian.

◆

The butler called her bedroom. “Miss Tiffany would like to say goodbye, Mrs. Trump.”

“Yes, thank you,” Melania said, and waited for Tiffany to knock on her door.

“I’m so sorry, didn’t want to bother you,” Tiffany said. Her blond hair extensions were distracting; too long and doll-like.

“No, no problem,” Melania said. “You look nice.”

“Thank you so much for everything! See you in Cleveland next week!” Tiffany said, hugging her.

“Take care.”

At the door, Tiffany turned back and said, “Ivanka donates to Hillary.”

“What?”

“I saw it on her laptop when I went over there last night. She uses a fake name. It’s the same fake name she uses to order stuff online. I thought you should know.”

Melania swallowed her surprise. Why was Tiffany telling her this? Around Ivanka, Tiffany was like an eager insecure puppy, as though she would not truly be part of the family but for Ivanka’s good grace — a grace that needed to be fed with loyalty and adulation.

So why tell her this? And could it be true? Tiffany was watching, waiting for a reaction. She was determined to say nothing, just in case Tiffany was reporting back to someone. She always suspected intrigue among Donald’s children — and she would not tell Donald about this, not yet; she would first discuss it with her mother. Whether it was true or not, this was a morsel to be saved, molded, used in the best way.

“I must get ready for my Pilates, Tiffany,” she said firmly. “See you in Cleveland.”

Donald called just after she ordered the orchids. He had some meetings, but his big event of the day was a luncheon organized by the Republican National Committee.

“How is it going?” she asked.

“Great. Did you see the polls, honey? Can you believe this?” His voice had an ebullient pitch. He still did not entirely believe this was happening — his lead in the polls, the new veneer of being taken seriously. She could tell from the disbelieving urgency of his actions, and from the way he flipped through cable channels and scanned newspapers for his name.

“Remember I told you: You will win,” she said.

She always tried to sound casually believing, as if the polls were merely incidental, and her faith had conjured his victory. But she was as startled by his rise as he was.

When she had first told him “you will win,” that balmy day in Florida last year, drinking Diet Coke in tennis whites, she had meant he would win at what he wanted: the publicity, the ego polish. It would help his TV show, and impress those business associates tickled by fame. But she had never meant he would actually win the Republican primary, nor had she expected the frenzy of media coverage he received. Americans were so emotionally young, so fascinated by what Europeans knew to be world-weary realities. They were drawn to Donald’s brashness and bluster and bullying, his harsh words, even the amoral ease with which untruths slid out of his mouth. She viewed these with a shrug — he was human, and he had his good points, and did Americans truly not know that human beings told lies? But they had followed him from the beginning, breathlessly and childishly. There were days when every television channel she switched to had his image on the screen. They did not understand that what he found unbearable was to be ignored, and for this she was grateful, because being in the news brought Donald the closest he could be to contentment. He would never be a truly content person, she knew this, because of that primal restlessness that thrummed in him, the compulsion to prove something to himself that he feared he never would. It moved her, made her feel protective. Even the way he nursed his grudges, almost lovingly, unleashing in great detail slights from 20 years ago, made her protective of him. She often felt, despite the age gap of more than two decades, that she was older than Donald. Her response to his agitations was a curated series of soothing murmurs. Be a little calmer, she told him often. In bed, she had learned to gauge Donald and know when he expected her to gasp. On nights when she did not have the mental energy to act, she would tell Donald, “It is not a good night today,” and he would kiss her cheek and leave, because he liked her air of delicate mystery.

◆

The butler knocked and brought her lemon water on a tray. “Janelle is here, Mrs. Trump.”

He did his characteristic almost-bow. He liked her, mostly because of how little she said, and how she encouraged an air of enigmatic formality.

“Thank you,” she said.

She applied concealer and lip gloss and highlighter, checked herself in the mirror. She had not worn makeup with Amy, her last instructor, but Janelle made her want to look attractive. After Amy moved to Los Angeles and recommended Janelle, Donald saw her — he was home on Janelle’s first day and said: “Really? I didn’t think they did that Pilates stuff. It’s not like Pilates is hip-hop or whatever.” She, too, was taken aback when she first saw Janelle, sinuous and small, skin the color of earth, locs pulled up in a bun. She’s professional and discreet, Amy had said. Now, weeks in, Melania wished that Janelle were not so professional, so singularly focused on straightening Melania’s feet, flattening Melania’s belly, and never saying anything personal.

“Hi, Mrs. Trump. Ready for the warm-up?” Janelle asked, her face, as usual, a pleasant mask scrubbed of expression.

“Yes,” Melania said.

Janelle was beside her on the mat, legs aloft. She smelled of grapefruit. Melania wanted to reach out and taste her — the smooth skin of her arm, her full, ­brownish-pink lips. She followed Janelle’s lead and wondered about Janelle’s life. Was there a boyfriend? Someone like her, dignified and quiet? Each time the Pilates session ended, she considered asking Janelle to stay for lunch, or just a glass of juice, but she feared that Janelle would say no.

“Oh, I must get a massage, for my thighs,” Melania said, tentative, desperate to say something personal and yet safe.

“A warm bath should help,” Janelle said. “Have a good day, Mrs. Trump.”

Melania felt deflated. Had she expected Janelle to offer to give her a massage? It was so silly of her. Had Janelle meant anything more by “warm bath”? She was trying to read what was not there. But she would not allow herself to be sad. There was the evening to look forward to.

◆

Her phone chimed. Another text from Donald.

Hope says fashion people are asking what you’ll wear to convention. Has to be a big name. An American designer. Have you decided?

I have three and will choose tomorrow, she texted back.

Donald had never taken much interest in what she wore. Not like Tomaz, her ex, who had picked out her clothes and liked the smell of her sweat. Why had she suddenly thought of Tomaz? Tomaz smoked thin cigarettes and walked the world in an existential haze of disapproval. After she was interviewed in a French magazine some years ago, Tomaz had sent her an email through her sister Ines. Now you have what you always wanted, you have forgotten Ljubljana? It had annoyed her and of course she did not reply. Unlike Tomaz, Donald was not a sensual man. But it was what had attracted her to Donald in the beginning: He was not a man who traded in complexities. After brooding, Sartre-quoting Tomaz, Donald came as a relief.

She checked the time. Donald would be done with his luncheon. She would call, to remind him to be back on time. He sometimes forgot himself at these things.

“The dinner party?” he said. “Of course I’ll be home.”

“You want me to wear those first diamonds?” she asked, light and teasing. It was their joke; the first time they made love, she had worn nothing but those earrings. It had also been his first gift to her, in a pretty black box, and he asked her to open it, humming with a need for her gratitude. He was not eager to please her, she realized, he was keen to be pleased by her pleasure. And so she gave in, thanking him, wreathing her face with delight, even though she wished the diamonds were bigger.

“Yes, wear them. I bet those beauties have tripled in value,” he said. “I have to go, honey, I’m meeting with the top five guys of the committee. They’re all dying to talk to me.”

She undressed and examined herself in the mirror. There was a new dimple in her thigh. Donald would say something if he noticed it. “You need to get these fixed soon,” he had said a few months back, cupping her breasts, and when he got up from bed, she looked at his pale, slack belly, and the sprinkle of bristly hair on his back.

◆

In the bath, sunk into scented foam, Melania settled down to read the latest coverage of Donald. There was a story about his money; they kept saying he did not have as much as he claimed to have. What did it matter? He had a lot. She glanced at the comments at the end of the article and the name “Janelle” caught her eye. The commenter wrote: Trump needs to modernize those ill-fitting suits, throw away the bottle of orange tan, get fake teeth that actually look like teeth and let himself go bald like God intended. How many Janelles were there in America? Of course it could not be her Janelle. Still, seeing the name excited her. It was unfair that people made fun of Donald’s hair but she could not help smiling, reading it, imagining her Janelle writing it.

There was a story about some of his angry supporters, displaying swastikas on their trucks, and she cringed reading it. Extremes of anything discomfited her. The day Donald announced he would run for president, she had been filled with light on their glorious descent in the escalator, eyes and cameras on them, and everything dazzling. Afterward, she escaped to the cool white of her bedroom, and lay still for a long time, and then looked online at the coverage. She loved the way her smoky eyes popped in the photographs. A heady sense of accomplishment suffused her. But she did not want too many more of those moments, because they shifted her balance, left her spirit vaguely disjointed.

She Googled herself and enlarged some of the photos. Why did some news sites choose the most unflattering images? It was deliberate. She was scrupulous about presenting the best angles of her face to the cameras, practicing the tilt to her neck that ensured a slim silhouette. Yet some photo editors were determined to use the few bad shots. They were jealous of Donald; nothing else could explain it.

She hoped Donald would not open her bedroom door tonight; this was the kind of day that he would come, exuberant and expansive from victory. It had been almost two months. The last time, he kissed her, eager and dramatic and sweaty as he often was — he hated her initiating things, “aggressive women make me think I’m with a transsexual,” he’d told her years ago — and then fumbled and shifted and suddenly got up and said he had a phone call to make. Only then did she understand what had happened. They did not talk about it, but for a few days he had sulked and snapped, as though it were her fault.

◆

Donald came home red-faced, his lips a snarl of rage. He ignored the butler’s greeting. Melania kissed him hello and braced herself.

“Can you believe these losers? They’re talking about 2020,” he said. He flung his jacket down on the living room floor and she picked it up.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Reince pulled me aside after the meeting. He’s a great guy, always nice to me. He said all the top guys at the R.N.C. have decided to focus on 2020, and put very little money and effort into my campaign. Like I don’t even have a chance at all!”

“It makes no sense what they want to do. You have many votes. Look at the polls. People love you.”

She knew how easily mollified he was by praise, but he barely seemed to hear her, consumed as he was, typing furiously on his phone. She hoped he would not hurl the phone at the wall, as he had done after a newspaper wrote about Trump University, after which he stayed up all night writing hasty, flagrant letters to journalists.

The doorbell rang and there was Ivanka, her face dewy as though she had not had a long day at work, lips crimson. Too crimson; Melania herself favored nude lipsticks. She imagined Ivanka sending money to Hillary Clinton’s campaign, using a fake name. Could it be true? What name did she use? Thinking of a fake name made her think of Janelle.

“Hey!” Ivanka said. A general greeting, but she was looking at her father.

“Ivanka. What a surprise,” Melania said.

“Ivanka wanted to come over to discuss this,” Donald said, glancing up from his phone. He was only telling her now. He would expect her to ask Ivanka to dinner and she would have to endure Ivanka’s polished voice, that fulsome surface that shielded cold metal.

“Oh, what gorgeous flowers,” Ivanka said. “Are they from Alessandra’s, Dad?”

“No. I used another florist,” Melania said. Ivanka’s admiration pleased her, and she resented Ivanka for it.

“Can you just believe these losers?” Donald said testily, impatient with talk of flowers. “They want to sabotage me!”

 Donald admired in his daughter qualities he would not abide in a wife. Not that Melania minded, she told herself, watching them. Ivanka moved like him, loose-limbed. Like him, she was comfortable with display. Like him, she was always selling something. The difference was that you knew what Donald was selling; Ivanka left you wondering.

“It’s utter sabotage and unacceptable,” Ivanka said.

“I’ve got to hit back at these guys.”

“You do have to hit back, totally,” Ivanka said. “We have to figure out the best way.”

Why did she not calm him down? Melania was annoyed. Her evening would be ruined, Donald’s churlish mood would darken her dinner, and he would probably leave after the main course, without apology. He had done it the day after Cruz beat him at a primary, and they had been with guests that he had invited.

“I’m leaving the Republican Party. That’s it. If they’re going to treat me this way. It’s not nice. That’s it,” Donald said.

“But you need the party,” Melania said.

“This isn’t Europe, honey. You don’t know anything about this,” Donald said and turned back to Ivanka.

She would not be annoyed, not with Ivanka to witness it. Donald used “Europe” to belittle her sometimes, but he also used “European” as Americans did, like an aspirational word. European chocolates. European bread. European style.

“Can we set up a three-way with Paul and Hope in the study, Dad?” Ivanka said, looking amused. “Is Barron in his room? I’ll just go say a quick hi.”

Melania felt an unreasonable urge to get up and drag Ivanka back. You do not go to my son’s room without my permission!

If only Barron didn’t like her. It was Ivanka with whom he discussed tennis and golf.

“Look, honey, can we do this dinner another time?” Donald said after Ivanka left. “I need to think about this. These losers can’t do this to me. Your parents will be fine. They’re here most of the time anyway, and I can fly them back in if they want to. . . .”

He was still speaking, but she could no longer understand. A tightness had gripped her temples, her hands shook. “Donald, I want this,” she said. “We have not hosted my parents. It is 50 years of marriage for them. Their friends are coming. I have planned for one week. I want this today.”

Donald looked up astonished from his phone. She dug her nails in her palm and stared back at him.

“O.K., O.K.,” Donald said sighing. “Just give me some time to talk to Ivanka.”

He went inside, and a new elation settled in Melania’s bones.

They emerged half an hour later, Donald’s face relaxed, Ivanka laughing, pushing her hair away from her face, fondly indulgent of her beloved man-child father.

“We can’t keep letting them think you’re going to be Caligula when you become president, Dad,” Ivanka said.

“Whatever,” Donald said with a grin. He turned to Melania. “Honey, we have a plan. I announce two days before the convention that I’m done with the party. My supporters don’t care about the party anyway. It’s Trump they want. If I’m an independent they’ll still come to me. So that leaves the R.N.C. with one day to try and fix things. I’ll give them a list of my conditions, they need to show me plans and figures for how they’ll support my campaign, otherwise no deal. It’ll knock them down. Let’s see what they do with that!” He sounded gleeful.

Melania was startled. How could Ivanka have agreed to this? It would only lose him votes. His supporters were already with him, but what about the people who would vote for him only because of the Republican Party? Would that not turn them off? She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it. Ivanka had the smallest of triumphant smiles on her face. A well-oiled smile. Melania remembered that smooth smile at other times, when Donald insulted John McCain, when Donald boycotted a Republican debate. Ivanka always egged him on, never dissuaded him; she stirred the pot with her fulsome words.

But Donald was calmer and her evening would go well and her mother would be happy.

After dinner, she would ask Donald to come to her room, and she would be soft and subtle, and wear the jasmine scent he liked, and tell him Tiffany had come to her this morning, upset and crying, because she had discovered that Ivanka was supporting Hillary Clinton. She would suggest that Donald do and say nothing about it, hopefully none of the dishonest media people would find out, because of course it would be terrible if he had to publicly denounce his daughter, and Ivanka was so wonderful really, even though she was always telling the press how she didn’t agree with all of her father’s policies.

“Ivanka, will you join us for dinner?” Melania asked, knowing Ivanka would decline.

“Thanks, but I have to get back to the kids,” Ivanka said.

Melania smiled sagely. “Of course. Say hello to the family.”

The doorbell rang. Her guests had arrived.

[pldcrl]

Walls

My uncle wrote a great essay about history and walls. His name is Peter Vella. He doesn’t have an “internet presence” or any social media accounts, so I thought I would post it on his behalf.

Henry Ford said, "History is (more or less) bunk." He was wrong. Just like his timing for the Model A, and his idea that Adolf Hitler was a swell guy, Henry was wrong about history. History gives us a chance to avoid the mistakes that our predecessors made. Recording and studying human events means we will never have to sport mullet haircuts again, we will never think it is someone's right to smoke a cigarette inside an airplane, and we don't need to go to war to stimulate an economy.

Donald Trump’s signing of an executive order to start the construction of a wall along the U.S. Mexican border shouts that the newly elected president skipped a history class or two.

There have been ten or so major walls constructed in the history of the world. The biggest wall by far was the Great Wall of China. Its length varies depending on who you ask. The most famous portion built in the Ming Dynasty measures 8,850 kilometers. A different source claims the entire structure spans 21,196 kilometers. It was built and rebuilt from 700BC to 1644 AD which is longer than it took to finish the Montreal Olympic Stadium. It was meant to control immigration and military intrusion. However, international news agency GB Times reporter, Riho Laurisaar claims “the Great Wall may have been a manifestation of power that put fear into the hearts of barbarian raiders, but it failed miserably when it mattered most". And, “The Great Wall was nothing more than an ambitious project contrived by a vainglorious emperor, trying to make a clear distinction between civilized people and barbarians”. Now that sounds familiar. Today the Great Wall of China is a tourist attraction.

The Romans were usually pretty bright, yet they built (not one, but) two walls in England. Hadrian; the Roman Emperor from 117 to 138 AD was responsible for the first one. It was to” keep Romans and barbarians apart”. The 110 kilometer wall wasn’t working too well so Hadrian's successor Antoninus built a wall north of Hadrian's to supplement the whole process, and get his name on a wall as well. This second wall was like having a mud room to keep cold drafts from coming into the kitchen when you open the back door; except that mud rooms work. The barbarians (Scots) got by anyway. Hadrian's Wall has become a famous hike and today is a tourist attraction.

The history of Jerusalem is a litany of "build it up, and knock it down" by all the major Fertile Crescent state religions and the Romans as well. The West Wall or Wailing Wall in Jerusalem is part of the fortification of the Temple Mount. It was built by King Herod about twenty years before he supposedly tried to kill baby Jesus. The wall around one of the holiest of holy places may as well have had a revolving door on it though. Today it is Israel’s biggest tourist attraction.

The French Maginot Line was not really a wall per se. It was a wall of defence consisting of bunkers strung in a line along the French German border. The bunkers were connected by underground trains and were equipped with artificial sun rooms and gourmet canteens. Built in the 1930s, the line was meant to keep Nazi invaders at bay. However, the Panzer tanks took the Belgian detour route and you could order schnitzel in Paris restaurants a week or so later. The Maginot Line does get tourists, but most of them are German.

If we zip over to Turkey we have the Walls of Troy. This edifice withstood a lot of abuse in a ten year war with Greece about 1190 BC. As the story (myth) goes, those crafty Greeks gave up on knocking the wall down and set up a large wooden statue of a horse stuffed full of soldiers by one of the gates. Curiosity got the better of the residents of Troy and they dragged the faux equine into the secured area. That night the Greek soldiers popped out and the expression, "Duh" was heard for the first time in history. The Walls of Troy are now small sections of stone but are definitely in the Lonely Planet guide to Turkey.

If Donald Trump was a guest on Celebrity Jeopardy he may be forgiven for answering that the Ming Dynasty is a Chinese soap opera, or that King Herod was the guy that opened up that department store in London, or that Hadrian was Rocky's girlfriend, but he should know the story of the world's most recent wall; the Berlin Wall. Built by East Germany (aka the Soviet Union) and eventually covering a distance of 96 miles, “the Wall” marked the region where American and Russian troops had met in their occupation of Germany. After about fifteen years of tense co-existence, the two “allied” victors decided that they would start a war against each other. It was only a Cold War; still, it cost a lot of money, and kept most Europeans awake at night. Starting in 1961, the Berlin Wall became a physical monument to the world’s efforts to avoid a third World War and nuclear devastation. What made the Berlin Wall novel was the fact that it was built to keep people in, not out. This might be the same premise for Trump's next secret project; “The Canadian Wall”. It will be there to keep “Trump Dodgers” from skating across the frozen Detroit River to Windsor, or claiming refugee status when they step off cruise ships in Vancouver or Halifax. The Berlin Wall lasted only twenty eight years and the deconstruction party became lore. This was the only functional world wall that could be witnessed in my (or Mr. Trump’s) lifetime. I did cross it at the infamous Checkpoint Charlie gate. The elevated tourist passage showed me that the Berlin Wall was actually a pair of walls. In between them was the “death strip” consisting of mine fields, speed bumps, ditches, electric fences, and a series of frightening looking steel structures. “X” shaped rough cut metal protrusions with rusting edges were meant to snag would be escapers until they could be shot by guards in towers. Maybe this is where the expression, “overkill” came from.

A beautiful building or sculpture is a testament to the imagination and ingenuity of the human race. The Berlin Wall was all about what ails us; divisiveness, fear, and control. I was there on a gloomy overcast day, and it felt like it was the Wall that was sucking all the light out of the sky. Approximately two hundred people died trying to escape the Berlin Wall. Today it is a tourist attraction.

History demonstrates that only one substantial wall was built in the United States of America; so far. Situated in the city of Boston, the ominous sounding “Green Monster” has been part of the mystique of the Fenway Park baseball stadium since 1912. At almost four storeys high, it was intended to keep non paying spectators from watching the Boston Red Sox games from outside the park. That only worked until television was invented. The Green Monster did serve to keep hits that would have been line drive home runs in most other parks well within the realm of outfielders. However Jose Bautista and a few other players have foiled the Monster on several occasions. Fenway Park holds the Major League Baseball attendance record at 794 consecutive sell out crowds. Many of those would be tourists. Possibly, concerning the rhetoric needed to sell Congress on the idea of the Mexican Wall, Mr. Trump may alter a famous baseball phrase, “Build it and they won’t come”.

The Dutch are known for dykes to hold back the sea, but you may not be aware that they are also responsible for creating a wall that was relied upon to impede the process of millions of invaders. The “modern” contraceptive diaphragm was developed after the vulcanization process of rubber was patented by Charles Goodyear in 1844. Eighteen years later Wilhelm Mesinga not only designed the device but his name would be used on the only brand available for sale for decades. It may be a dubious distinction. Even though one third of American married couples were using the “Rubber Wall” for contraception in 1940, there is physical evidence that the diaphragm was only moderately effective. Some of that evidence may be in the same room as you right now. There are three cities in the world that have been able to advertise a contraception museum as part of what tourists may want to visit; the cities are Toronto, Vienna, and Cleveland.

There were other walls; in places such as Peru, Croatia, Iraq, and Zimbabwe but the recurring theme that comes from this frightfully abridged history lesson is, that large walls do not work as static defense: not for long anyway. It seems the inherent flaw is size. Even if you have tens of thousands of slaves to build an enormous edifice, how do you secure it? A perfectly good soldier is at their post sixty kilometers away from the subverting action enjoying the sunset or playing solitaire on their I-pad.

The total border length between the United States of America and Mexico is 3,201 kilometers; or 1,989 miles for those that live on its north side. There is already 700 miles of security fencing where the Border Patrol feels the majority of illegal action is focused. That leaves a 1200 mile reno. Donald Trump's wall to keep out “drug dealers, criminals and rapists” is going to cost 10 to 25 billion dollars to build. He says he is going to get Mexico to pay for it. That would make his wall historically unique at least. Is it going to be a toll wall?

A wall in this climate zone is going to be hot dirty work to build. Your average American isn't going to want to do this kind of work. So.....why not hire Mexicans. Save them all that travel to do farm work in Ontario or housework in Los Angeles. The trick will be to somehow get them to pay to do the work. That would really secure Don's place in history. But even if he pulls it off, how effective will it be. What about an innocuous bus filled with Mexicans dressed like Japanese tourists; or a giant Trojan Piñata that looks like it just might be stuffed with donuts?

Admittedly there are still large numbers of illegal aliens entering the United States, but the numbers from Mexico have been reduced by more than half in the years of 2008 to 2012 according to a joint study by the University of Texas and the University of New Hampshire. The researchers believe this is due to a drop in the birth rate and the availability of work in Mexico. They go on to suggest that the most recent illegal immigrants are leaving Mexico to “flee violence”. Twenty five billion dollars could go a long way to help Mexico clean up its internal problems, and end the need to escape Mexico for good.

Maybe the whole thing is intended to fail and become a tourist attraction like all those other defunct walls. Maybe there will be a theme park. Speaking of theme parks, the first theme park in the world was built by none other than Henry Ford whose Greenfield Village ironically became a "historical" reproduction of a rural Michigan town site, like the one he grew up in. In his later years Henry spent more and more time strolling around in Greenfield, happy to be in another era than the one he invented. So much for history being bunk.

When the Trump Wall is torn down, like Berlin, there will be a heck of a party. I see a big show with lots of celebrities. The highlight will be the famous Mexican guitarist Carlos Santana playing "Soul Sacrifice" which he scorched through at Woodstock in 1968. Check it out on U Tube. By the way, the walls didn't work at Woodstock either.

In case you were wondering, Donald Trump’s mother was Scottish and his father was German. So his relatives have had experience being on the wrong side of a wall.