Kicking it, Around the White House

In light of the recent attempted assassination of President Trump, I’m reminded of a vow I made on Nov. 3, 2020. I promised myself I’d stop talking about politics.

I vowed not to watch the news. I vowed not to comment on the outcome of the election or the political atmosphere across this once-great Country. As a citizen with only the power of a single vote, for the first time in my life, I felt powerless.

I have ‘taken this crap’ for the past 3 years, 7 months and x-number of days because I still felt powerless. Today. The moratorium is over.

Regardless of politics, we all have something to say about the state of our country. For those of us who never had confidence in this president’s ability from the beginning, we are now even being told by the wacky-fake press about their duplicity.

Many of us won’t agree with each other. That is okay. We need to speak our own truths. Change is needed. Or is it a correction?

The current resident on Pennsylvania Avenue reminds me of people I know who have had their car keys taken away and placed in care facilities. None of us knows anyone who is wandering about in Mr. Biden’s condition.

Politics be damned. We are all watching Elder Abuse played out before our very eyes.

Recently we heard the cry, “The sky is falling. The sky is falling.” Oh, it wasn’t Chicken Little, it was Barack’s stooge George Clooney.

History is repeating itself. Sixty-five years after Frank took a hit, a new league of Hollywood nouveau riche actors started reading their own press because some D.C. goon invited them to supper at 1600.

Here’s the way I see it. Like Cinderella, George was invited to the ball. He was “flattered” and made to feel “special” because in truth, he was and is a cash-cow with solid links to other fatted calves along SoCal’s Democratic stronghold.

Exploited by fundraising wolves from D.C., Rosemary’s nephew was set up for “the fix.” These masters-of-pond-scum can make any nobody feel like a somebody.

Blinded by his own self-importance or as Shakespeare once said “hoist(ed) by his own petard,” Clooney made it easy for DNC demigods to convince him to rat out ol’ Joe.

Hell, it’s my guess, the D.C. machine even ghosted (wrote) his story. Here’s why. Getting screen cred doesn’t necessarily mean you actually did the work. And even if actor/director/producer Clooney has a few writing creds, writing sides for the movies is comprised of just a few words per line. While a story actually requires lots of words linked together into paragraphs which may turn out to be beyond his capability.

George was naïve. He took the bait. Hook, line, and sinker. He allowed an article sent to the New York Times to use his name to protect the identity of the (wink, wink) backroom puppet masters.

The disingenuous power-hungry-DNC mob threw George under the bus as news outlets flashed his headshot around the world. The democratic media was abuzz chatting openly about a possible cover up.

And then. Ol’ Joe dug in.

After all, his gang has been harvesting millions and millions of votes from illegal immigrants since he opened the borders. Furthermore, Biden’s clan holds the bags of ballots which leads us to why stubborn Joe laid down the challenge during his recent speech responding to the media flurry calling for his resignation.

Standing at the podium, Biden clearly spit in their collective eye saying “they (the DNC) didn’t have time” before the election (to harvest their own ballots).

Now had George Clooney read Frank Sinatra’s biography he might not be in this fix.

Frank’s bio describes how he was played by the masters of duplicity, aka Joe Kennedy in his case during the 1960’s campaign for his son’s ascension to the Presidency. Like George, Old Blue Eyes was used.

And like George, Frank was so wrapped up in his own pomposity, he never heard the first shoe drop. And goodness knows Sinatra had more moxie than Rosemary’s nephew.

Here is what went down for you youngsters.

The 1960 campaign for the White House was between the very popular incumbent Vice President, and California’s own, Richard Milhouse Nixon vs newbie Massachusetts Democratic Senator John Fitzgerald Kennedy, basically a national nobody. Which is why JFK needed delegates and California had a bunch.

Now it was public knowledge that Sinatra hated Richard Nixon. As a lawyer and member of the U.S. House of Representatives, Nixon recognized Frank’s association with the mob-controlled Unions and kept a watchful eye over their activities.

Bottom line. To win the White House, JFK needed California’s delegates. But how? Enter their stooge, Frank Sinatra, the self-appointed King of the Rat Pack.

Brothers Jack and Robert visited Frank in California. They hinted and flattered him into influencing union bosses and introducing them to starlets like Marlyn Monroe and Mamie VanBuren; and in return, Frank would “get his” when Nixon was defeated.

That really launched Frank’s ego. He imagined himself sitting on the dais at the swearing-in ceremony and beside Jackie at the inaugural dinner. He’d get the delegates for Jack in exchange, he’d be an insider.

After all, the new Kennedy story would star handsome-war hero and second son, U.S. Senator John F. Kennedy, Jack to his friends, along with his much (12-years) younger beautiful new bride and East Coast heiress Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy.

A sparkling ingénue, Jacqueline brought a much-needed pedigree along with a tie-in to “old money” as the stepdaughter of Standard Oil’s heir Jack Auchincloss. It was game on for the Kennedys.

With the media in their hip pocket, the Kennedy machine touted Jack and Jackie as America’s royalty. They would never live in dirty Washington D.C., as American royalty, they would instead reside in Camelot where all things were possible. And the press ate it up.

Which is why Jack had to distance himself from the very thugs that helped his family build their wealth in those-rum-running days of prohibition and that helped him get the nomination as the Democratic candidate.

Here’s the rub. Joe Kennedy’s ambition was such that he perceived a Kennedy Dynasty. And goodness knows that wouldn’t happen if his son’s sterling reputation was tarnished by a goombah with mob connections.

Frank’s influence was used up. It was time to end his fairy tale.

Enter Rat Pack Wanna Be and second-tier actor, married to JFK’s younger sister Patricia, Peter Lawford. He would be sent to deliver the hammer. Frank was out.

In reality, Lawford was the sacrificial lamb. That coupe de gras turned out to be his demise as well. He took the fall to ensure Joe Kennedy’s ambitious desire for power. As it happens, Lawford lost everything. He lost his Hollywood connections, his wife, kids, and movie roles. Worse still, Frank hated him until his dying day.

In the end, Lawford had a stroke. He lost his once-glamorous stature and was reduced to being paid for public appearances. His lowest was appearing at a local jewelry store in Elk Grove, California. Even though I lived a few blocks away, I was too embarrassed on his behalf to walk the few blocks to get his autograph. Five years later, he died at 61 in 1985.

Politics shifted during the 1960 campaign after both candidates agreed to the first televised debate. The story goes that Kennedy’s men persuaded NBC execs to keep the overhead flood lights on Nixon to make him “sweat.” It was a very effective visual. JFK was cool while RMN was sweating for all to see. Yet with his national popularity, by the fourth televised debate, Nixon was gaining ground though, though alas, he would never recover his momentum. And the rest as they say is history.

And here we are now witnessing the worst sort of political vitriol thrown at two opposing candidates by a power-grasping, stubborn old man who not only denied a “Kennedy” Secret Service protection but watched his caucus reduce and even strip away some of President Trump’s protection leaving him with less protection than Obama’s daughters.

What dirty tricks are next?

Elizabeth can be reached at [email protected].