Can you help it?

On today's show, Kelly Clarkson sang her version of the Four Tops song "I Can't Help Myself" and it brought back memories.

1965 and 1966 we were in love and dancing to it, weren't we, Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch?

And now you're getting ready to dance with the fucking Israelis. I suppose that you can't help yourself.

Abdications

Coincidences. PBS is rerunning a program about spying on the royals, tonight about King Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson. It jogged my memory about the date of an event in 1972.

I remembered that Edward died right around the time you were completing a program at the Command and General Staff School in Ft. Leavenworth. At the graduation dinner with the late Paul R. and others, we talked about abdicating the throne for love of a woman. Do you remember that conversation?

You may recall that in the birthday letters several years in a row (but not last year) I've recommended that you abdicate. Other than 1965, 1966 and 1972 recommendations that you abdicate for love of a woman, me, those suggestions were unrelated to my heart. Maybe this year would be a good time for you to really do it.

I was recently asked if you have any filters. Nope, not any more. You are now and have been for a long time led around by a brass ring in your nose pulled by Uncle Khalifa and the Khawalids, and now Bonesaw's got you by the short and curlies. 

(I'm discounting that President Trump is being led around by a brass ring in his nose by John Bolton, except Bahrain is a sand spit and U.S. rules the world. Trump is a corrupt, whining ninny.)


#KingEdwardVIII #SpyingOnRoyals #WallisSimpson #Abdicate #Abdication #CommandAndGeneralStaffSchool #Bahrain #FortLeavenworth #SheikhKhalifabinSalmanAlKhalifa #Khawalids #PresidentTrump #JohnBolton  #Bonesaw #UnelectedPrimeMinister

Will A Caliph Take Down A Killer Prince? I Ask You.

Watching the brilliant Erdogan slowly reel out the evidence that Mohammed bin Salman Al Saud himself orchestrated the brutal torture and murder and bonesaw destruction of the body of journalist Jamal Khashoggi (God rest his soul) reminded me of a talk we had years ago. 

It was before I understood the politics involved but certainly not before you did.

Erdogan's involvement in Syria and Iraq has led some scholars and analysts (who know more than I do about history in this particular area and whose online or printed output I read) to refer to the President of Turkey as Sultan Erdogan.

Erdogan's political skills are no match for either Mohammed bin Salman or the fox who thinks no one is looking, i.e., Mohammed bin Zayed or Mo Zayed's Palestinian pit bull, Mohammed Dahlan. 

Erdogan has outfoxed our moron in the White House, got Trump's knickers in a twist because he needs the traitorous Bonesaw Al Saud for the Trump Kushner Netanyahoo Adelson "No- Palestine-Peace-Plan." Erdogan has put out irrefutable evidence that Bonesaw gave the order, was in on the multi-part, multi-man plan, and demanded the head on a platter after it was pulled out of the diplomatic bag.* 

It seems obvious that President Erdogan will accept nothing less than the removal of Bonesaw from any possibility of him inheriting the Custody of the Two Holy Mosques, as surely the immoral killer should not hold such an honor. 

It is also no secret that there is a rivalry between the Turks and the Wahhabists to lead the Sunni umma. Erdogan has proven himself time after time in the face of obstacles set upon him by you chaps in the Persian Gulf and your Western enablers.

All the bots and trolls aren't going to be enough to keep the lurid, gut-turning details of the Khashoggi murder from the majority of the people throughout the kingdoms and emirates. They may not be able to publicly condemn Bonesaw and his vile crimes against Yemen or this murder or his agreement to give away Palestine, but they're going to be made aware. They're going to know that Erdogan is providing evidence to rid the neighborhood and maybe the world of this mass killer. Erdogan is going to earn himself a lot of "good will" if he can truly take the killer down.

I was thinking about that today when I remembered that I asked you this: Do you think there will be a Caliph in our lifetime? Do you think there is a Muslim leader who could be as powerful as the Pope? I mean, other than the Shia Grand Ayatollah Khomeini was or the current Iranian Leader Ayatollah Khamanei? A Sunni leader? I know Bonesaw wants to be that leader still, but his gifts to the younger generation of dancehalls, stages now adorned with American female singers in skimpy outfits, golf buddies with the Trump cult and a silly standing wall called NEOM will not provide him with leadership skills in major Muslim countries unless he buys all the corrupt bankers, businessmen and hereditary families in those countries with Arabia's wealth while the people can't drive on the flooded streets in winter or buy a decent house in major cities.

It would be far more intriguing to discuss that subject now, at least to me.

*(Hell, considering the dialogue which has been released to the public in written form and multiple venues, it wouldn't surprise me if Bonesaw has the dead man's head stuffed like a trophy in a special little room, kinda like the stuffed giant lion or tiger, I forget which, you had mounted on a platform on the floor in the small room off your old BDF office at the Defense Ministry in the early 1980s. You know the one.)

#Erdogan #MohammedBinSalman #Bonesaw #MohammedBinZayed #MohammedDahlan #AyatollahKhomeini #Bahrain #Turkey #Caliph #Yemen #Bahrain #UAE #AlSaud #Palestine #Israel #Trump #Netanyahu #SultanErdogan

Speedy Retirement for Shaikh Khalifa in November

Golly, I hope it's true, no matter the catalyst, that Uncle Khalifa will finally be retired in November as the longest-serving member of the Al Khalifa dictatorship. He won't need the golden parachute or a new gold watch as he's probably stashed a substantial portion of Bahrain's wealth into Swiss and Lichtenstein banks. 

His departure is the best gift to Bahrain imaginable if you don't replace him with his two shadows, the Khawalids, but with the (supposedly) more agreeable Salman.

I have a lot to say about him in the book that I'm planning to finish next month in the annual NaNoWriMo sprint to complement the one that I wrote last November. Every day that I write a paragraph, a page, a chapter or more, I bless the many diaries that I wrote and kept and you've been unable to steal, despite the Major's attempt in my old London flat. For just one example, I'd like you to think back to the threats Uncle made to me in the Mayfair Dorchester when I was 18. You heard them, all wrapped in honey, Sherry Brandy and talk about your destiny. I wrote them down.

I wish him well.




#Bahrain #KhalifabinSalmanAlKhalifa #PrimeMinisterShaikhKhalifa #Dorchester #London #NaNoWriMo #NaNoWriMo2018 

It's My Birthday, So Some Thoughts on Gifts

Today's my birthday. 70. It rained this morning, even when I walked outside to accept delivery of a Tuxedo cake from a couple of my former neighbors. Seattle needs rain, so it was a gift. I took a bit of metaphysical credit, too. My birthday, my rain.

Then some good political news made for another special moment. Paul Manafort pleaded guilty to serious charges for which a Trump pardon will be ineffective and which will surely implicate Fat Nixon's lard ass in conspiracies and obstruction. Because I pay close attention to D.C. politics, I was happy for a bit that my birthday was the occasion on which it happened, so I thought of it as a gift.

Yesterday afternoon I made a decision not to do what I'd planned for this morning, to go and watch the new version of "A Star Is Born" with Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper, even though I don't like the venue where it's currently showing. I know the story line and my daughter suggested in Messenger from abroad that my mood wasn't compatible with a tragic film where the male lead dies in the end, so I had a rethink. Her excellent advice was a gift.

I needed to get out, it was sunny and so I walked down to the Majestic cinema on Market Street to watch "Crazy Rich Asians" instead of Cooper's film. 

I wanted comedy rather than tragedy, the reviews were good, some of the actors have been on the late night talk shows and it seemed like it might fit my needs. I didn't know when I walked in that it would be a stereotypical plot, only played out with Chinese and other Asian actors rather than white folks in the previous three versions. (The cinematography of Singapore is stunning in it, which I was reminded this morning watching Free Practice 3 of the Formula 1 Grand Prix going on there this weekend.)

In summary of the movie plot, a well-educated young woman from an ordinary background who's fallen in love with a young man from an extremely wealthy family -- much to her surprise -- is rejected by his family as unsuitable for them, despite her best efforts to please them. It is all so familiar and has a happy ending, though, unlike ours. I was in tears through half of it, but that's the sentimental me. I cry easily, too often, as always.

Today I thought about all the years that I've written you letters for your birthday, over 50 years now, albeit they've moved from hard copies to here, and some that I wrote and saved as I could not send them while keeping a very low profile and didn't care to have them intercepted. It was probably a gift to you that I didn't send them all, but perhaps you will have the opportunity to read them one day in a different format.

I thought about the fact that you never had to do a thing for any of the small gifts which I accepted from you, other than ask someone else to fetch them. 

Then I thought about the fact that I worked hard, all day long, every day, for a whole summer to save up the money to buy for you the last gift that I brought to Bahrain, the tall and beautiful vintage brass lamp made from a World War II battle shell, carved with a lighthouse and a lady in flowing robes, with the three fluted, matte pink lamp shades at the top. The major said that he'd have it polished for you.

I wondered if you appreciated it for one moment, let alone the gift of my efforts to acquire it, ship it to London and then bring it to Bahrain for your military treasure collection, just like the WWI battle helmet that I brought you in a prior visit and the helmet from Vietnam in an even earlier visit. Of course, our gifting cultures are entirely different. We say "Thank you."

I've never had a new car and quit driving over 20 years ago because it's expensive to maintain a car and I wasn't driving much. I don't like traffic and Seattle is one big traffic jam. I laughed at fast cars in the film because it reminded me that you just throw cars away. Out went the E-type. Out went the red Thunderbird. Out went the navy blue Rolls with our names on the inside doors. Not having to drive is a gift to me, most of the time.

I've never owned a grand piano or a house to put one in. I remember talking with you about pianos more than once, about you buying one and bringing it to Bahrain, then gifting it to one of your sisters. I remember you saying that I'd have a grand piano some day, ah yes, and you'd build me a little villa, that you'd get for me what my heart desired. I had to give up my little piano with the move here in May because the management won't allow it. That's been very hard on me, perhaps worst of all the negative things associated with this place, because playing the piano and writing music has been my saving grace for a long, long time. My music is a gift even without the piano.

I don't even have a decent kitchen with the latest move from the rat-infested house to this cubbyhole apartment that would fit inside the reception room at Safriyya where we spent so much time together. I'm still dreaming up and inventing new soft, frosted cookies for my artisan collection, but now must do half the preparation in my dining/living room/office space rather than the teeny kitchen, but I don't care because at least there's an oven. 

So, there are gifts, things for which I'm grateful today, moments and imperfect people to treasure.

The First Marriage

You asked me every time we met if I've married again.

I did not. I never married anyone but you.

I love this photograph which you sent me along with a love letter after I was sent away from you (one of the times when I was sent away from you.) You didn't like the photo because you'd shaved off your mustache and felt that it made you look like a monkey with a cigarette in your mouth. Remember?

Chapter

Hindsight

Hindsight becomes even more clear with age, but photos and diaries plus education and interest provide not only clarity, but understanding, an important aid in writing a memoir.

It doesn't surprise me at my age to discover documentation appearing to show that various intelligence agencies, both British and American, had an interest in our relationship from the onset when we were teenagers of 15 and 16 to the last meeting at your office in the Ministry of Defense over 15 years later.

It did surprise me to identify some of those involved over 50 years after the fact, and I'm not referring to your uncles, whose sources you were well aware of.

Home Videos

          I just found out something that I did not know, or if I did, that I'd long forgotten. It's so exciting. I will try to figure out how to make a CD out of it and send you a copy, for Old Times' sake, if you want one. You won't have to share it with anyone else. It's between the two of us, and as you could recall from context, we were still innocent teenagers. You were 16 that January. I was 17.

Even though I don't like you at all anymore, I cannot resist looking back at the photos and diaries and such, especially since I've been writing these letters to you as well as working on The Project. They bring those warm feelings rather than the others described over the years in this format. I like reverie. I look at the earliest photos and can still sink into love again. It's ridiculous, I know, but it is the nature of star-crossed love. Even broken promises, betrayal and abandonment cannot change it. Old photos.

Remember just before you went back to England for spring term in 1966 and we were at my family's house and we were having fun behind the long curtain between the living room and dining room? Mother filmed us that day! I knew that she'd used her video camera sometimes, including at the horse races and the stables, and that she'd made photos and home movies of what I think could now be considered all "The Players." I don't really give a hoot about those, but I'm happy about the one that is you and me in Manama. Perhaps it will take the pain of Now away for a moment. A home movie!

Trust Me

Do you remember what you said when I asked you if you trust me? You'd taken my purse from my hand, opened it and looked through the contents before handing it back to me. 

"I trust you very little, my dear, and that's more than I trust most others."

I remembered what you said today as it hit me that my biggest mistake in life was directly the opposite. I trusted you more than any others, right from the beginning.

I thought the depth of our love, first love, true love, ages 15 and 16 and 16 and 17 and 17 and 18 and 25 and 26 and whenever we were together, was more than sufficient for trust. You put me in danger at 32 and still I trusted that you would keep your word subsequently.

Tell me this, please. Did you think, knowing me all those years, that I would take a story to the National Enquirer? Even understanding the recent surprise I gave you, did you honestly think at some point that someone whose heart you knew so well would join the ranks of women who'd had private relationships with foreign leaders and sold a one-page story to a supermarket tabloid?

(By the way, either your oldest son or someone acting as him expressed to my daughter a concern that details could end up in the Seattle Times. I pointed out no such thing had happened in decades and was unlikely to happen then.)

Maybe there was only one page to those stories. Maybe they weren't as intriguing as ours, mixed in with politics and world affairs. 

How's your trust level doing today? Do you still trust me more than most others, my dear? 

I do wonder sometimes if you've appreciated my discretion all these years. You didn't ask me for it. It was a gift from me to you. Some gifts wear out over time and cannot be repaired. 

2018 Birthday Wish for You

A few days late because I've been ill for over a week. I felt bad about missing your birthday this year on the actual day. I've not missed it since 1966. Sorry.

My birthday wish is quite simple:  I wish you were a better man.

Shaikh Isa at the Beach

How about another entry idea for The Isa Campaign?

Imagine this great bit of the Shaikh Isa period:  photos of him sitting in his little chair under a large umbrella on the beach in front of the palace in the summer, his gold phone sitting on a tray, holding his binoculars in front of his eyes to gawk at the European and American women in their teeny, tiny bikinis playing in the waters of the Persian Gulf. No Bahraini women, no locals, for Heaven's sake. Forbidden. Caucasian, okay.

Next up, servants bring to the ladies who've made themselves comfortable under beach umbrellas (and to their families, if the ladies brought their children) individual trays of tiny slices of Sara Lee cakes, usually banana cake with icing, almost cold, probably sliced while near frozen, and bottles of cold Pepsi and Fanta sodas with moisture beads rolling down them. Cold soda and cake, gifts from the Amir. Some of the ladies got watches and some, pearls. The Amir got his kicks.

I was so impressed with the spectacle the first time that I saw it as a 16 year-old girl in her own not-so-tiny two-piece swimsuit. American cake.

Merry Christmas. Somebody Had A Party

This is an interesting old photo, isn't it? At some point a rat got part of it, but ...

it's still as easy as pie
to identify two still in the public eye.

Must have been a classy establishment. It's not the Italian-tailored, Savile Row and Jermyn Street attire that you and Khalifa and one of the bin Daij or bin Mubarak brothers were wearing, or the petite covered candles on the tables or the (no doubt) ice water in the pitcher and glasses on the teeny, tiny table. No, look at the occupants of the table behind your head. Blondie gave away the game. Did you know? She might have worked for us, but I cannot confirm.

Oh look! You signed it, right over the lamp. So sweet, just like the look on your face. You boys are are smiling about something, that's for sure. (Hmm, maybe it's necessary to click on the photos to see ALL the details.)

I dunno. What does it say?