I was 16 when Patty Hearst was kidnapped, just three years younger than the victim herself — a fact I find astonishing — and was only paying a teenager’s attention to current events, so this is what I know and recall from that time:

Hearst, a wealthy heiress to the publishing fortune, was kidnapped by a radical group called the Symbionese Liberation Army. She was held for a long time, during which the SLA called not for ransom, but for her father to distribute millions of dollars’ worth of free food to the poor in California. There was a fire in Los Angeles that killed most of them, but Patty wasn’t in that group. She was later spotted on a bank security camera helping surviving SLA members rob it. Arrested later, she raised a clenched fist to news cameras. She was tried, convicted, sentenced and did prison time, after which she was released, married a cop/security/bodyguard type, submerged herself in American anonymity, wrote a memoir, received a presidential pardon and most recently owned the Best in Group winner at the Westminster Dog Show. And that’s pretty much it. Oh, and it’s where I first learned of the concept of Stockholm Syndrome, the condition where kidnapping victims are said to identify and sympathize with their captors.

And that’s probably more than most Americans know. But the story is so much richer that that, and I’m glad to be reading the current On the Nightstand book over to your right, Jeffrey Toobin’s “American Heiress,” about the case. Toobin crafts his story as a case of not ’60s counterculture America, but the ’70s post-counterculture era — with Vietnam winding down and the air rapidly leaking from the antiwar movement, leaving behind only the craziest and most dangerous radicals. The rest of youth culture was entering adulthood or grad school, starting to ask the big questions of self-discovery that led to the Me Decade. The Beatles had broken up, disco was right around the corner and serial killers with names like Zodiac and Zebra were terrorizing places like San Francisco. It was this period, February 1974, when the SLA knocked on Hearst’s apartment door and, despite being so bumbling they couldn’t even tie her hands correctly, managed to get away with their prize more or less cleanly, leaving behind Patty’s dork fiancé, Steven Weed, whom I will always remember wearing a bandage, black eye and walrus mustache.

The SLA was equal parts crazy, dangerous and inept, led by an ex-con named Donald DeFreeze, aka Cinque M’tume, and staffed mostly by whack-job women who were themselves equal parts crazy and smart. One worked in a library, and kept very good notes. Others found their way via acting (acting?) or teaching or whatever. Paranoid and deadly, they lurched from missions to safe houses to whatever. They assassinated the Oakland school superintendent, of all people, thinking it would set off a people’s revolution. (In this, they reminded me of Charles Manson, who thought slaughtering a houseful of Hollywood types would start a national race war.) When it didn’t, they thought kidnapping might be the way to go. Patty and Steven’s engagement photo, in the pages of the Hearst daily in San Francisco, gave them their target.

I’m not very far into it, and I’m noticing how many of these anecdotes mesh with other stories that broke earlier or later. Angela Atwood, one of the kidnappers, the actress, went to college in Bloomington, Ind., with Kevin Kline. When three of the group accidentally touched off some full-auto rounds at a firing range, one of the people who noticed was none other than Lance Ito, the O.J. Simpson judge. The Hearst family’s hastily thrown together food bank had its books kept by Sara Jane Moore, who would later try to assassinate Gerald Ford. Jim Jones, of the notorious mass-suicide People’s Temple cult, tried to horn in on the food giveaway. One of my old editors, Richard, covered it for the San Jose Mercury. I get the sense that California is a very big state and a very small world at the same time.

But my biggest takeaway — so far — is how insane the world was then, emerging from the cataclysmic ’60s into the burned-out ’70s. It’s somehow…familiar, the end of a period of idealism into a darker one of cynicism, full of hustlers and flatterers and a corrupt president who exposed how broken the country was. The SLA signed its communiques thusly: DEATH TO THE FASCIST INSECT THAT PREYS UPON THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE. All caps. It seemed to fit the times.

An enjoyable read. And the previous paragraph leads us into the first bit of bloggage, this essay by Rebecca Solnit on…can you guess? Can you guess? Yeah, you guessed!

A man who wished to become the most powerful man in the world, and by happenstance and intervention and a series of disasters was granted his wish. Surely he must have imagined that more power meant more flattery, a grander image, a greater hall of mirrors reflecting back his magnificence. But he misunderstood power and prominence. This man had bullied friends and acquaintances, wives and servants, and he bullied facts and truths, insistent that he was more than they were, than it is, that it too must yield to his will. It did not, but the people he bullied pretended that it did. Or perhaps it was that he was a salesman, throwing out one pitch after another, abandoning each one as soon as it left his mouth. A hungry ghost always wants the next thing, not the last thing.

This one imagined that the power would repose within him and make him great, a Midas touch that would turn all to gold. But the power of the presidency was what it had always been: a system of cooperative relationships, a power that rested on people’s willingness to carry out the orders the president gave, and a willingness that came from that president’s respect for rule of law, truth, and the people. A man who gives an order that is not followed has his powerlessness hung out like dirty laundry. One day earlier this year, one of this president’s minions announced that the president’s power would not be questioned. There are tyrants who might utter such a statement and strike fear into those beneath him, because they have installed enough fear.

And here’s the Financial Times, proclaiming the end of the American century:

Mr Trump’s impact on the very idea of the west is already significant. The western alliance is still the world’s biggest economic bloc and largest repository of scientific and business knowledge. But it is disintegrating. As Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, admitted, Europe can no longer rely on the US. It might have been unwise to say so, but she was surely right.

Mr Trump seems to prefer autocrats to today’s western Europeans. He is warm towards Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdogan and Rodrigo Duterte of the Philippines, not to mention Russia’s Vladimir Putin. He appears to care not at all about democracy or human rights. Neither does he seem committed to the mutual defence principles of Nato.

Mr Trump’s “alt- right” supporters see not a divide between the democracies and the despotisms; but rather between social progressives and globalists, whom they despise, and social traditionalists and nationalists, whom they support. For them, western Europeans are on the wrong side: they are enemies, not friends.

Depressed enough yet? The Onion is here to cheer you up.

Me, I’m out.

Man, how do you people who garden on the regular do it? We embarked on a long-overdue project this weekend — replacing the landscaping in front of the house. This involved tearing out the ancient arborvitae, holly and yew bushes — can’t forget the pachysandra — then tilling the beds and adding 14 bags of enriched soil, so as to provide a soft bed for what comes next. Which is largely TBD, although it includes a hydrangea and this bush that is sorta lilac-y, but not.

I haven’t done hard labor like this in years. Can I just say this? They call those fuckers Chinese yews because the minute they’re planted, they start sending their taproot to Beijing. It’s a long way to China, so it works on adding girth as well as length. The arborvitae and holly bushes came out fairly easily, but Alan had to use a Sawzall on the yews, down in the hole he dug out around them.

And that’s the way the last two days went — lots of digging, sweating, chugging water and Sawzall-ing the fucking yews.

Oh, and all the pachysandra in the world can kiss my ass. But it’s all stuffed in one of eight separate leaf bags at the curb. I got to use the Sawzall on the arborvitae, because it is super-boring and should all be killed. It felt good to rend one limb from limb and put it on the curb.

That was part of the weekend. I’d hoped to get to at least some Movement events — Movement being the techno fest — but no dice. So many of them are held at 2 a.m., 4 a.m. or 6 a.m., and after a day of yanking yews, I decided I was better off sleeping. Crazy, I know.

I need to include some links, but as you might imagine, I was only on the internet long enough o bathe in Jared Kushner’s tears. Started reading Jeffrey Toobin’s great On the Nightstand book, and more later on that. For now — bed.

…and a pic from Friday night. Not too many more nights like this until fall. (She’s only here for the body heat.)

Fresh comment thread for Jared Kushner’s terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad Memorial Day weekend. 

I can tell how exhausted I’m getting by my reaction to the news from Montana: So now we’ll have outrage from the left, scoffing at pussy reporters in glasses from the right, a lecture on the historical perspective from some egghead, and then the attacker wins the election.

Hope it doesn’t go that way.

I have to hit the phones today, so here’s this: A look at a California couple who believe, deeply, in “chemtrails.” A sympathetic Guardian reporter (like the guy who got roughed up) tries to understand where this brand of crazy comes from. He’s not entirely successful. As in vaccine panic, much is based on what people say they feel is true.

On edit: And here’s a really good, data-packed but still human story about the fading American dream in Michigan, by my colleague Ron.

So, a dustup in Montana, dust in the wind in California, and the CBO score for the tax-cut bill — that should be enough for you guys to talk about.

Last week I posted a link to a blog post speculating on whether the president is in the early stages of dementia. This week the theory is picked up by the reputable medical news site StatNews, and I have to tell you, I think they’re on to something:

(In interviews and public statements in the ’80s and ’90s), Trump fluently peppered his answers with words and phrases such as “subsided,” “inclination,” “discredited,” “sparring session,” and “a certain innate intelligence.” He tossed off well-turned sentences such as, “It could have been a contentious route,” and, “These are the only casinos in the United States that are so rated.” He even offered thoughtful, articulate aphorisms: “If you get into what’s missing, you don’t appreciate what you have,” and, “Adversity is a very funny thing.”

Now, Trump’s vocabulary is simpler. He repeats himself over and over, and lurches from one subject to an unrelated one, as in this answer during an interview with the Associated Press last month:

“People want the border wall. My base definitely wants the border wall, my base really wants it — you’ve been to many of the rallies. OK, the thing they want more than anything is the wall. My base, which is a big base; I think my base is 45 percent. You know, it’s funny. The Democrats, they have a big advantage in the Electoral College. Big, big, big advantage. … The Electoral College is very difficult for a Republican to win, and I will tell you, the people want to see it. They want to see the wall.”

His mood swings, his intemperate blurting, his inability to find a story and stick to it — these are not small things. West Wing leaks describe a latter-day King Lear, alternately raging and out of it, boasting of his big ol’ TV and his double-scoop chocolate pie. His wife is batting his hand away in front of the world. This is an administration in chaos (but you knew that). And of course, none of this is new since last year; we’re only seeing in greater detail what’s been obvious all along.

Which is to say, I’m switching my exasperation from you-know-who to the people who voted for him, who watched all these speeches and said, “Yep’m that-there’s some straight talk. He’s my man.”

This guy will go to his grave believing he’s the greatest. There’s a case to be made that his brain is growing plaques. What’s 60 million voters’ excuse?

Meanwhile, Monica Lewinsky grew into a very impressive woman, and I regret every bad thing I said about her back in the day, and there were quite a few bad things to be said.

And Fox News has finally slow-walked its Seth Rich story retraction into the spotlight. But what’s Newt Gingrich’s excuse? If I were Pope Francis, I’d be tempted to … well, to do something really rude and undiplomatic.

Wednesday has been achieved, or is at least in sight. Hallelujah.

So the vice president returned to his native state to address graduates at the University of Notre Dame commencement, and some students walked out.

It’s early yet – it happened this morning – and I expect the blowback is coming. It won’t be the full rank exhalation of Troll Twitter, but enough people will say enough stupid things that it’ll qualify as a skirmish. So here we are again, where an administration whose representatives admit to considering changing libel laws isn’t considered a threat to free speech, but college students protesting or declining to listen to a handful of troll speakers is.

I’ll state my bias right here: I think most speakers should be allowed to speak. I think protesting them short of shutting them down is fine. And I say that knowing the speakers we’re talking about here do not come in good faith; they’re trolls, basically, and if you don’t believe me, Google “milo on women” or “ann coulter book titles” and get back to me.

Early on in this administration, there was a certain both-sides harrumphing about “respect for the office,” i.e., that certain niceties were due to the person behind the Resolute Desk, because s/he occupies the highest elective office of the most powerful nation on the planet. This was offered as explanation for seemingly decent people taking jobs in that administration; they were Serving Their Country, not toiling for Trump. Show some respect.

Only respect wasn’t shown by the person who actually held the office. He continued to treat the place like the set of “The Apprentice” between shots, a place to be tolerated, barely, between trips to Palm Beach. In which case I think the average citizen is absolved of any need to tug his or her forelock, don’t you?

The great American value of listening respectfully to all sides is rooted in the idea that all sides approach the marketplace of ideas in the same spirit. And that’s clearly not the case with speakers like Ann Coulter or Milo Whatshisname. It might not even be the case with Charles Murray. Some opinions are expressed merely because to do so is lucrative for the speaker, or because it gives others the chance to mau-mau an authority figure.

A couple-three years ago, one of the young Republicans groups at a local high school got someone to pay Rick Santorum’s speaking fee to give a talk at the school. But, they said when they made this request of the administration, he needed to speak during school hours, because he’s such an important national figure. Single-celled organisms have more savvy and spine than the superintendent in the job at the time, and at first he said yes, then no.

Of course the No opened the floodgates of Free Speech Suppression, etc. So he had to reverse himself again, and now you can’t google the incident without wading through half a dozen pages of right-wing websites that waved that bloody flag to tatters. (And the thing is, the supe had the perfect response right in front of him – a policy that said individuals brought in by private clubs, etc., could speak all they wanted, after school. He should have said, “Sure, kids! Bring him in. I have to coach soccer practice that day, but take lots of pictures and let me know how it turns out. Oh, and turn out the lights on your way out, OK?” The guy let himself by played by a couple of 17-year-olds.

So. Change of subject: Pippa’s wedding! Love to look at the Brits in their upper-class native habitats, funny hats and all. I thought Kate looked awful, but the real revelation was the nanny, who looked like she was wearing a grown-up version of the Brownie uniform. Turns out she was, sorta. The uniform identifies her as a graduate of the prestigious (yes, really) Norland nannies’ school:

But today’s graduates are also trained in martial arts, kidnap evasion by using the pram, self-defense, and advance driving techniques; they are in all regards thoroughly modern Mary Poppins.

To answer the obvious question, i.e., why hasn’t this been in a James Bond film yet, well, I don’t know the answer.

The week ahead will be a grind. Expect light posting, unless catastrophe explodes on Air Force One, in which case, well, carry on.

Now that we have yet another news bombshell exploding, seems time for a weekend thread. Anything else to put in there? Well, for Kirk and anyone who’s been a copy editor, there’s this:

“KOs” – I ask you. The woman was literally KO’d, but she’s also in critical condition. It got changed, I’m happy to say.

Crime in my neighborhood:

It’s either this, or contract murder.

Let’s see how the weekend goes, shall we?

I was thinking I should change my social media profile pix, or avi, as the kids call them. I was further thinking it should betray a hint of wit. Maybe a crying eagle superimposed over a flag, I mused, and googled the very same.

Oh, you find so much:

I had to look up what happened June 28, 2012. Anyone? No Googling! OK, I’ll tell you: It was the day the SCOTUS decision affirming the constitutionality of the Affordable Care Act was handed down. And the Constitution burst into flames, the Statue of Liberty fell apart and everyone lost their grammar. “The day when” — yikes.

Better to go with a classic, maybe?

No flag, but simple, fierce, screaming — this may be my eagle. What could it be saying? Knowing eagles, it could be anything from get me a dead salmon to pick apart to another fucking eagle cam? I told you never again, Bob.

But I looked some more, and I think this is my eagle alter-ego. (Alter-eagle?)

That eagle’s going to a Ted Nugent concert, you just know it.

I haven’t changed my pic yet. But speaking of birds…

Man, this guy:

If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, it must be government waste. pic.twitter.com/JKgabZ47O5

— Rep. Mark Walker (@RepMarkWalker) May 15, 2017

This may or may not be Cooze’s congressman; if so, I wonder if his inbox has started to coruscate with the towering obscenity of Cooze’s scorn, but on the other hand, no, because the world has turned against this soulless skinflint, who begrudges something like $37 worth of parts and labor to make it easier for baby ducks — baby fucking ducks, people — to get into the Capitol’s reflecting pool. I encourage you to click and read the replies, because they are poetry:

@RepMarkWalker The world is awash in hills. You picked the stupidest one in existence to die on.

— Ian Fortey (@IanFortey) May 16, 2017

And many are better than that.

Ducklings. DUCKLINGS. Who in the world hates ducklings? I ask you.

Wednesday is behind us. Yee-haw.

And now we’re into serious obstruction-of-justice territory. Tell you what: Maybe we should just replace this blog with a ticker, make it easier to keep up.

The president is also planning to make a speech, about Islam, in Saudi Arabia later this year. I see nothing but upside from that one, too.

(I know not everybody is an HBO subscriber, but I continue to believe nothing in Washington is as true as “Veep,” the half-hour comedy starring Julia Louis-Dreyfus. And Stephen Miller is Gary from “Veep,” only evil. Seriously, though, imagine working in this place.)

So how does this end? Impeachment? No. Congress will never find the guts. I predict resignation, after some empty “success” like the passage of a crap tax-cut bill. He’ll declare victory and be Barron’s full-time dad by Labor Day, maybe.

But I know better than to put any money on any outcome.

Eighty-two degrees here, all of a sudden. It’s like the southwest exhaled and it all blew up here. We have two more days of this, then Friday it’ll barely touch 60. Sounds like perfect weather for the Bro-romper.

Back to eating my popcorn and waiting for the next shoe to drop.

It’s Monday, I want to watch a few stupid TV shows and not the fact the president… the president… the president of the United States revealed highly classified information to the motherfucking Russians.

Because he was bragging, evidently.

Those of you who follow my links know I don’t often post highly partisan sources, but today I saw an Alternet piece wit this totally not-alarming headline:

The video that suggests Trump is suffering from Alzheimer’s, and damn if I didn’t think he has a point.

I’d make a Doctor Strangelove joke, but it wouldn’t be funny.

Or maybe you’d prefer a smarter way to clean your house.