Many of your peers — mainly the business junkies — read The Art Of The Deal (AOD) soon after it hit the street in the late 80’s. Thankfully, you waited 30 years. Luckily, Santa happened to give you a copy. Lucky because you have the perspective of Donald’s first year sloshing through the Potomac Swamp. As it happened, it wasn’t his first Swamp. Like most people, you expected the AOD to give you a series of deal-making lessons — the do’s, the dont’s, the rules — something like a self-help manual. True, there is some of that. But what Trump really gave us way back then was a loose, laid back, early autobiography, posing almost as a diary of deals. But forget the deals. Forget the Trump strategies, tactics, failures and successes. The book, in actuality, is a prophetic magnifying glass into Donald, the person — more revealing than the millions of printed and spoken words by self appointed analysts during his presidential run. In reality, in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s, on the streets of Queens, Brooklyn and Manhattan, Donald Trump was rehearsing to win the Presidency — and rehearsing in fact to be President. He didn’t know it. Didn’t think about it. Didn’t have that ambition. What he did have was the self admitted drive to do spectacular things, make his fortune and have fun doing it — the very capitalistic attitude that made America great. The envy merchants, then and now, belittle his accomplishments. Why? Well, Daddy Fred gave him his first job, gave him a million cool in a trust fund, co-signed deals in the early days and kept the safety net handy for the brash, young whippersnapper. However, unlike most “silver spooners” who frolic their days away, Donald feasted on learning his Pop’s business from the ground up. With single focus, he took pragmatic knowledge and unbounded zeal across the river to the most treacherous business jungle on the planet — Manhattan. Overnight, Donald learned that this concrete jungle had predators lurking around every corner. He quickly confirmed that nothing gets done without the cooperation of City Planning bureaucrats, Parks Department bureaucrats, Board of Estimate bureaucrats, EPA bureaucrats, trade unions and Big Media. And when an incompetent, corrupt Mayor presides over a corrupt city administration, doing big business proved a giant migraine. As Donald waded through the New York Swamp, he simultaneously had to approach lending institutions, architects, designers, contractors and the myriad of other private sector firms required to develop upscale projects. He employed the best people, many of whom were women and he personally handled all negotiations down to fine detail. He used the media; he fought the media; he used politicians and fought politicians. He took big risks; he worked and worked and won and lost. What riled him most as a businessman in the Big Apple was seeing the apple turn rotten through the incompetence, corruption and waste of governmental institutions. Just after he published AOD, 30 years ago, Oprah Winfrey interviewed Donald and asked if he would consider running for President. He demurred but suggested if things got bad enough, he might change his mind. Successive Bush/Obama presidencies were the last straw. Now the pundits are busily adding up the score of Trump’s first year. He couldn’t care less what they think. He knows one thing.  Swamp #2 is still sucking the life out of a Nation divided. He still has work to do. Like always.

Over 1200 women in the US are murdered every year — over 1/3 of them snuffed by an “intimate” party. Unfortunately, in the closest of relationships, there always seems to be justifiable reasons for spouses, boyfriends and girlfriends to kill the one they love. Concurrent to these lethal events, a rather large number of predators are sexually assaulting 250,000 (give or take a few thousand) women and girls each year. Unfortunately, even with the advantage of social media, it appears that some sensitive men are just not skilled at connecting with willing sexual partners. Also, every year on the home front, there looms the outrage of domestic violence. Unfortunately, over 10 million individuals, male and female alike, suffer from some type of physical abuse. But all violence at home isn’t one-on-one. Home invasion occurs approximately four million times annually — hopefully, of course, not during those occasions when one spouse happens to be battering the other. Discovering the extent of this violence is not unexpected. Not at all. Not considering the historical resume of the human race. In fact, you believe some level of savagery at all levels of society is inevitable, if not ordained. You see it on battlefields, on city streets, in homes, in executive suites, in bedrooms and kitchens and concerts. Even on playgrounds. You have profound sympathy for the victims. But you’re more sick than sympathetic. More angry than sorry. Sick of old and young ladies alike, living alone, totally defenseless, not so much as a BB gun in the house. Angry when half naked, unarmed, painted babes strut their stuff at meat markets, as if begging for some sicko to pay attention. Sick of single moms who tolerate live-in, abusive boyfriends, putting themselves and their kids at risk. Angry when a teenager on a running trail, or a mom in a mall parking lot, is grabbed in broad daylight; and neither victim has a whit of defense — no whistle, no pepper spray, no taser, no knife, no gun — no nothing. Sick of individuals, couples and families who, with premeditation, go camping or hiking in remote areas, without a weapon of any kind — babes in the woods — sitting ducks. Angry when a spouse tolerates a single act of physical violence, or when parents systematically ignore the telltale signs of child psychopathic behaviors. People are free to wear blinders. People are free to think, “It won’t happen to me.” Predators love that kind of thinking. And the predators are out there — out there in concrete jungles — and in sleepy hamlets where neighbors brag they never have to lock their doors at night. Unfortunately, locked or not, millions of Americans asleep at home, on the job, on a date, on a trip, eating out, working out or just hanging out, are in no way prepared or equipped to defend themselves. These millions make up the vast inventory of potential victims for predators who always choose the weak, the gullible, the trusting. You know that bad things happen to good people who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time — things that could not be prevented. But most victims voluntarily put themselves at risk by being unprepared to defend and save their own lives. To be sure, they don’t deserve their fate. Unfortunately, however, they are guilty — of deadly apathy.

The last time you looked, the 20th Century was dead. Dead but obviously not buried in the minds and hearts of millions. And to help keep the 20th Century alive, behavioral scientists and social scientists have made careers out of carving up these millions of Americans and dropping them into their respective generational boxes. These experts say you belong to The Silent Generation. Before you, The Greatest Generation saved the world. You helped begat the Baby Boomers. In rapid succession, then, technology welcomed Generations X, Y and Z, fondly “baptized” by some as Lost, Millennials and Boomlets. These designations are just too complicated, too confusing, too vague. Therefore, with sincerest apologies to social scholars everywhere, you recommend combining these latest generations into a single illustrious category. FANFARE, please: INTRODUCING — The Offended Generation. Anyone with half a heart looks with compassion upon these beleaguered millions who suffer under a daily barrage of insults and disrespect. Routinely, minorities are the first victims. But as it happens, nearly everyone in the Offended Generation happens to be a member of some minority. Most recently, one such member epitomized anguish to a degree so intense that every major news media put her horrific story at the top of the news day. Her story was more compelling than American deaths on foreign shores, more meaningful than nuclear threats from North Korea and more repulsive than murder on Detroit’s dingy streets. Her name is Jourdan Rodrigue, a Charlotte Observer sports reporter who was verbally assaulted by a 6’5″, 245 lb. professional football player. When this young, innocent, female journalist asked Cam Newton a simple question, he laughed derisively, impugning her knowledge and belittling her competence. Poor baby. How humiliating. How offensive. No one should be subjected to this type of bellicose treatment, especially in the presence of her peers at a news conference. And predictably as ever, those very peers and the entire sports media cavalry came galloping to her rescue. ESPN led the charge, swords drawn. The Charlotte Observer said his comments were “inexcusable.” Celebrities and former NFL stars, now turned commentators, were unanimous in their denunciation. The Newton condemnation was swift and unrelenting. The talking points were clear. Sport journalists are ethical, resolute, sincere, objective professionals who deserve to be treated with utmost respect — especially those sensitive females who courageously enter male dominated spaces. There’s no room for the off-remark or the sexist insinuation. And certainly no room for outright rudeness. In a semi paradoxical twist, athletes like Newton must concede that even they are members of The Offended Generation, as they defiantly display their own damaged feelings — on bended knee. Meanwhile, those of you from past generations better walk on eggshells. The Thought Police have you in their sights. You don’t understand or want to understand Boomers I, Boomers II, Millennials or the Z people. You prefer to remember another day, when women were ladies and males were men; when people were resilient; when teens were adults and when even children dealt with hurt feelings on their own. You remember when growing up meant sucking it up. The Greatest Generation taught you that. And they taught you a lot more, They taught you by example — about responsibility, accountability and independence. Try as you might, you don’t recall ever being offended, or knowing anyone who complained of being offended or even hearing the word “offended.” You were too busy. So was everyone else. Including female journalists.