Dr. Metablog

Contradictory Assertions

We stayed at an inn in Lyme, New Hampshire called "Breakfast on the Connecticut." Good location, decent accommodations -- but they don't serve breakfast. Which reminded me of the famous sign in front of the Fairlee Diner on Route 5 in Fairlee, Vermont: "Open Seven Days a Week. Closed Tuesday."

Starokonstantinov

Ukraine has been invaded and whole cities have been obliterated by the Putin dictatorship. It's tragic. Once again, I'm overwhelmingly grateful that my grandparents chose to pack up and leave the blighted Ukraine. It's a decision that has looked better and better with each passing year.  

My father's family came from a Ukrainian "shtetl" called Starokonstantinov, or Alt Konstantin ("old Constantine").  As a youth, I overheard but did not understand conversations in Yiddish about a place that my grandparents called (phonetically) Xusantine-gebernia, where the X stands for a non-English deep guttural fricative. Seventy years ago I paid little attention to my eastern European ancestry. Now I'm fascinated.

Where is Starokonstantinov?  What is a "shtetl?"

I've just read Yohanan Petrovsky-Shtern's new (2014) and highly pertinent history, The Golden Age Shtetl (an oxymoronic title if there ever was one). Y P-S defines a shtetl as "an East European market town in private possession of a Polish magnate, inhabited mostly but not exclusively by Jews, and subject to Russian bureaucracy." Starokonstantinov, he claims, was a "quintessential shtetl." "My" ancestral shtetl lies in the western part of Ukraine, about 50 miles south of a line drawn between Lviv and Kyiv. Nowadays, it has a population of about 30,000 souls.

I know that my grandfather's people lived in Starokonstantinov from the middle of the nineteenth century, but I have no idea when they first arrived -- it might have been years or centuries before. The town itself is not an ancient foundation. It enters history only in the late 16th century when a Polish noble named Konstanty Ostrogski built himself a castle (which still survives) and took ownership of the surrounding area. Starokonstantinov was a "private town" -- meaning that it was owned by the Ostrogski family for several hundred years. In its first years, Starokonstantinov was included in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. In 1569 it became part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. In 1793, and for many years, even after my ancestors had struck out for the new world, it was a possession of the Russian Empire. Now it's in the independent Ukraine, and hoping to remain so.

The history of Starokonstantinov is marked by a series of tragedies prior to the one now in progress. An early disaster was the Battle of Starokonstantinov in 1648, which was a key event in the Chmielnicki Massacres of 1648-49. Eastern rite Cossacks broke into the fortified town and killed all of its 130 Jewish families and as many Polish Roman Catholics as they could find. During the early part of the 18th century, the Haidamack massacre of Uman by Cossacks spilled over into other Ukrainian shtetls, including "mine." And then beginning in 1881 came the series of pogroms -- anti-Jewish peasant riots provoked and tacitly supported by the Russian officialdom. In Starokonstantinov, there were 6611 Jews in 1847 and 9212 (61% of the total population) in 1897. (There would have been two more if my grandparents hadn't seen the light in 1895). During the Nazi occupation in 1942, virtually all the remaining Jewish population (6731 in 1939) was murdered. It's a troubled, tragic history.

I'm not sure what it means to say that a town was wholly owned by Polish nobility. Did the Ostrogskis own all the land, or the land and some of the buildings? Did they administer the public works? The churches? Did they possess the surrounding farms?  Did they own, until they were freed in 1861, the serfs?  Most likely, each shtetl had its own particular form of ownership (the late medieval world was anything but standardized). Y P-S does not explain; perhaps he assumes it's common knowledge.

Starokonstantinov occasionally makes an appearance in The Golden Age Shtetl.

I had not realized how active my ancestors might have been in the vodka trade. "In Starokonstantinov, the possession of Countess Rzewuska, about fifty [Jewish-owned] inns and taverns yielded 67 percent of the town revenues." (Query: how and when did the shtetl pass from the Ostrogskis to the Rzewuskis, who were a very prominent and wealthy Polish family). As far as I can tell, the "town revenues" went directly into the hands of the Polish overlords. In 1827, "Starokonstantinov Jews realized the that their efforts to prevent the draft of men for twenty to twenty five year terms in the Russian army [had failed], and the Jewish populace turned against their own kahal elders and attacked their houses." "Local police had to summon an additional army unit to suppress the outburst." (The "kahal" was a committee of prominent Jewish citizens who were the nominal governors [under Polish supervision] of the Jewish population.) In the first half of the nineteenth century, the divorce rate among Jewish couples in Starokonstantinov, was 16 percent. In larger cities, it was even higher (in Letichev it was 47 percent). Y P-S attributes the surprisingly high rate of failed marriages to the relative freedom of Jewish women and to the breakdown of traditional constraints as the Jewish population became increasingly urbanized. A major fire in Starokonstantinov in 1835 hastened the shtetl's decline. Russian travelers found Starokonstantinov and especially its roads deplorable. "A Russian army officer observed that Starokonstantinov is dirty beyond any measure: but 'if we bother ourselves to learn the reasons for this situation, we would perhaps find out that even the Jews, whom are usually blamed, have nothing to do with it.... To drive through the streets of the town is a real challenge, as there is no pavement. Stones once paving the road have long sunk into the soils. When it is raining, they do nothing but prevent movement.'" Mud season in Starokonstantinov must have been an annual challenge. Nevertheless, Starokonstantinovites were readers: a merchant estimated that in the shtetl there were "about 20,000 books, mostly prayer books, bible and bible commentaries, tractates on the Talmud and the Kabbalah." Y P-S thinks that this number must be a great exaggeration. But it's on the record that a merchant named Pinhas Yosef Bromberg from Starokonstantinov brought twenty Hebrew books with him while traveling to on business to St Petersburg. 

My great-grandfather was a participant in the commerce of Starokonstantinov. According to my father, he was a "factor."  A "faktor" (Yiddish from German) was essentially a middleman. My ancestor had a horse and a wagon (perhaps, I allow myself to fantasize, two horses and two wagons). According to tradition, he mostly dealt in grain, but factors such as he bought and sold whatever was available: wood, coal, ribbons, calico, mirrors, bolts and screws, vodka and wine. They did much of their business at fairs and Starokonstantinov was famous for its very prominent fair.

What I Wore to the Oscars, 2022

Friends and relations have been clamoring to know what I wore to the Oscar ceremony this year.  So here goes:

My ensemble: plaid wool shirt by Woolrich; trousers by Lee ("Extreme Comfort" cut -- smoky quartz color); white cotton "Gold Toe" socks by Costco; shoes by Hoka (orthopedic inserts by Dr. Scholl); leather belt by SlideBelts; foundational undergarments by Fruit of the Loom and Carhartt. Denim jacket by American Apparel. Accessories: eyeglasses by Kirkland Signature; hearing aids by Phonak. Traditional baseball cap by Otto ("one size fits most.")

 

Hair by SuperCuts.

 

Once again, I'd like to thank all the little people -- my fashion consultants, suppliers, and supporters -- for their imagination and hard work. I couldn't have done it without the entire team.

 

Note.  Full disclosure: in fact, I didn't attend the actual awards ceremony. This ensemble is what I wore to watch the Oscars on TV. Well, that's not entirely true either. I forgot to watch the Oscars. But I did wear the outfit.

On the Mall

On our prosperous Boulder Mall, where all the men are handsome, all the women are good-looking, and all the mendicants take Venmo, there are 44 separate signs that declare, No Pets. Such signs do not inhibit our infatuated dog owners, who can't bring themselves to believe that the injunction applies to their particular o so lovable canine. They cannot fathom that not every mall-walker is in love with their Bowser. As a result, the No Pets law is widely and defiantly flouted.

There's a second mall rule: no amplified music. Acoustic guitars, string quartets, bluegrass bands, accordionists, and singers are all allowed and encouraged. But every once in a while, some itinerant assembles an appallingly large apparatus on our otherwise peaceful Mall and produces sounds that can be heard for half a mile. Rude, ear-shattering noises.

Canines and amplifiers are everyday commonplace violations. But yesterday, walking on the mall, we observed a remarkable and unprecedented novelty. Along comes a nondescript scruffy guy walking an oversized nondescript dog, and lo and behold, onto the beast is strapped a boombox. Honest to Pete, I'm not making this up! The attached mechanism is a powerful one and it generates an extremely loud noise. Unidentifiable sounds, possibly though not certainly some sort of music.

A woofer with a woofer, so to speak.

The man and his faithful friend proceed shamelessly along the mall, bass notes vibrating the shop windows and oscillating my pancreas.

I was floored, frankly. One dog, one amplifier; two concurrent violations. 

And then I watched in amazement as the big ol' dog dropped a big ol' deuce. A double deuce, actually. Two long brown glistening, smoking turds. Lurking right there on the bricks, preparing to ambush the pretty white shoes of the next three-year-old princess-in-a-pink-tutu to come tripping by.

In our town, it's the inviolable custom that every dog owner carries a plastic bag and politely disposes of his pet's droppings. Not this guy. He just kept on walking, pretending that he didn't know what was going on at the end of his leash -- which was, as a I have said, 1) a pooch, 2) an attached amplifier, and 3) pooch poop. A jackpot -- a perfect trifecta.

Do I have a theory to account for such contemptible misbehavior?  Well, I've been thinking and mulling and contemplating, and I'm aware of the talk of the breakdown of civil society, but all I can come up with is this: some people are royal jerks.

"Give Me Your Tired, Your People Who are Experiencing Poverty"

At lunch yesterday, a friend of long standing mentioned that the conglomerate that now publishes his American politics textbook has hired a new employee, a vice-president for diversity and inclusion. It's a well-intended decision, I am sure, but it carries a potential downside. The new v-p has instructed my friend to make some changes to his prose. For example, he will no longer be allowed to report that Lyndon Johnson got his way by "arm-twisting" recalcitrant legislators. The metaphor, though commonly used back in the LBJ era, and still picturesque, is disrespectful to people who suffer from broken or withered arms and is especially discourteous to those who are missing one or both upper limbs. No more arm-twisting, therefore. My friend was also told that it is no longer permissible to say that in the U. S., "the poor tend to vote at lower levels of participation than the general population." The new v-p insists that the phrase, "the poor" denigrates various people by reducing them to a mere category. "The poor" should therefore be updated and altered to "'people experiencing poverty."  

In our peaceful and prosperous midWestern town, we've had a continuing and difficult debate about homelessness. Some while ago, our extremely correct local newspaper ceased to denominate those without regular domiciliary appointments as "the homeless" and began to call them "people experiencing homelessness."

Such a circumlocution, I believe, though well-intended, misses the mark. The word "homeless" has a poignancy and immediacy that the bloodless bureaucratic euphemism "people experiencing homelessness" lacks. Rather than making homelessness more palatable; it makes it more painful.

Let us thank all the gods in the pantheon that Emma Lazarus did not write, "Give me your people experiencing lassitude, give me your people experiencing poverty." 

I wonder what the v-p for inclusion would say about Jesus, who famously advised that "when thou makest a dinner or a supper, invite not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompence be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind." Such a forceful series of evocative nouns! But would "the maimed," "the lame," "the blind," overleap the diversity and inclusion barrier and enter a 21st century textbook? I think not.

Although Jesus may have had some good ideas, he was definitely not "woke."

Predictions for 2022

It's been six years since Dr. Metablog (aka Vivian de St. Vrain, aka The Modern Nostradamus) issued a set of predictions. His last collection, from 2016, earned a score of 100% correct, when every single one of his dazzling glimpses into futurity proved to be exactly accurate. An astonishing performance!!  Which is why The Modern Nostradamus once again won the Lifetime Platinum Award from the International Prophecy Society. Now, after a brief but pregnant retirement, Dr M returns to the prophecy lists and offers the following. Read and be dazzled, fit audience though few. Here's what's going to happen!

1)   there will be unusual weather patterns in North America;

2)   there will be a forest fire in one or more western American states; 

3)   a famous Hollywood actress will sue for divorce; moreover, another (or possibly the same) star will become pregnant; another (or possibly the same) actress will gain or lose a great deal of weight; 

4)   a politician will be accused of dishonesty;  

5)   there will be either a monsoon, an airplane crash, or a capsized ferry in Asia;

6)   there will be fluctuations in the stock market;

7)  there will be turmoil in the Middle East;

8)  a religious leader will be involved in either a financial or a sex scandal.  Or perhaps both;

9)  Mitch McConnell will continue to be a colossal asshole. 

You read it here first. Loyal readers: check back at the end of the year.  Let's see whether a senior but world-class professional augur still has enough on the oracle ball to foretell the future one more time.

It's been six years since Dr. Metablog (aka Vivian de St. Vrain, aka The Modern Nostradamus) issued a set of predictions. His last collection, from 2016, earned a score of 100% correct, when every single one of his dazzling glimpses into futurity proved to be exactly accurate. An astonishing performance!!  Which is why The Modern Nostradamus once again won the Lifetime Platinum Award from the International Prophecy Society. Now, after a brief but pregnant retirement, Dr M returns to the prophecy lists and offers the following. Read and be dazzled, fit audience though few. Here's what's going to happen!

1)   there will be unusual weather patterns in North America;

2)   there will be a forest fire in one or more western American states; 

3)   a famous Hollywood actress will sue for divorce; moreover, another (or possibly the same) star will become pregnant; another (or possibly the same) actress will gain or lose a great deal of weight; 

4)   a politician will be accused of dishonesty;  

5)   there will be either a monsoon, an airplane crash, or a capsized ferry in Asia;

6)   there will be fluctuations in the stock market;

7)  there will be turmoil in the Middle East;

8)  a religious leader will be involved in either a financial or a sex scandal.  Or perhaps both;

9)  Mitch McConnell will continue to be a colossal asshole. 

You read it here first. Loyal readers: check back at the end of the year.  Let's see whether a senior but world-class professional augur still has enough on the oracle ball to foretell the future one more time.

"Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."

Here's a Christmas-themed picture posted by United States Representative Thomas Massie of Kentucky. Note the cheerfully decorated tree behind them. Note also that each member of the shit-eating-grin faced members of the Massie family is sporting a military weapon. Massie himself, as befits the father of such a family, carries the piece of artillery that is by far the most threatening. He's so proud.

I must be out of the military-Kentucky loop, because when my friends send me Christmas cards, they will characteristically include a message such as "peace on Earth, good will toward men, or perhaps something about "joy" or "blessings." Massie's card says, "Please Santa, send ammo," which is not, I believe, a traditional holiday greeting.

Massie's card is deliberately provocative. It's designed to piss off the libs. In your face, pinkos! But it's so blasphemous and misjudged that it might also offend mainline Christians. Goodness gracious, I hope so. Though frankly, I haven't heard much of an outcry from the pulpits.

But now it has come to pass that it's not just blue-staters that are offended. Massie has gone and pissed off the Lord himself -- who has retaliated with a series of tornadoes which have swept through Massie's home state. Can there be any doubt, any possible probable shadow of doubt, that the Ancient of Days has responded to the Massie family Christmas card with lightning and thunder? Vengeance is mine, I shall repay, saith the Lord. It's obvious -- although I am shocked to observe that I have not yet heard any megachurch preacher draw the undeniable conclusion. I'm waiting. 

When I first set astonished eyes on the card, I guessed that Massie, though an important office holder, must be what I have heard called in Vermont a "local yokel." Trash. A rube. An exterminator or mortician or gun-toting bar owner who lucked into Congress because no more respectable person chose to run. Because what person of intelligence, sensitivity, experience, or a modicum of education honors the spirit of Christmas with a display of assault weaponry?  Imagine my surprise when I looked up Massie and discovered that he has a raft of degrees and extraordinary prizes from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He's clearly brilliant (in a MIT kind of way). But even if he were a pure pocket-calculator I-don't-give-a-shit-about-anyone-but-myself libertarian nerds, shouldn't he have been exposed, in New England, to enough human beings of all sorts to recognize that his Christmas greeting is monumentally offensive not only to his fellows and (as we have seen) to the Lord of Hosts Himself? 

Or perhaps he knows that our tearful country is so riven that an irreligious display of such a sort will amuse and motivate his allies and torment his opposition. And will strike gold with political donors. 

Trophy Homes

Among my circle of friends, it is a shameful thing to be called "house proud." It's a term to be avoided, even shunned. It's competitive and flaunts the wrong values. Conspicuous consumption. Vanity. "I own a bigger house than you, and therefore I'm a better person than you."  "House pride" is a very badddd feeling of the human heart. So therefore I was astonished when I opened a new edition of Luxury Home Magazine (which should be called Conspicuous Consumption Quarterly) to discover that in this publication shameless vanity is now not implied, hinted at, or disguised, but flaunted. The magazine's reiterated theme: "Make your friends envy your trophy home." It says so in so many words!  Gasp!

And indeed, from the pictures and descriptions of these homes, it's clear that the advertised trophies are not designed o live in, but rather to let their owners wow their friends and demonstrate how wealthy (and wasteful) they can be.

Does anyone actually require a 15,000 square feet house with three kitchens, even if one of them is outdoors. "Main kitchen boasts two islands, multiple refrigerators, freezers and sinks." And a wine cooler (in addition to the wine cellar). "Five beds, eight baths, seven fireplaces?" "Massive vaulted ceilings with a towering three sided stone chimney?" Also, a "luxurious soaking tub, double-headed shower, and makeup vanity?" Two "indoor-outdoor pools?" An elevator from the basement to the widow's walk?  "Large tiered media room." Game room. Basketball court. A putting green. Five oversized garages with 20 foot windows? 

Also, "breathability," whatever that is.

I'm embarrassed that I'm on the Luxury Homes' mailing list and I'm embarrassed, once again, to be a member of the species homo sapiens.

My advice to readers whose mouths water when they yearn for a trophy home: "enough is as good as a feast."

Sore Loser

I learned what was wrong and bad in the P S 217 schoolyard. At our corner of the world, where Coney Island Avenue crossed Newkirk, the guy at the bottom of the moral barrel was the "sore loser." He was the guy who, when he missed an easy layup, always claimed, against the evidence, that he had been fouled. And when he lost a game, he picked up his basketball and took it home -- in order to prevent the rest of us from continuing to play. He was always whining, always complaining, always wronged. An unpleasant member of the community, disliked by most, hated by some, loathed by a few. A disruptive presence, only tolerated because he was rich enough to own the basketball or the baseball bat. 

No question but that the greatest sore loser in the history of the planet is our former president. What a pathetic whiner! He lost fair and square but he can't admit it, so instead he claims a nonexistent foul, or a series of fouls. He's out to change the rules to give himself the advantage. And he's willing to mess up the entire game if he doesn't get his way. 

He wouldn't have gotten the least smidgeon of respect in 217 schoolyard. 

What's wrong with the people who still support him? What are they thinking? How come they can't recognize him for what he is? 

Sore Loser.

World Series Results Claimed to be a Hoax

The Tampa Bay Devil Rays now claim that they won the 2020 World Series against the Dodgers -- even though most of us saw the Dodgers win by a margin of 4 games to 2.  The Rays claim that in Game 5, two runs scored by Tampa Bay were nefariously credited to the Dodgers. The scoreboard, they claim, was designed and controlled by Hugo Chavez who "flipped" the runs. Although an audit conducted by Major League Baseball Commissioner Rob Manfred showed no such evidence of tampering, Tampa Bay and their increasingly rabid supporters continue to contend that "the whole series was a hoax and a fix."  Mobs of fans, some outfitted in bizarre costumes, resist reviewing videotapes of the games, contending that the tapes have been altered by space lasers controlled by "Rothschild interests." Tampa Bay fans plan to storm Dodgers Stadium in Los Angeles, rescue the trophy, and demand that their team be declared the winner -- "or else."

 

Meanwhile, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers football team now says that it will accept the results of next Sunday's SuperBowl game "only if we win."  

Where I Live, 2020

For the last eleven years, I've lived in a downtown Boulder condominium. I much enjoy living here -- it's age appropriate. The rooms are all on one floor; there's an elevator; underground parking for the new Subaru; no snow shoveling; hardly any upkeep. It's quiet inside and out -- but right around the corner, just a block away, is the semi-famous Boulder Mall, with all the urban stuff that one could want. A music venue. Restaurants, shops, a bank, a drugstore, a barbershop, and just a half mile to the west, the very resourceful Boulder Public Library. In season, a farmer's market. Tourists and natives peacefully strolling. A good place for a guy my age to "hang."

There is, however, a small fly in the ointment. This past January, Ms. Reynolds, my consort and odalisque (we don't use the W word, or the H word either) bought a condo down the corridor from mine. As a result, both of us traverse the short distance (75 feet) between hers and mine multiple times a day before ending up in my place for dinner, perhaps a movie, and sleep. The difficulty is that there's a quirk in this building's heating system. The corridor is always frigid; for some reason that no one seems to understand, the air-conditioning, need it or not, is always turned up to 11. The temperature stands at 58F, summer and winter. The people who manage the building say that nothing can be done about the arctic blasts. Hard to believe, but apparently true.

We call our passage from one apartment to the other, "braving the polar vortex." The corridor itself is "the tundra." 

In an effort to remedy this situation, I have written the following letter to the authorities. 

"Dear Managers of the Building:

Inasmuch as it has proven impossible to raise the temperature of the corridor higher than 58F, I propose that we attack this flaw with a new and, I dare to suggest, more imaginative strategy. If we can't raise the temperature, let us lower it. With a little effort we can get it down to a consistent 48F. We could then make some money by using the corridor as a sort of root cellar. I envision a series of individual wooden boxes, say, perhaps 6' by 4', where residents at modest cost could store their beets, carrots, onions, and potatoes (bought in bulk at the Farmer's Market). It might even be possible to rent some of the boxes to outsiders and bring a little extra income into the building. What a marvelous (and ecologically sound) solution to our problem!!

Wait. On further thought, I have an even better idea. Let's lower the temperature another couple of degrees, to 37F, the ideal for storing dry-aged beef. The corridor could then be re-configured as a meat locker. I doubt it woulds cost more than $100 to install a series of hooks in the ceiling, from which residents (and outside renters) could hang their sides of beef. Everyone knows that dry-aged beef is premium eating. I think this could be a real money-maker for the property.

I don't see any possible objection to either of these ideas, but I'd want the board to decide which one seems most promising and most lucrative.

And by the way, I noticed the other day that a pair of arctic foxes seem to have taken up residence in the corridor. We'd probably have to do something about them before we hang the beef, or there could be complications.

Also, I might be mistaken but I think a saw an ermine skittering right near the elevator." 

The "Yips"

The yips have been big news this week because Jose Altuve, Houston's golden-glove second baseman has made three throwing errors in two games. Glaring, costly errors. He's bounced balls to first base and to second base -- throws of twenty or forty feet which he has made successfully thousands of times in his outstanding career.

The "yips" is sports jargon for the sudden, inexplicable inability to make an ordinary or routine play. It's commonly used by golfers when they start missing short putts --but baseball has its famous yippers -- Steve Saxe, Chuck Knoblauch (both of them second baseman who have the shortest, easiest throws)  and now, possibly Altuve. Sometimes a good pitcher will lose his control and start to miss badly; the retired pitcher at the microphone will say, "he's lost his release point," which is a yippish diagnosis without using the word. Athletes think that the problem is psychological but it's possible that the condition is merely neurological - a "focal dystonia" or muscle spasm in the wrist. Basketball yips? Yes, sometimes a good foul shooter will miss four or five in a row. 

I suspect that the yips may not be a sports-only syndrome.

Once, a decade or two ago, I was driving across the country on a four-lane and needed to brake. For some reason, my feet (I was driving a standard transmission so both feet and the clutch pedal were involved) couldn't remember which was the brake pedal. I flailed with both feet and was utterly panicked for about five long seconds. Then I came to my senses, put the correct foot on the correct pedal, and continued on in normal fashion. Life continued. But if I had crashed the car and killed myself, which was certainly a possibility, investigators would have thought that I had fallen asleep at the switch. They'd have been wrong; it was just the yips -- a failure to perform a task that should have been entirely routine.

I wonder how many road disasters are caused by undiagnosed yippishness.

Do actors get the yips? Do musicians? Dentists?  Airline pilots? Surgeons ("You know, I've done that back surgery hundreds of times but three out of the last four, I've sliced entirely through the guy's spinal cord").

"The Small House at Allington" (1863)

The nation is in an uproar -- the Covid-19 pandemic, mass unemployment, racial reckoning, disorder in the streets, Russians sabotaging our elections, ignorant authoritarian leadership.

We ourselves are sheltering at home, and are healthy, thanks to the masks and the cooperation of friends and neighbors, but there's little hope of a getaway. We certainly can't travel. What to do for an escape? There's no frigate like a book, so it's time to read a long leisurely novel by Anthony Trollope.

The Small House at Allington is the fifth of six in the Barsetshire series. Had I read it before? Certainly, but it doesn't matter. To read a Barset novel is to put on well-worn old clothes. Loose slippers. The Small House is comfort food. It's the mac and cheese of novels.

It's not 2020, it's 1863. Outside of Barsetshire, millions of working-class Englishmen are living in grinding, soul-destroying poverty. Cholera is rampant. India is being pillaged. Ireland is trying to recover from famine and mass emigration. There's a second Opium War in China. British ships are running the Union blockade of Confederate ports. But all is as ever in the perennial untouched Allington microcosm.  

Should the Dales continue to stay in the dower house even though the squire is sometimes impolitic?  Should Adolphus Crosbie choose to marry Lily Dale (yes!) or Lady Alexandrina de Courcy (big mistake)? Will Plantagenet Palliser run off with Griselda Grantly -- don't do it, Planty Pall!  Should Lucy Dale accept a dinner invitation from the Earl de Guest? Why won't Isabella Dale agree to accept her cousin Bernard as a husband? -- everyone in the family thinks it's a good idea, except Bell herself, who prefers poor but faithful Dr. Crofts.

Political and economic problems do not intrude into the small world of the Small House. Finding a mate, keeping a mate, repairing a frayed relationship is its subject; equally important for men, is to locate a woman of means, so that one can support a comfortable style of life without stooping to real work.  

Adolphus Crosbie, although far from our favorite, accurately describes the three things that he requires in a wife: that she be of a good family, that she have money, and that she be beautiful. Does Mr. Crosbie possess these qualities himself?  No. But he does have a handsome set of whiskers, which seems to be sufficient.

A Serious Presidential Lie

No question but that he's a serial liar: just think of the birther thing, the attendance at the inaugural, Sharpiegate, "the best economy in the history of the world," that Hilary Clinton received 3 to 5 million illegal votes, "total exoneration," the 16,000+ lies and misstatements since 2016 that the Washington Post has catalogued. Enough falsehoods to circle the earth several times, or more likely, stretch from here to Alpha Centauri. 

Nevertheless, all these falsehoods pale in comparison to the latest revelation.  

He repeatedly boasted that he was such a baseball star at the New York Military Academy that he could have gone to the majors. Someone finally investigated. Box scores from the 1950s show that he batted .138, with 3 rbi's and scored one run. Said one baseball guy, “You don’t hit .138 for some podunk, cold-weather high school playing the worst competition you could possibly imagine" and go pro. “It’s absolutely laughable. He hit .138—he couldn’t fucking hit."  

OK, he lies about everything. But about baseball? Some things should be sacred. Off limits.

Sarcasm in the News

It's not often that a figure of speech makes the headlines -- as happened this week with the rhetorical term "sarcasm." At a press conference a couple of days ago, the present occupant of the White House, Donald J. Trump, whose use of language is occasionally infelicitous, let fly with a giant whopper. He announced that the horrid new coronavirus could be cured by (gasp!) an injection of bleach. When his foolish advice  attracted scorn, he backtracked by claiming that his words were merely "sarcastic."

 

To put the blame on sarcasm is a transparent lie, of course, believed only by one person in the entire universe -- Trump himself -- although no doubt his brek-a-kek-keks of toadies will pretend that his analysis was pure genius.

 

But did he truly mean "sarcasm" -- a trope generally marked by a mocking tone of voice and "a sharp, bitter, cutting or caustic expression, a contemptuous gibe or taunt in which hostility is disguised as humor." Trump seems to define sarcasm rather more loosely: to him in means "I didn't say what I said yesterday and, besides, it's all the fault of the media." What a curious line of defense, and what a misuse of a rhetorical term! 

 

Besides, one should think twice before invoking sarcasm, because the term has a bad name among the psychologists, who consider it a "maladaptive coping mechanism for those with unresolved anger or frustration." There's a class of people who employ sarcasm because they have "certain forms of brain damage as a consequence of lesions in the right parahippocampal gyrus." I have no particular knowledge of Mr. Trump's parahippocampal gyrus, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's taken a bit of a beating these last few years.

 

Sarcasm has even been banned by Trump's great friend Kim Jong-Un. No sarcasm in North Korea -- a rare instance of a figure of speech being consigned to a firing squad.

 

Besides, Trump is already the master of a number of the tropes of traditional rhetoric. There's enellage, a sentence that ignores the usual grammatical rules and conventions; solecism and tautology, gross violations of syntax and logic; hyperbole, or exaggeration, and its less well-known cousin, adynaton, a collection or list of impossibilities; aposiopesis, the sudden end of a sentence before completion; and paraprosdokian, the unexpected truncation of a clause. But all would agree that the figure of speech that Trump deploys most regularly is prevaricatio.

Written for my Grandchildren

Dear T, O, E, L, L, C, and A:

A friend told us that when she entered Pomona College in 1961, it was the custom that all the newly arriving women ("co-eds" they were called in those dark days) were "measured" by the sophomore men. She said that the women were lined up and their measurements (height, weight, bust, waist, hips) taken and announced to the assembled spectators. This shameful blast from the past shocked and embarrassed me.

I'm five years older than our friend, but I'm glad to say that I never heard of any remotely similar goings-on at the college I attended. (Maybe such things happened in the backward, benighted frat clubs, but surely, I hope hope hope, not in my part of the campus). In fact, I was a bit skeptical of our friend's story -- it being so grotesque -- so I searched a Pomona alumni website for confirmation and found this picture. I'm sorry to say that the evidence is incontrovertible.     

Tale of the tape, 1961.

Crew-cut boy is smiling, and I think I understand why. He's almost touching shirtwaist girl's breasts. In those pre-Vietnam years, female virginity was still a mystical virtue, mechanical contraception (there were no pills) was near-impossible to obtain and prone to failure, pregnancy before marriage was a life-shattering disgrace, and abortion was illegal and sometimes fatal. It might be that taking the measure of the young lady's bosom was the sexual pinnacle of crew-cut boy's four years in college. Nevertheless, I'm puzzled that shirtwaist girl is so amenable to the taping. Is she actually smiling? Doesn't she realize that she's participating in an absurd demeaning dehumanizing rite? 

I asked our Pomona friend how she dealt with the ritual. "Well," she said, "here's what I did. I went downtown and bought a large size inflatable bra. I put it on and blew it up to monumental proportions. I brought a pin to the ceremony. I planned to pop the bra just as I was being measured, but the thing was so tough it didn't deflate as planned. I wish it had. That was my protest. I should have done more. It was difficult to buck tradition. When things are customary, taken for granted, it takes a lot of strength to go against the system even when you know it's wrong." 

Here's another story, young 'uns, from the same era. In 1960, your grandmother, AGP, began teaching mathematics in Newton, Massachusetts. Her salary was $4200 a year, but if she had been a man, it would have been $4300. The district had two salary scales, one for men and one for women. I remember studying a printed schedule that had one column labelled M and one labeled F. The difference between M and F was small, but it increased with every year of experience. However small or large the discrepancy, it was still an insult and an injustice, designed as much to assert superiority and inferiority as to make an economic difference.

Both AGP and I knew it was wrong, but I'm embarrassed to say that we did not protest. Before "equal pay for equal work," it was taken for granted that Fs would be paid less than Ms. Why didn't we argue, agitate, organize?  Because we were paralyzed, I think, by the powerful forces of custom and convention. 

I wonder about crew-cut boy. Was he forever locked into 1960 attitudes or did he eventually come to enlightenment? What sort of relations did he establish with mature women? And did he, perhaps, have a daughter? Would he have advised her to attend Pomona College, and if he did so, did he try to ascertain whether first-year female students were still being measured?

I wonder also about the abuses in our society that we notice but tolerate because they are so embedded in the culture. And even more so, by the abuses we don't notice but will be clearly apparent in a generation or two. Which of today's events will look as antiquated and rearward in fifty years as that Pomona ritual?

Year of the Rooster

The rooster came to our attention about a month ago. We heard him before we saw him. He was living at the edge of the forest, about one hundred yards from the house. After a few days he became bolder and we were able to catch a glimpse now and then. He's a Barred Rock, fully mature, with a bright red comb and superior wattles, but with woeful tail feathers. We don't know from where he came. We asked around but none of the neighbors is missing a rooster. We guessed: he's an escapee, or, perhaps his owner became tired of him and kicked him out of the truck, or (my favorite theory) he was in a rooster fight, lost his tail feathers and retired to the woods in shame. But in fact, we have no idea how he came to settle on our property.

Little by little he started to become more comfortable with us. He would spend his day in the flower garden, furtively eating insects. He was especially fond of earwigs. A good occupation, I thought. No harm except to the bugs. Eventually he came to tolerate our presence. He would sit a few yards away, studying me while I weeded. He gained our respect, because he managed to survive even though the forest is filled with foxes and fisher cats and weasels and coyotes and the air is patrolled by hawks. He liked to visit the donkeys and peck around their manure piles.  When he started to roost not in the forest but in the blueberry bushes close to the house I became concerned -- this may be more of a rooster guest than I need. And then he took up the habit of cock-a-doodle-do-ing at dawn just outside our bedroom window. And during afternoon nap time. And familiarizing himself with the vegetable garden, where he snacks on cucumbers. (He loves cucumbers.) He became ever more bold -- a few days ago he was just outside the kitchen, pecking on the glass door, hoping, I imagine, to be let inside. And when I didn't let him in, he left a large retaliatory splash of rooster dropping right at the doorway.

We looked out of the small north window of our bedroom and there he was perched on the railing, peering in. A peeping-Tom rooster. (Did he catch an eyeful!!) 

One day a near neighbor telephoned: "Your rooster is here."  "He's not my rooster."  

And then he disappeared. For the first time in a month, there was no crowing at dawn.  OK, we thought, some predator got him. One of these days, we'll stumble upon a bunch of black and white feathers in the forest.

But then a friend who lives on Ira's Pinnacle told us that he had seen a pair of chickens on Hackett Hill Road about a half a mile up the road. He couldn't be sure, but he figured it must be "your" rooster and a hen. 

So that's where he's been!! He's a gallinaceous gallant gallivanting with the local ladies. I thought, good for him; I don't have to concern myself with him any longer. He'll go feral and start a family. He must not know about Vermont winters.

But not so. This morning he was back, solitary, crowing vigorously outside my window. His romance, if it were a romance, didn't work out. I can't imagine why because he's become quite a handsome bird. He personable, friendly and he's grown an an impressive new set of tail feathers. He's plump and shiny; his walk, once furtive, has become a decisive strut. There he is now, cock-a-doodling his head off in the patch of cucumbers.

Shaya, Venezia

Many a restaurant in New Orleans; and many visited by us during our latest stay.

Two divergent experiences.  Shaya, and Venezia.

Shaya:

Slick, elegant, ultra-modern, carefully designed. Waitpersons stylishly costumed and coiffed. Well-trained. Reservations mandatory. Customers:  jacketed and tied, or on high heels. Price: whole wallet.

The place to go if you're looking for wood roasted Brussels sprouts with black harissa, tahini and sumac pickled onions. Or ikra made with paddlefish caviar and shallots. Or if you want your crispy halloumi with strawberries, mint and pistachio. Perhaps shakshoula made of tomato, Jerusalem artichokes, poached egg, chilies and chermoula. The roasted chicken is cooked with shawarma spices, heirloom carrots, and chickpea mujadara.  Etc. Very enjoyable experience.

Then there's Venezia. Not pronounced ven-ets-ia after the Italian style, but ven-ezh-a by local custom. Red-and-white checked tablecloths. Families, large and extended. Waitresses as wide as tall who call you "honey" or "dearie."  Sausages, peppers, spaghetti with tomato sauce, shellfish. Excellent pizza. Sorry, no picture available on website.  No website, actually. And, added bonus, Venezia is just down the street from famous historic Angelo Brocato (ice cream and pastries).

 

Guess at which restaurant I felt more at home.

 

New Orleans is a high contrast city where the Whole Foods sits directly adjacent to the Dollar General. Honest.

Report: Barron Trump Betrothed to Putin's Daughter Katerina Kabaeva

Numerous European websites are reporting that Barron Trump, the 12-year-old son of United States President Donald J. Trump, has been betrothed to Katerina Kabaeva, the 11-year-old daughter of Vladimir Putin and "first mistress" Alina Kabaeva.  

White House spokesman Sarah Huckabee Sanders refused to comment on the report. But another member of the Trump administration, who spoke under the condition that his name not be revealed, said that, "if the story is true, then it's a significant diplomatic coup for the United States and for the Trumps.  It would allow two great families, one Russian and one American, to link their fortunes. It's a significant step forward for Russian-American diplomatic relations. It could be the making of a dynasty."

It has also been reported that the betrothal agreement, negotiated by Trump lawyer Michael Cohen and former Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, calls for the transfer of somewhat more than a billion dollars from the Russian bank Vnesheconombank, or VEB, also known  as "Putin's bank," to Trump Industries. VEB has previously been known to be an important investor in Trump properties.  What the Trump family offered in exchange is as yet unknown. 

The rumor that the spelling of "Barron" Trump's name has been changed to "Baron" Trump has not been confirmed.

A date for the wedding has not been announced.

Corporations to Buy "Naming Rights" to Trump Wall

The White House announced today that "naming rights" to stretches of the Trump Wall across the southern U. S. border are up for sale.

Portions have been pre-sold. Among the corporations that will have their names in neon on the wall are Chick-Fil-A and Hobby Lobby. The largest single stretch has been claimed by Koch Industries, Inc. Together with its subsidiaries Invista, Georgia-Pacific, Molex, Flint Hills Resources, Koch Pipeline, Koch Fertilizer, Koch Minerals, Matador Cattle, and Guardian Industries, Koch will place signs on almost six hundred miles of wall. It is rumored that the National Rifle Association has contracted to name a large portion of the Texas barrier.

The White House did not say how much the corporations paid for the naming rights.  Charles Koch, in a rare interview, asserted that the cost was "a good buy.  But it's not about money," he added, "it's about patriotism."

Trump Industries has also claimed a few choices miles of the wall but has yet to make a payment.

United Airlines to Charge to Use Toilet

United Airlines has announced that starting March 1, passengers will be charged for the use of on-board toilet facilities. "Charges will be nominal," according to United spokesperson Alma Santistevan, "just five dollars for the first five minutes and two dollars for every subsequent minute, but passengers must remember to bring their credit cards with them to the facility."

Toilets are now being equipped with card-operated locks but passengers may still use the facilities for free until the end of the month.

Last year, United carried 95,611,500 passengers. "Even if each passenger uses the facilities just once a trip, we are looking at half a billion dollars of additional revenue with very little capital expense," explained Santistevan. "Stockholders will be very very pleased."

United is considering additional charges for toilet paper and for paper hand towels. Barf bags will also require a small fee.

Other airlines are expected to follow suit.

United CEO Scott Brandon was asked if he anticipated passenger resistance. "There will be some grumbling at first," he replied, "but passengers will get used to it. After all, they've accepted smaller seats, charges for water, rude service, unpredictable bumping, huge fees for cancellations and plane changes, luggage surcharges, pets stuffed into overhead bins and suffocated, as well as the occasional person dragged from his seat screaming. Besides, what choice do they have? They've got to piss."

666

Donald Trump has taken credit for the rise in the stock market. "The stock market hit yet another record high yesterday. There is great confidence in the moves that my Administration is making.”  If he is responsible for the rise, then surely he is also responsible for the fall. It can be no accident, and can only be a signal from the other world, that Trump's market fell exactly 666 points last Friday. One trillion of market value was erased with the wave of the supernatural wand. Six hundred and sixty- six is "the number of the beast" in Revelation. Inasmuch as everything happens for a reason, we must ask what the Lord is telling us. The 666 point drop undeniably demonstrates that DT is "the man of sin" who "opposes and exalts himself above every god or object of worship" (2 Thessalonians 2:1). He is the false god who has erected his tower at 666 Fifth Avenue. Heed, O supporters of Trump, the words and acts of the Lord, for the man of the flaming hair is the egg of the serpent, the false prophet, the anti-Christ.

No possible probable manner of doubt.

Zeus: the Apology

If I've offended anyone, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to; I have tremendous respect for pretty and desirable women. 10s, all of them. So let me just start by saying that many years ago, decades or centuries I can't remember exactly when, I had a thunderous crush on Io. She claims that she signaled me that she wasn't interested, but I did not stop. You know, when you're a god, they let you do it. You can do anything. It was probably a mistake to have turned her into a heifer but I think she enjoyed it then -- even if she complains about it now. Same thing with Leda; it's possible that I misinterpreted her but I honestly thought that her "no" meant "maybe" or "yes," so I turned myself into a swan and grabbed her by the pussy. Maybe I should have backed off, especially since she had already spent that same night with her husband Tyndareus, who had, as everyone knows, very small hands, if you know what I mean. It's good to be a god. And then there was Semele. I mean, she was one of my very own priestesses, and I realize now that your own priestesses ought to be off limits. But she provoked me by bathing nude in the river Asopus. And I happened to be flying by in the shape of an eagle. What happened, happened. It was definitely wrong of her to ask to look at me face to face and I regret that I incinerated her, but it wasn't my fault. Europa was also an error, but she should have known better than to come near to me when I'm in the shape of a white bull. And the same with Taygete who came to me as a doe with golden horns. I couldn't stop myself. I've always had a thing for golden horns, though I think Pindar made a bit too much of it. And then there was Dia, who happened by, so she says, when I was in the shape of a stallion. What can you expect of a stallion? Alcmene, that's another story. She was tall and beautiful, with eyes that reminded me of Aphrodite. I definitely wanted her. I had to disguise myself as her husband Amphitryon to make love to her. Maybe it was wrong to do so, but I don't think she ever figured out what actually happened, which kind of excuses me. And then there was my adventure with Antiope, where I disguised myself a satyr; and once you're a satyr well, you know, a satyr does what a satyr does. To seduce Callisto, I had to transform myself into Artemis, which sounds a little like girl-on-girl action, but it really wasn't because it was me. Come to think of it, I can't remember exactly how we did it. And also: I blame Acrisius for shutting up his daughter Danae in a bronze tower. I took it as a deliberate provocation. I had to sneak through an air vent to impregnate Danae in the form of a shower of golden rain, which, I have to tell you, wasn't entirely satisfying and just a little bit kinky.

But what can I say?  I don't want to play the victim, because, after all, I am a god, but I had a hard childhood, what with my father castrating my grandfather and then me being suckled by the goat Amalthea. You get off to a bad start when you're suckled by a goat. 

Why I Am So Damned Pissed at Charles Grassley

Inasmuch "on horror's head horrors accumulate" every single Trump day, I wonder why an atrocity out of the mouth of Senator Charles Grassley (of once progressive Iowa) pisses me off to the top of my bent. Over the top, actually, even though he's probably no worse than the others. 

In an aha!! moment with the Des Moines Register, Senator Grassley defended his vote against the inheritance tax thusly: "I think not having the estate tax recognizes the people that are investing as opposed to those that are just spending every darn penny they have, whether it's on booze or women or movies."  His very words. Out of his own ignorant head.

Why am I so enraged? Let us count the ways.

First, it goes without saying that Grassley doesn't know that most ordinary citizens have a hard time making ends meet. That they raid the kids' piggy-bank at the end of every month. That they regularly postpone filling that prescription or repairing the car until next month's paycheck arrives. That they can't invest in stocks because they're busy "investing" in bananas and oatmeal and potatoes, not because they're frittering their money away on playthings. Grassley is completely out of touch with reality -- with the way real people live.

But it's worse than that. It's not only that he's unconnected to his constituents  --  he oozes contempt for them (and therefore for me). Wasting their money on movies, the poor ignorant slobs. If they had self-control and brains of Chuck Grassley quality, why they'd go out and buy a couple of hundred shares of a good growth stock and contribute to the American economy. He's worse than Marie Antoinette, who, bad as she was, never said, "let them buy stocks."

And therefore it follows in the universe of Grassley values that the tax system should penalize the improvident and reward the rich. (Which it already does in myriad ways, most obviously by taxing unearned income -- e.g. capital growth -- at half the rate of sweat labor). 

And in Chuck Grassley's view, to reward the rich and penalize the poor is the higher morality -- because  the rich will invest and the poor will do nothing but spend every darn penny.  To those who have much shall be given, even if they don't need or want it.

And while I'm stoking my indignation, let me add that I'm offended by the Chuckster's sanctimonious "darn" -- he can thieve from the working class but he's too prissy to swear while doing so. And I'm also just slightly off my gourd that he includes "women" among the vices of regular Iowans -- as though (if I understand his point) all money is earned and spent by "men." I think that the dumb Chuck slipped -- let down his guard for a second -- and revealed that in his heart he doesn't acknowledge that women are wage-earners nor that they are wage-earners who vote. 

And I am also pissed because the whole argument against the estate tax is fraudulent. The case for repeal has nothing to do with small farmers or small businessmen. It already excludes the first $11,000,000 of estates and therefore affects only a very small number of multimillionaires and billionaires who can well afford to contribute a bit to the general welfare. The sole purpose, and the intended effect of the repeal, is to satisfy the greed of a handful or plutocrats who want to pass their wealth to their heirs and therefore maintain a perpetual class of wealthy aristocrats. Just like France before the revolution, when the titled were exempted from taxation. Chuck -- do  your realize that your sentiments are profoundly unAmerican.  

So let me say to Senator Charles Grassley, with respect for the high office that you hold and with as much love as I can muster, Chuck, you are a moron, and you can take your insulting opinions, roll them up, and stick them where the sun don't shine. 

Representative Markwayne Mullin Back in the News

Four years ago, I listened to a radio interview with Markwayne Mullin, a new member of the House of Representatives from eastern Oklahoma, and was absolutely flabbergasted. Astonished and dismayed, I wrote a few paragraphs about him. Here''s what I said then: "It wasn't that he was inarticulate or stupid. It was that he was so utterly smug, so absolutely and entirely certain of himself. He has no doubts. He knows exactly what ails the country -- too much government -- and he knows how to fix it -- lower taxes, less regulation, more free untrammeled capitalism. He does not seem to be aware that the United States of America is a big, complicated, multi-faceted country. Markwayne Mullin possesses all the arrogance of ignorance, in spades."

And here he is, Representative Markwayne Mullin, smiling in front of the mandatory flag.  

I went on to report on Mullin's views, which were the usual list of utterly unoriginal, thoughtless, simplistic tea party talking points. I concluded by offering the hope (or might I say it) the prayer, which was "that Markwayne Mullin, who as he begins his congressional career is superficial to the very core of his being, will come to Washington, meet some folks from different parts of the country and from different ethnic backgrounds, learn a little about the world, come to an appreciation of the complexity of things, and grow up to be a useful broad-minded compassionate public servant. It's not impossible, but it's not going to happen until Mullin realizes that he doesn't know everything about everything, and that the practices that made Mullin Plumbing such a success may not be the same practices that will promote the general welfare over all of the US of A. I'm hopeful, but frankly, I'm not at all optimistic."

Well, the calendar has shed a few leaves, and it's come to pass as I feared. Representative Markwayne Mullin has no more brain than earwax. He's learned nothing.

He's back in the news: 

"An Oklahoma congressman is facing scrutiny after a video posted Monday showed him telling constituents at a town hall that they do not pay his salary.

“You say you pay for me to do this? That’s bull crap. I pay for myself,” Rep. Markwayne Mullin told constituents at a town hall in Jay, Oklahoma. "I paid enough taxes before I got here and continue to through my company to pay my own salary. This is a service. No one here pays me to go.”

“Pays you to go where?” a constituent objected.

“This is a service for me, not a career, and I thank God this is not how I make my living,” Mullin responded.

“Oh please, then don’t run,” a constituent said."

As I understand the exchange, Mr. Mullin believes that inasmuch as the taxes that he paid before he became a congressman exceeds the salary he now draws, that he has limited or no responsibility to his constituents. Not at all a persuasive argument, because like the rest of us, Mullin's taxes go to the defense department and to HEW with a few dribs and drabs left over for social programs and only a trickle for paying for the House of Representatives

But that's not the heart of the matter. The important question is this:  why the heck is Mullin in congress? Obviously, he hates the job and and even more obviously he hates his constituents. He has no respect for government.

Perhaps it's time for Mr. Mullin to reconsider his career. What everyone wants in a representative is someone who will inform himself, be sensible, broad-minded, be able to work with all parties, and be respectful of his constituents. Mr. Mullin fails on all counts. Let's assume he's a good plumber. Look, Oklahoma needs  good plumbers. Please, Mr. Mullin. Do the work you were called to. Markwayne, go back to where you came from, fix those pipes, and stay away from government. Please, don't run again. You've done your bit; let someone else take a crack at it.  

And Now He's Come out of his Coffin to Advise Trump!!

I wrote the following long ago, republished it once. Here it is, relevant again.

What Doesn't Dick Cheney Commit Suicide?

Why doesn't Dick Cheney put a bullet in his brain? It would do him (and his reputation) a world of good. What could possibly stand in his way? Once he sprinkles the ratsbane on his porridge -- and, of course, leaves behind a detailed and humble letter of apology --  he will begin to free his soul of sin and to enjoy some peace of mind. When he has fallen on his sword, his lackeys and toadies will be able to claim that although he was a black-hearted knave, at least he wasn't a shameless black-hearted knave. They can try to persuade us that although he was egregiously and dangerously wrong, he was, like another suicide, Othello, "great of heart." But if Cheney continues in his surly, obstinate, unapologetic lip-curling silence -- why then, he'll go down in the books as an unrepentant demi-devil like Iago ("From this time forth I never will speak word"). 

Cheney has brought disgrace upon our beloved nation and upon himself. Using faked spy data, he suckered the ignorant, feckless Decider and almost the entire Congress into invading Iraq. His war has been a monumental disaster. "Full of scorpions [should be] his brain." At this moment of writing, Cheney is guilty of killing 3260 American soldiers and maiming (by official count -- who can possibly guess at the truth?) 24,314 others. If Cheney has even the most rudimentary of consciences, on it lies the heavy burden of 60,000 to 100,000 Iraqi souls. The Dickster has cost America $414 billion dollars, loss of prestige and the squandering of oceans of good will. Like Anthony, he "has lived in such dishonor/That the gods detest [his] baseness." But Antony took the proper course. When Cheney dispatches himself -- "after the high Roman fashion," let's hope -- he'll have taken the first step toward rehabilitating himself and the nation. For him not to do the deed would be ignoble. 

Dick:  I know that you're hunkering in your bomb-proof shelter. I know that you're up late at night, sleepless with guilt. You're cruising the internet, perchance googling "Cheney + suicide," and you're wavering in your purpose. Dick -- take my considered advice. I'm thinking of your place in history.  At this point, "you have no friend,/ But resolution and the briefest end."  You'll immediately feel better. It's a no-brainer. Go for it.

April 10.  Spike Schapiro comments:  "Dr. M. -- I've read your exhortation to suicide. You are, as usual, falsely optimistic. Cheney can't off himself because a) he's shameless and b) he's a total coward, and c) he has no self-knowledge and d) he can't point a shotgun. You cite the precedents of Othello and Anthony but they're both great spirits and therefore irrelevant. Cheney is a slug. Moreover, Cheney can't be "great of heart" -- he has no heart of his own --it's either a transplant or some mechanical contraption." 

April 4, 2014  Why is this man still alive?  Allowed to give interviews?  Is there no justice in our sublunary world? 

December 22, 2016  Only a silver stake in his heart is going to do it. Mirrors, garlic. Too late for prayers.

Pussygate

A textbook example of the unthinkable actually happening:

"It's good to be the king," says Mel Brooks (as Louis XVI) in The History of the World, Part I, lifting the skirt of one of his lovely courtieresses in order to dry-hump her. It's make-believe Hollywood pseudo-licentiousness. It's outrageous, beyond the pale, and hilarious as long as it stays in the movie.

"It's good to be star," says Trump, bragging about his license to kiss women and grab them by their "pussies."

What in comedy is amusing is in real life simply grotesque -- as is the perpetrator of the atrocity, the maniacal Republican candidate for the most powerful office on earth.  

Elsa Morante on Mussolini

Elsa Morante, the distinguished Italian novelist, spent the war years in what might be called internal exile, holed up, hungry, with her friend and later husband Alberto Moravia in a one-room hut in Sant'Agata (both Morante and Moravia were half Jewish). After Mussolini and his mistress Clara Petacci were arrested and shot, hung upside down for all to see, Morante wrote about her countrymen that "all of Mussolini's faults were either tolerated or encouraged and applauded. Thus a people who tolerate the faults of their head of state are complicit with these faults. But if they encourage and applaud them as well, it is worse than being an accomplice, it makes them an accessory to these faults." Mussolini was, according to Morante, a mediocre man, a crude man, a man outside the culture. But Mussolini was also a perfect exemplar of the Italian people who, she claimed, were such that they would rather given their vote to a strong man than to a just man, and if they had to choose between their duty and their profit -- even if they knew what their duty was -- they would choose their profit.

It is difficult not to see an analogy to our beloved country at this election season.

At the Getty Museum

Dr. M.  "How long have you been a guard here?"

Guard:  "Seventeen years. You can't stand still. You have to change your position, move around." 

Dr. M.  "Has anything ever happened. Someone try to steal a painting?

Guard.  "No nothing. Nothing has ever happened."

Dr. M.  "No one descending on ropes from the ceiling, trying to snatch a sculpture."

Guard.  "Nothing has ever happened. Wait, I forgot. Something did happen. Two or three years ago, there was a woman, she had a can of soda in her bag. She leaned over to look at one of the bronze sculptures, and the soda fell out of her bag. It broke and sprayed some soda on the statue. They called a special crew in to clean the sculpture. We closed down the entire wing."

Dr. M.  "Must have been exciting."

Guard.  "No, not really."

Predictions -- 2016

As is well known, Vivian de St. Vrain, fully accredited prophet (Senior Fellow, American Society of Prophecy), has an unparalleled record of accurate prognostication.  Vivian has once again retreated to the mountaintop and has returned with a new set of predictions for the coming year.

Read and be dazzled, fit audience though few. Here's what's going to happen!

1)   there will be unusual weather patterns in North America;

2)  a famous Hollywood actress will sue for divorce;  moreover, another (or possibly the same) Hollywood star will become pregnant; another (or possibly the same) actress will gain and lose a great deal of weight; 

3)  a well-known American or possibly European athlete will be accused of taking drugs;

4)  a politician will be accused of taking bribes;  

5)  questions will be raised about the safety of America's food supply;

6)  there will be either a monsoon, an airplane crash, or a capsized ferry in Asia;

7)  there will be fluctuations in the stock market;

8)  there will be turmoil in the Middle East.

9)  a religious leader will be involved in either a financial or a sex scandal.  Or perhaps both.

You read it here first. Loyal readers: check back at the end of 2016.  Let's see whether a senior but world-class professional prophet still has enough left in the tank to foretell the future one more time.