Dr. Metablog

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 appeared about a month ago.  He was living at the edge of the forest, about 100 yards from the house.  We heard him before we saw him.  After a few days he became more bold 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 how he got here. We asked around but none of the neighbors is missing a rooster. We theorized: he's an escapee, or, some owner became tired of him and kicked him out of the car, or (my theory) that he was in a   fight and lost his tail feathers and retired in shame. But In fact, we have no idea how he came to our property.

Little by little he started to become more comfortable with us.  He would spend his day in the flower garden, eating bugs.  A good occupation, I thought.  No harm; he gradually came to tolerate our presence.  He would sit a few yards off while I weeded.  And we started to respect him, because he knew how 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 is more rooster than I want. And then he took up the habit of cock-a-doodle-doing at dawn just outside our bedroom window.  And during afternoon nap time.  And familiarizing himself with the vegetable garden, where he eats the cucumbers. (He loves cucumbers.) He became ever more bold -- a few days ago he was outside the kitchen, pecking on the glass, hoping, I guess, to be let inside. And when I didn't let him in, he left a large deposit of bird shit 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!!)  A 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 neighbor who lives on Ira's Pinnacle told us that he had seen two chickens on Hackett Hill 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 who's been 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. The romance, if it were a romance, didn't work out. I don't know 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 in the garden.

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. 

Welders Versus Philosophers

I asked some friends how they understood Senator Marco Rubio's very blunt statement that "Welders make more money than philosophers. We need more welders and less philosophers."  I received a variety of answers.

My linguistically conservative friends asserted that we obviously need grammarians more than either philosophers or welders, because Rubio doesn't respect the difference between "less" and "fewer." I admit that "less philosophers" clanks on my sensitive inner ear; nevertheless, I don't think that it's wise to hold presidential candidates to high standards of usage. It would be enough for them to grasp the issues. No one I know is so very prescriptivist that he or she will vote for the candidate who knows the difference between less and fewer. I confess to a longing for a more perfect language from our leadership, but traditional  grammar is too much to ask, especially since it's evident that our electorate easily acclimated to the barbarisms of bushlingo.     

Others of my friends took issue with Rubio's unabashed materialism. They parsed his statement to mean "welders make more money than philosophers and therefore we should have more welders than philosophers." Welding is better than philosophizing because it makes the bucks, gathers the green. If this is what Rubio meant, then his argument is not only crass but wrong. Data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics proves that both graduates with a philosophy degree and professional philosophers (meaning professors of philosophy) enjoy much larger salaries on average than welders. But even if welders did outearn philosophers, Rubio's argument would still be monumentally vulgar. I don't know anyone who, if push came to shove, assigns value strictly on the basis of earnings. Do we not value men of the cloth, social workers, nurses, small farmers, G.I's, smoke-jumpers and sometimes teachers more than we value pornstars and slumlords? Einsteins more than reality TV celebrities? And as much as we respect the crafts -- electricians, plumbers, tractor and auto mechanics -- we also know that it is not the craftsmen but the philosophers who now as in the past are going to help us think our way out of our plight. Just as Locke and Hume got us out of Aristotle and the Bible and into the age of reason, and Darwin laid the foundation for all the advances of the last hundred and fifty years in biology and medicine, so we now need someone, desperately, equipped with deep learning and an insightful brain, to generate the ideas that will get the new messy electronic world, bedeviled with fundamentalists/terrorists, into some kind of intellectual order. Welders are good, especially when you want something fastened to a steel I-beam, but philosophers have their place as well. Rubio is just too downright short-sighted for most of us. We know that money ain't everything and we want our statesmen to know it as well. Rubio's assertion that welders do more valuable work than thinkers participates in bottom-line American anti-intellectualism. We're a can-do practical people; we can see what welders do. Who knows what the heck those airy liberal philosophers do at those lefty universities? Can they fix a fuse? Can they meet a payroll?

Another bunch of my friends objected that there's no reason why a person can't be both a welder and a philosopher. Why set limits on human versatility?  As it happens, I have in my own family a fellow who makes his living with his brain but who also builds his own furniture, can wire a house, and has, strange but true, taken up welding. But I think he'd be the first to admit that he's not a pro at any of these crafts. We live in a world of specialists and it's hard to be perfectly skilled at two crafts, let alone a craft plus metaphysics or epistemology or logic. I understand the longing for the philosopher-welder, but I don't think it's a realistic wish. It's utopian, prelapsarian, perhaps even Marxist. After all, it was Marx who developed the vision of post-capitalist communist society "where nobody has one exclusive sphere of activity but each can become accomplished in any branch he wishes, [where] society regulates the general production and thus makes it possible to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, philosophize after dinner, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, herdsman or philosopher" (German Ideology [1845]). This is Marx at his least practical. I suspect that his hunters and fishermen would return empty-handed, his herdsman would find that his cows never come home, and his part-time philosophers would boggle over some elementary error in logic or language. So no dice to the philosopher-welder, I'm afraid. Not a starter, Karl.

What I myself would want to ask Rubio is this: how does it happen that there are not enough welders?  Rubio puts his faith in the perfect workings of the free market. In theory, the market should have solved the problem of the missing welders by raising their salaries to make the job more enticing. And similarly, it should have lowered the wages of philosophers to dry up the supply. Wait a sec!!  Is it possible that the free capitalist market is not doing its job. And if I or Marco Rubio propose that we establish more community colleges and offer potential welders training in their craft at little or no cost, are we not interfering with the proper working of capitalism and the free market? Picking winners and losers, in the dread phrase.  t's centralized planning, almost socialism to do so-- certainly anathema to the wing of the party to which Rubio belongs. Riddle me that.

Bottom line:  it's helpful for Rubio to advocate for more welders. It's not helpful (nor a credit to his candidacy) to set up a false antagonism between welders and philosophers. Below the bottom line:  a democratic electorate need thoughtful voters (let us call them philosophers). Welders need to be philosopher-enough that they don't let themselves be snookered by some demagogue who himself is bookless and factless and history-less. It's a challenge to identify a thoughtful candidate when one of our major parties is offering a full slate of empty but noisy barrels.

Liberal Water on Mars??

Egregious Rush Limbaugh, who ranks number three on my list of the people who, in the course of my lifetime, have done the most damage to the United States of America (Dick Cheney and Antonin Scalia are one and two and Dick Nixon only slithers in at number 6) speaks a language that is extraordinarily difficult to parse. His sentences are shapeless, wayward, and undiagrammable, equally indifferent to the conventions of language and the rules of logic. When you're fact-free there's no compelling reason not to be grammar-free as well. 

Now there's a new and appalling example of Limbaugh's resistance to reality. NASA recently announced that the planet Mars must once have had flowing water and might still have underground water. Limbaugh, if I read his tangled language aright, not only rejects the discovery but claims that water on Mars is evidence a "left-wing agenda"  at work. Wow, we are tempted to exclaim. Double wow. Paranoia run amok. 

How can Limbaugh present such a counter-factual notion with a straight face?  In order to coherently present his "thoughts" on this subject, I will now extract and re-assemble some of his phrases from the linguistic rats' nest in which they are embedded. Here's his chain of "thought" reduced to its essence. First of all, global warming is a myth. Secondly, NASA has been "corrupted by the current regime" and has falsified climate data. Inasmuch as NASA is a mendacious organization, its discoveries about flowing water must therefore also be false. And because NASA is subject to a leftist regime, its claims must be not only false but "a technique to advance the leftist agenda." A watery Mars is therefore a "leftist' Mars. And so the circle is almost complete. Limbaugh knows he's correct but hasn't quite figured out how it all works:  "I don't know what it is, I would assume it would be something to do with global warming."  So round and round we go. 

While Limbaugh's logic is roundabout, his perspective cramped and his evidence, how shall I say, perhaps a bit on the skimpy side -- all assertion and no fact --  I feel that I must agree with his conclusion. Yes indeed, the discovery of ancient flowing water on Mars is definitely "leftist"-- and is leftist in at least two different ways.

Let us try to connect the subterranean dots inside the Limbaughian skull. What is it that is so paranoia-inducing and threatening about Martian water? Well, water on Mars might indicate life on Mars. If there is life on Mars, then there might be life elsewhere in the universe. If life elsewhere in the universe, then the creation story in Genesis is certainly incomplete and probably false. No creation myth, no biblical absolutism. Moreover, if there is life elsewhere, there are probably intelligent beings who are highly likely not to worship our earthly gods and are probably not -- horror of horrors --  subscribe to Baptist fundamentalism. Water on Mars therefore challenges his local and provincial Truth. Limbaugh is therefore correct to see Martian water as 'leftist" in its implications.

Watery Mars is yet another blow to conservative "thought." It's just like evolution or the big bang -- in actuality like any truth that comes to be discovered either by hard science or social science or by the unbiased study of history. Truth and fact are anathema to radical conservative Limbaughians. Of course they are repelled and confused by scientific discoveries.  Martian water is still another manifestation of the continual drip drip drip of facts that challenge their provincial world view and animate their paranoia. 

Little Old Ladies

I know that I'm not the only person in the world who's prone to snap judgments and easy stereotyping.  I say this in apology, because yesterday I was guilty of a spectacular misjudgement, a wildly incorrect speculation.  It's time to kneel on ground glass, to scourge myself (metaphorically speaking).

One of the attendees of a support group that I attend is a "little old lady." Elderly, gray in complexion and attire. Wizened, juiceless. She looks as though nothing of any moment happened to her in all her eighty or eighty-five years.

Her husband, Steve, died last week. Here's the piece of her story that she revealed. 

"I was Steve's third and fifth wife. He was an airline pilot, so we traveled together all over the world.  Steve had two children by his first wife; I had five children by my first husband. I had so many babies because they started to come in pairs. At his funeral I played some of the Bach preludes."

You, gentle imaginative readers, can fill in the blanks. There are many, several novelsworth, in fact, starting with the obvious question, "who was wife number four; tell me about her?"

On the Mall

On the mall, smoking, wheels (i.e. bicycles and skateboards), and pets are prohibited. Between forty and fifty signs and icons state the case very clearly. Nevertheless, the rules are often flouted.

Smokers are furtive: they can't help themselves even though they show, by their demeanor, that they are well aware that they're doing wrong. The bicyclists are apologetic. Skateboarders are oblivious, totally. The dog-owners are defiant. "No bureaucrat is going to tell me where I can walk my dog." The beggars are entitled. This morning, one disheveled youth carried a sign that read "Why lie?  I need to get fucked up." (I used occasionally to donate to our "homeless" until I was taught that meals are readily available and that the begged money goes to support alcohol and drug habits. Also I was taken aback when a man to whom I gave two quarters returned them to me, saying, "I don't take coins".)  Some of the buskers are fine musicians and earn their one or five dollar bill but I think that there is something rather sad about their forced cheer.

On the other hand, the strolling young folks, holding hands and radiantly in love, are wonderful to behold, especially when there's a toddler or two trailing them. And I also enjoy watching the strolling old folks, fifty or more years into marriage, sometimes holding hands, sometimes wheelchairing it. Dyads of all ages and kinds cheer and encourage me.

Why Don't Chimpanzees Suffer from Alzheimer's?

Why Indeed?  And also, while we're considering the question, why don't chimpanzees get atherosclerosis, rheumatoid arthritis, asthma, endometriosis, myocardial infarction, falciparum malaria, HIV infection, or epithelial cancers?  Chimpanzees are, after all, our closest living relatives. We share a common ancestry and we only embarked on separate path some six or seven million years ago --a blink of an eye in evolutionary terms. Why is it that we human beings, so superior, as we like to think, in so many ways from our cousins -- in our big brains and delicate hand manipulations, for example -- are subject to an array of diseases to which our inferior relations are immune. What's the deal? 

Here's the current thinking on this important problem (which I draw from Eugene E. Harris's informative and up-to-date monograph Ancestors in our Genome [Oxford, 1914]). As I understand it, human beings went through a sort of bottleneck sometime in our recent (say 200,000 years ago) history and our effective breeding population was reduced to a mere 10,000 or so souls. When a population becomes so small, random genetic drift dominates over natural selection, and so moderately deleterious but not incapacitating mutations can survive and even thrive. The defective genes that would be weeded out in larger populations persist in our genome. Hence our many inherited susceptibilities and disorders.

But that's not the end of the story.  Yesterday there was a report that the Ashkenazim went through "a severe bottleneck" six or eight hundred years ago which reduced its population to about 350 individuals. O my, what a boon to genetic drift, what a recipe for genetic disaster or genetic success, or more exactly, both success and failure simultaneously. 

And so our talents, our deficits, our strengths and weakness, our brains and our bodies, are determined by arbitrary aleatory long-ago events. No surprise, really, but another event in the continuously unfolding revelation.

Henotheism

As a born-and-bred third-generation atheist, I never made much of an effort to understand theology, which is, I gather, the study of the nature and attributes of god or gods. But no god, nothing to study. No problem. Theology will always be for me "the subject without an object." And therefore when I read Michael Coogan's The Ten Commandments  (Yale, 2014), I was surprised by own ignorance. For example, I had taken it for granted that the Bible was a document of monotheism. No god but god, Jahweh. And also  that the monotheism of the ancient Hebrews was their gift to civilization (though why to believe in one god was a better idea than to believe in a plethora of godlings will always remain a mystery to me). But Coogan makes it clear that I've gotten it all wrong. The commandment "you shall have no other gods before my face" distinctly postulates the existence of "other gods."

These other gods appear in the Bible in a number of guises and particularly as '"the host of heaven." Some were apparently worshipped even in the Temple itself. It is reported in Kings that the reformer Josiah ordered "all the vessels made for Baal, for Asherah, and for all the host of heaven" be removed from the sacred precincts. The ancient Hebrews were therefore not monotheists, but henotheists (a lovely word new to me), which Coogan defines as "the recognition that while other gods may and do exist, only one is to be worshipped" (14). 

So it seems that what has been represented to naive ol' me as a case of moral development, from polytheism to monotheism, is better understood as a kind of religious nationalism or jingoism: our god is better than your god -- so let's everyone pay him exclusive attention. Or perhaps, more vulgarly but just as accurately, in the words of the spiritual leader Hank Williams, move over little god, big god moving in -- have I quoted this exactly right? -- just as Jahweh moved in on El Shaddai and the rest of the crowd. One of my friends says that the essence of organized religion is "my prince of peace can beat up your prince of peace."

The Return of the Prophet

Vivian de St. Vrain, fully accredited prophet (Senior Fellow, American Society of Prophecy), has retreated to the mountaintop and has returned with predictions for 2015. Here they are: 

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 2015.  Let's see whether a senior but world-class professional prophet still has enough on the ball (a crystal ball) to foretell the future one more time.

Unfriendly Skies

I bought a February airline ticket to The Big Easy. I bought it online, as we all do nowadays (whatever happened to travel agents?) I figured that they would try to squeeze a few dollars in extra charges out of me, but I  was surprised that the airline had the balls to demand $25.00 for my one piece of carry-on luggage (not checked -- carry on!). And then I was completely floored to discover that Frontier now adds an extra charge for a seat. Yes, a seat! A seat is an additional charge, even though an airplane is not like a subway, where you can strap-hang. Nor can you sit outside, on the wing. A seat is not a an option or, goodness gracious! a luxury. And yet Frontier now exacts a few bucks for the privilege of sitting down.

Frontier, I can tell you, lacks any sense of irony.

"Would you like air with your seat. There will be a small extra charge for breathing."

I know we're supposed to feel sorry for the struggling airlines, but that's a myth, a canard. The airlines are not starving. thank you very much. The International Air Transport Association, the airlines' trade group, estimates that the industry's profits were $11 billion in 2013, will be $19.9 billion this year and will rise to $25 billion next year. (Billion!, not million.)  Why so much? Because fuel costs continue to drop. And also because we passengers have become accustomed to being crammed into smaller and smaller spaces and have been taught to pay extra for every glass of orange juice. And to enjoy the luxury of a chair.

Hey, fellow passengers!  Remember when oil prices spiked a few years ago and the airlines added "fuel surcharges"? Well, fuel is down. Raise your hand if you think you're going to get a "fuel rebate." Let me count the hands. Hmm. Not so many.

Where do you think the $25 billion in profits will go. I'll give you three guesses. A) Increase the salaries of stewards, baggage handlers and other airport workers?  B. Lower the cost of airline travel for passengers in the economy (i.e. steerage) classes?  C. Improve amenities for first-class travelers?

Shock!!  The correct answer is C. According to The New York Times, improvements in service "have been directed at the airlines’ most lucrative passengers, who are flying in business class or paying for full-fare coach seats. Delta Air Lines, for instance, announced on Monday that it renamed its business section Delta One, instead of BusinessFirst, and said it would glorify the seats with brand-new quilted covers. American Airlines announced this week that it would spend $2 billion to improve customer experience at the airport and inside its planes. Part of that investment includes adding more lie-flat seats for business class passengers.

For the rich: "lie-flat seats," and "quilted seat covers." And what is American Airlines doing for the rest of us, the not-rich. "In the back of the plane, it introduced a class of fares called Basic Economy, the cheapest fares. Passengers with those tickets, though, will not be able to book their seats in advance and will not be able to refund or change those tickets."

It's still another example of the way the good ol' USA is becoming more and more a class-ridden society. Billions for the few, sub-minimum wage for the many. I wonder why the airlines don't go whole hog and separate passengers not by front and back of the plane, but by plane itself. Class I planes -- all sleek and shiny with free champagne supper and lie-flat quilted seats, and Class II planes -- no seats at all, just a few square feet on the corrugated metal floor. For only a few extra dollars, you will be able to reserve your very own couple of square feet. Do you think I'm imagining some sort of wild dystopian future? I don't think so. The way things are going, it's an inevitability. 

Written in 2007, but as True Now as Then

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 lays 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 --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? 

Last Words

A friend of a friend, dying, was asked by the hospice nurse, "Are you afraid?"  He replied, "Only of Republicans."