Deception, or Modern Business

Some time ago, by either an act of the Maryland State Legislature or a change in the Code of Maryland Regulations (COMAR) (or perhaps a combination of both), utility consumers in Maryland were provided with an opportunity to buy energy from suppliers other than the Baltimore Gas & Electric Company (BG&E).  I don’t really understand how this works and I’m not particularly interested — this fact is the preface for the incidents I want to write about.

As more and more of these alternate energy supply companies were certified by the Maryland Public Service Commission, more and more young people were canvassing my neighborhood trying to persuade customers to purchase energy from their company rather than from BG&E.  However, not every consumer may have realized that these people were not representing BG&E.  There was a very similar script used by canvassers from the various companies working my neighborhood.

Typically, a well dressed young man with a clipboard and conspicuous badge would knock on the door.

Young man:  Good morning.  I’m from the power company and we want to make sure that you’re not paying too much for your electricity.

Me:  (noting that the badge does not say BG&E) What power company?

YM: We’re making sure that you’re getting the best rates for your electricity.  Can you please find your latest utility bill and bring it to me so I can go over it with you.

Me: No.  Goodbye.

Typically, the young person would persist until I stepped back inside and shut the door.

Now, I suspect that looking at the bill would confirm that I was buying my power from BG&E and not getting the best possible rate.  Naturally, I want to get the best price possible for utilities (and everything else) but I wasn’t interested in pursuing the conversation because I found the approach deceptive.  And, at least 3 different energy providers used the same approach.

I thought about this the other day when another incident occurred.  I was sitting on my front porch reading and enjoying the nice spring afternoon.  Someone walking down the street greeted me.  Looking up from my book I smiled and waved at the well dressed young man on the sidewalk.  Curiously, he said “Would you vote for me?”  I said “Maybe.  Who are you?”  He politely asked if he could come onto the porch and I invited him up.  He told me his name and that he was in a program to help him gain experience and enable him to get a job.  He told me that he had grown up in Georgia, that he had lost his older brothers to criminal violence and that he had gotten in trouble as well.  So, now he was involved with this program to help him get a leg up and succeed.

At this point I told him that I had been out of work for quite a long time and that if money was involved, I couldn’t help him.  He handed me this small portfolio with the name of the program, his name and he pointed to a bolded line near the bottom that said “We are not seeking donations.”

I said “OK, since I’m not able to contribute, I just didn’t want to waste your time.”

He turned the page of the portfolio and showed me a list of names which he said were neighbors that he had already visited who had helped him (I didn’t recognize any of the names).  Next to the names were columns with various numbers in them.  He told me that they were ratings.  On the next page, there was a rubric explaining the ratings.  I could rate him for how well he presented himself, how well dressed he was, friendliness, etc.

He then turned a page again and there was a list of magazines for which I could buy subscriptions.  He said:  “I know that a lot of people don’t read magazines anymore, they read things online.  But, you can purchase the subscription and donate it to the program and they’ll make the reading material available to young people in underprivileged neighborhoods.”

He was selling magazine subscriptions.  And, if I didn’t want the magazine(s) I could subscribe anyway and not be bothered by receiving them.

I reminded him that I was not in a position to give him any money.  He was disappointed but pleasant.  I said that I’d be happy to rate him in terms of his presentation, friendliness etc.  “It doesn’t help if you don’t buy a subscription.”  I wished him luck and he left.

This really bothered me.  I had no reason to doubt his sincerity.  After all, there are much easier hustles that don’t require walking around in a suit on a warm afternoon.  What bothered me is the suspicion that the “program” was scamming him.

The approach, like that of the “power company” guys, was scripted.  As soon as I expressed unwillingness to part with any money, he had a quick and unambiguous answer: “Not seeking donations.”  The conversation was peppered with topics like “work ethic” and “values”.  He seemed to be a nice young man and I wanted to help him.  But, as with the “power company” guys, I found the approach deceptive.

I suspect that the “program” is making promises about what it can do for the young man while getting him to do door to door selling for as little compensation as possible.  The “program” even acknowledges that what it is selling is something that few people want but it has a sales force to persuade one to purchase it anyway.  I’m at least as cynical as the next guy so I assume that the “program” is scamming the young man.

But here’s the thing:  even if the “program” is legitimate and it aims to help people that have been in trouble learn to comport themselves and conduct business;  even if the purchased subscriptions that the buyers don’t want are actually donated to people in underprivileged areas; even if everything is on the up and up, there’s a problem.

They’re teaching young people that deception and misdirection are the skills one should master to succeed at life.  As a cynic, I recognize that that these are valuable, if morally dubious, skills.  But, even in a corrupt capitalist society, deception and misdirection should be survival skills — not the playbook itself.

 

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The Monty Hall Problem

I’ve decided that, when I read something I like a lot, I’m going to link to it on this blog. This is a short story by Rebekah Bergman that I enjoyed reading.  I like to think that there are people who occasionally read this so, I hope you’ll enjoy it too.

 

 

 

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Good Friday — A Memory

The honeysuckle on my neighbor’s fence was blooming.  I was standing in the alley behind my house, slightly up the bank to my neighbor’s fence, sampling and enjoying the honeysuckle blossoms.  In my memory, I am alone — a rare thing because my baby boomer neighborhood teemed with children.  I went to Catholic school and was off because it was Good Friday.  It was a mild, sunny, spring day.

Something occurred to me and I looked at the watch I’d gotten when I made my first communion a year or so before.  I checked the time and then looked at the sky.  Good Friday commemorates the day that Jesus was crucified and died for our sins.  In school, they had told us that He died at about 3 pm.  At that time, on Good Friday, they said, the sky would darken with clouds and would remain so for a short while in sympathy with the death of our Savior.

I looked at my watch again.  It was 3 pm.  I looked at the sky.  The sun was shining brightly with fluffy, occasional clouds against the bright blue sky.  Well, they said at about 3 pm. The scent of the honeysuckle wafted on the breeze and I tore off and sucked another blossom — wondering if it would be a sin to be enjoying sweet nectar at the moment that Jesus had died.  Sacrilegiously, the sky continued its beautiful, brightness all afternoon never darkening in the least until after dinner when it always did.

I considered some rationalizations.  After all, Jesus hadn’t been crucified in Towson, Maryland, so 3 pm here at home wouldn’t correspond with 3 pm in Golgotha.  Perhaps my teachers didn’t understand time differences.  Perhaps, when the Julian calendar was adopted, the real Good Friday had shifted?  No, because Good Friday and Easter were on different dates each year — I wondered why that was so.

I was a committed Catholic back then.  Children raised in religious households believe fervently and completely when they are young — particularly, if that religion is reinforced with instruction from nuns and priests at school.  I was deeply disappointed that the sky never darkened.  It was as though I’d gone outside to watch an eclipse and it never happened.  It seemed wrong and, although it didn’t shake my faith, it was rather profoundly disturbing.

Reflecting on this, I wonder why Father or Sister told the story in the way they did.  The idea of the sky darkening at the moment of Jesus’ death is dramatic high theatre — and, I suppose, that was the point.  But, didn’t they consider kids like me who’d be looking for the miracle, a corroboration that could only occur haphazardly at best?  I wonder about the other stories and drama used to instruct us as we grew up.  Fanciful stories about math or science yield to the notion of metaphor in time with no subsequent dilution of the idea of truth.  Such dramatic devices in religious instruction, though, need to be carefully considered and skillfully rendered.  As I said, the sky’s failure to darken that Good Friday didn’t affect my faith directly but it may have been a contributing factor to my eventual disbelief.

So, I think that the reason that I was told that the sky would fill and darken with clouds was that the teacher was talking to the rapt eyes in front of him or her, emphasizing the solemnity of the event, teaching in the moment.  Perhaps they gave no thought at all to a little boy, on a spring afternoon, in front of a fragrant honeysuckle vine, alone with his thoughts.

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Republican Concern Trolling for Merrick Garland

Commentators of the GOP stripe are aghast that Obama would do this, STOOP to do this, to Merrick Garland, a well respected, moderate Circuit Court judge.  After all, Mitch and his gang have sworn off having hearings, ’cause they’re standing on principle and precedent that doesn’t exist.  But they know that their supporters have a vague and malleable view of history.

More to the point, how could mean old Obama do this to anyone, much less a well respected judge like Judge Garland?  See, because Merrick Garland is such a naif, such an innocent rube, that he went along with the nomination with no idea of what he was in for.  It doesn’t matter if Mitch’s gang has history on their side or not:  what matters is what Obama did to this honorable man.

I have no problem believing that the GOP leadership is as clueless as they sound. Although, they’re taking pains to try to sound principled (and failing for at least half the people).  My point this time, as it often is about this sort of Republican casuistry, is the contempt they obviously have for their faithful constituents.

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Fun On A Snowy Day in Baltimore

On Friday evening, the snow started falling.  The forecast had coalesced around the word “blizzard” but lots of people were out and about enjoying the first snow of the season. Diane and I met friends at Grand Cru — the wine bar in nearby Belvedere Square.  Despite the fact that it’s an easy walk, I drove over entertaining the idea of leaving my car in the upstairs parking garage.  If the forecasts were correct, history indicated that my street would be impassable for at least a few days.  There were a few reasons why being housebound for several days seemed unacceptable.

It was a normal Friday night at the bar.  We used to come here all the time but, when Grand Cru changed hands nearly a year ago a lot changed.  Nelson Carey, the former proprieter who died suddenly in July, 2014 used to say that bar crowds were fickle — they’d come for a while and, suddenly, go elsewhere.  Some of the old bartenders left immediately.  Others left gradually over the first months that the new Grand Cru was open.  There are still a few of them left and I’m always happy to see them.  A lot of the regulars that drew me in nearly everyday for several years, simply stopped coming.  And with that exodus, the pull on me to go see who might be there diminished quickly. However, Diane and I still go over most Friday nights because some of our regular cronies are usually there.

I should clarify that there’s nothing particularly wrong with the new Grand Cru — although there are a few things that are irritating.  Rather, it’s just not the same bar.  It couldn’t be.  In fact, well before the Carey family sold the bar, it had already changed.  As the saying goes, after Nelson died, his absence was palpable.  The old Grand Cru was deflating before our eyes.  So, the new Grand Cru is not a bad place, it’s just a different place and no matter what the new management did, that difference was inevitable.

So, Friday evening at the bar was a regular Grand Cru Friday.  Many of our friends were there and, as usual we enjoyed each others’ company.  Perhaps it was my imagination, or my own anticipation of the snowfall, but everyone was very happy and energetic.  We had a very nice time.

When we left, I abandoned my plan to leave the car.  The wind had picked up and it was snowing hard although it had accumulated only an inch or so.  The car is in the driveway and there it will remain at least until Monday perhaps longer.

On Saturday morning, we awoke to about 8 inches of snow.  The wind was wailing and it was snowing furiously.  We pretty much stuck to our usual Saturday morning routines and every so often, we’d check the accumulation.  On the Grand Cru Facebook page on Friday, they had posted promising to be open for the duration of the storm (well, normal hours anyway) with a few specials:  a free glass of hot mulled wine for coming in the door and a promotion which promised a dollar off for every inch of accumulated snow on checks of at least $30.  A number of our friends live within walking distance of the bar and we’d made tentative plans to meet there on Saturday afternoon.

In the early afternoon, phones and computers started bleeping with text messages and Facebook messages and pretty soon, Diane and I were suiting up to walk to Belvedere Square.

 

OutFrontThis is what it looked like as we went out the front door.  Of course, this doesn’t describe the amount of snow swirling in the sharp wind.  Since I can see without my glasses, I had the forethought to put them in a pocket before venturing out.  Even so, for much of the walk I could barely see anything.  Diane can’t see anything without her glasses so as her glasses frosted and accumulated snow, she had to rely on following the orange blob that was my coat.  We walked up our street, struggling a bit to stay upright and in the tire tracks that some brave soul had made not very long before.  We were counting on Belvedere Avenue to be fairly walkable and were looking forward to getting out of the deep stuff.  Near the corner of Belvedere a snow plow — not one of the big serious snow plows but a large truck with a blade mounted in front — was stuck in the snow.  The driver was working with a shovel to get himself free and was maintaining a reasonably good mood. There was a time when I would have pitched in to try to get him moving but that time was ten years and a few injured spinal disks ago.  To get by the plow, we had to walk through the deep snow that went right up to the sides of the truck.  Fortunately, we could hold on to the rails along the bed of the truck which helped us stay upright but the snow, seriously,  came to mid thigh on me.

As we anticipated, Belvedere Avenue was much easier going.  Although it was snow covered, it had been plowed and the snow was packed down.  There was virtually no traffic so we walked down the middle of the street.  We still couldn’t see very well.  The traffic light at Belvedere and Clearspring was easily visible and helped us remember that we were in very familiar territory.  And the bar was perhaps 100 yards from that traffic light.

There was a car, not even a 4 wheel drive vehicle but an older station wagon, stuck in the intersection.  The driver was standing beside the car as we stumbled past.  Diane said “The bar’s open,” and he just said that he couldn’t leave the car there.  He said he needed a shovel.  We certainly weren’t going to walk back home to get a shovel for him so we wished him luck and kept going.  I marveled that someone would venture out in a car utterly unsuited for the weather without anticipating the need for a shovel or other things that might help unstick his car if it happened.

There were a few plows working the parking lots at Belvedere Square but there wasn’t a single car in them.  As we struggled across the parking lot, I was thinking “they better be open!”  Soon, though, we saw the lights on through the double doors.  As we entered we were greeted warmly.  Surprisingly, there were at least 20 people there including one of the friends we were coming to meet.  After I cleared the snow from my beard and brushed off my coat and hat, we sat at a table and Jack, one of the bartenders, brought us each a glass of mulled wine.  Lovely.

They had let the kitchen staff off for the day but had made a nice black bean chili that they were offering for a dollar a bowl.  Everyone was very friendly and happy and there was an implicit understanding that we were all neighbors since none of us had driven there.

JengaGrandCru

There was a giant Jenga game going on.  I had never seen Jenga blocks of this size but there they were.  Diane and our friend Nancy took their turns removing and replacing blocks but I was content to stay in my seat and watch.

Lots of laughter and shrieks when the tower tumbled to the floor.

Being the sort of day it was, I forgot my age and along with my customary beer or wine, there were shots of spirits consumed.  Fortunately, we must have remained prudent because neither of us were worse for the wear because of the whisky.

Our neighbor across the street from our house had invited us and other near neighbors to come that evening for a blizzard party.  I had been planning to walk back later in the day to go to The Swallow At The Hollow , another neighborhood bar that had promised to be open, to watch the Maryland Terrapin basketball game.  I knew, though, that once I got back home, I wasn’t going to make that walk again in the same day.  So, neighbor’s blizzard party was on the agenda.  Regardless, we still had to walk back and, putting that task off, we stayed at Grand Cru until we had just enough time to get home, get presentable (remove snow from beard, etc.) before crossing the street to the party.

Here’s a picture of Diane sitting across from me with the Grand Cru bar in the backgrounDianeGCd.  We still had to bundle up and make the walk home but, first, another round or so.  One group came in and I thought that the man had brought some children with him.  It’s not all that unusual for children to be at the bar, at least during the day, but it seemed an odd thing to do in the middle of a blizzard.  As it turns out, it was just that one of the men in the group was quite tall and the two “children” turned out to be lovely young women.  Other friends came in, some were new and some we knew but everything was just friendly and nice.  It was as if, just for awhile, the ghost of the old Grand Cru presided and informed the new Grand Cru. It was a lovely afternoon.

When we walked home, it was still snowing heavily but the wind had tempered and we were able to see fairly well.  Somehow, the stranded station wagon was gone although, looking at the snow where it had been, it was unclear how it could have happened.  When we got to Clearspring, the snow plow that had been stuck was gone — although the hip deep snow at the bottom of the street was testament to the fact that the driver must have backed up the hill and gone down our street to be on his way.  The snow on the ground sparkled under the street lights.  The last stretch, down our street, was as hard as it had been when we ventured out.  We were delighted to find that, while we were gone, the kids had shoveled a path from the front porch to the road.  And, equally fortuitous, the neighbor who we were to visit for the blizzard party had similarly cleared a path.  So, the idea of venturing out again wasn’t daunting at all.

We had a lovely evening meeting with neighbors, some old friends some new faces, eating soup and drinking wine.  After a few hours, back in the house, I’d put pajama pants and slippers on and was enjoying a final glass of wine.  I wasn’t surprised to hear the phrase in my head that told me that “all was right with the world.”  Well, that’s clearly not entirely true, but in my life, in my slice of Baltimore, with my family and friends . . . it was.

 

 

 

 

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What I Read in 2015

For the last several years, around the new year, I have written a little piece naming and describing each book I read over the year.  In the past, I’ve just written this on Facebook but this year I’m starting a new procedure.  I desperately need to generate more content for this blog and so this will be the new home of my annual reading list.  Another change for this year:  I’ve included the nonfiction I’ve read as well as the novels.

I’ve kept track of when I finished each book.  Sadly, I finished the first book of 2015 in mid April.  I’ve been having some trouble maintaining interest in the book I’m reading at any given time.  Consequently, a lot of the titles are rereads because I already know that I’m capable of reading to the end.  I have high hopes for 2016 — in matters like this, it only makes sense to be an optimist.

The first book I finished was Confessions From Left Field:  A Baseball Pilgrimage by Raymond Mungo.  I first read this soon after it came out (1983) and I must have had it from the library because I couldn’t find it on my shelves.  I decided to order one for my friend Charlie because he’s a baseball devotee and because he was leaving to watch and write about pre-season baseball in Arizona.  Confessions begins with Raymond Mungo traveling to Arizona to watch and write about the Cactus League spring training activity.

Raymond Mungo has written several books on a variety of topics.  Regardless of the subject matter, his books are primarily about himself.  In Confessions, he writes about his childhood love of the game and of a variety of baseball related adventures.  He travels about the country — and to Japan! — seeing baseball games and relating his generally interesting life.

Tibetan Peach Pie:  A True Account of an Imaginative Life by Tom Robbins came next.  If you’ve ever been delighted reading Tom Robbins’ novels, you’ll enjoy this book.  At the beginning of this memoir, Robbins cautions that memoirs strive to be true but often deviate from the actual history.  Instead, he says, Tibetan Peach Pie is a rendering of the stories he’s told the women in his life which is close enough.  This book was a fun read and I have no qualms about recommending it to anyone — even if you’ve not read his novels.

I like to think that if Raymond Chandler was writing today his books would be very much like James Crumley’s.  Bordersnakes  is standard Crumley fare — full of violence, alcohol, drugs and sex.  Somehow, Crumley easily drags the reader through complicated complications and delivers an appropriate ending.  As in every Crumley book I’ve read, there’s also serious description of how some people live their lives — lives that are much different than my own and, I would bet, yours.  Bordersnakes is not for the squeamish but it’s a very good, well written novel.

While I was in mystery mode, I picked up Frequent Flyer by Kinky Friedman for a reread.  While not nearly as dark as James Crumley, Kinky Friedman writes a good mystery populated with characters from the strange side of life.  Kinky plays himself in his novels and often references his music career (his recordings are worth checking out as well). Frequent Flyer begins with Kinky returning from a friend’s funeral puzzled.  Puzzled because the man in the box was not the friend he remembered.  Who was that in the coffin and what became of John Morgan — the friend he was supposed to be mourning?  It’s an entertaining read and a good story.

Next, I read Villa Incognito — a Tom Robbins novel that I picked up a while ago but hadn’t got around to reading.  The story centers around several military men who went missing while serving in Viet Nam.  In order to stay missing, they establish a residence in the South East Asian highlands.  For several reasons, decades later, the ruse and the residence begin to fall apart.  It’s a good read and Robbins’ deft writing keeps you interested while telling an improbable tale.

Richard Powers is one of my favorite novelists.  I had started Plowing the Dark several times but, for some reason, I never finished it until I tried again in 2015.  The main character is a woman, an artist, who has become disillusioned with the artist life.  She moves to Washington State when an old friend contacts her and convinces her to work developing virtual reality environments for a large tech company.  Interwoven with her story and backstory, there’s an account of a man who is kidnapped in a middle eastern country where he was teaching English.  His heartbreaking story informs the main plot because the artist begins to realize that her work in virtual reality environments will likely be used for military purposes.  It’s a very good novel but it takes an emotional toll as well.

Next, I reread Desolation Angels by Jack Kerouac.  In my twenties, I think I read most of Kerouac’s novels and loved them.  All these cool guys doing zany things and bopping around the country.  Reading it now in middle age, I found myself thinking “what a bunch of jerks” as I read.  Still, even if the wild, peripatetic life has lost some of its luster, Kerouac’s story telling is entertaining and often poignant.

Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson is the story of an orphan whose peculiar aunt arrives to be her (and her sister’s) guardian after her grandmother dies (the girls’ mother had died several years before).  The aunt is strange and alarming to the other families in the small town who begin to conspire to take the girls away from her and into proper homes.  As I read this book, I became more and more certain that I had seen a movie based on the novel a few years ago.  I remembered that Christine Lahti played the aunt. Sure enough, I determined that, in fact, a movie starring Christine Lahti was made in 1987 based on the novel.  I remembered liking the movie and the novel (as is often the case) was even better.

I had read Katherine Neville’s novel The Eight some years ago.  I found it enjoyable but not particularly good.  Nonetheless, I picked up her novel A Calculated Risk a few years ago in a used book store and got around to reading it in August.  It’s the story of a female banker who’s used to being pretty independent even though she often gets swatted down by the ‘old boys’ in the bank where she works.  She meets up with a reclusive technology guy (famous among geeks!) and plans a con (of sorts) to prove to her bank that its security practices are lacking.  This is a much better novel than The Eight in a number of ways. Still, when (spoiler alert!) she finally goes to bed with the reclusive technology guy I couldn’t help but think it should have won one of those “worst written sex scene” awards.

A Death in Tuscany by Michele Guittari is a police procedural with a Mediterranean locale. The body of a young girl is found outside of a small Italian mountain town.  The cause of death was a heroin overdose and there were signs of sexual abuse.  The detective becomes somewhat obsessed with the case refusing to consider it just another drug overdose.  As these sorts of novels go, there are a number of subplots that in unpredictable ways relate back the the death of the young girl.  This isn’t a great novel but it’s worthwhile.

The Owl Killers by Karen Maitland takes place in dark ages England.  Christianity as spread over most of Europe but old pagan beliefs remain.  The Owl Killers are a secret society in the village where the novel takes place.  They discipline and control the populace in violent and persuasive ways.  The village priest, fighting his own demons, is hard pressed to gain traction in what is a superstitious (though nominally Christian) village.  In the midst of this, some women from the continent establish a beguine outside of the village.  These are Christian women who, though not nuns, live communally and self sufficiently and dedicate themselves to charity.  This is a very worthwhile novel.

Christopher Moore is a fantastic humorous novelist.  I think that I’ve read everything he’s written (even the vampire novels) and loved them all.  In particular, his novel Lamb:  The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal is a magnificent novel.  If you haven’t read it, stop reading this post and find a copy and get busy.  It is truly a lovely book.  This year, I read Sacre Bleu:  A Comedy D’Art.  The story centers around some parisian artists (including well known ones) and their loves and lives as they paint.  There is also the mysterious Color Man who sells paints — in particular, the shade of blue that the Vatican has mandated to be the color of the Virgin Mary.  As with all of Moore’s novels, it’s a lot of fun — and you learn quite a bit about art and painting along the way.

I bought the curious novel The Jamais Vu Papers by Wim Coleman and Pat Perrin perhaps 20 years ago.  I’ve read the beginning several times but never finished because it seems more of a curiousity than a novel.  Last year, I read it in full and enjoyed it.  It is not particularly well written but it’s a very odd book that raises questions about the real and what we can know.  The main story is about a psychiatrist who is treating a celebrity woman (whose name is kept secret for privacy purposes) who has persistent deja vu. Everything that happens to her is no surprise because she already knows what will happen (even though it’s not happened before).  After several frustrating sessions in which he comes to believe her illness, a package arrives with an experimental drug sent by a well know psychiatrist.  This drug, the sender claims, is the chemical equivalent of a metaphor (told ya it was weird).  The patient takes the drug and immediately disappears.  The rest of the novel concerns the psychiatrist’s search for his missing patient and the strange things that happen to him as he searches.

The Master and Margarita is another one of those books that, if you haven’t read it, you must find a copy immediately and read it.  It was written in the 1930s in the Soviet Union by Mikhail Bulgakov but wasn’t published until the mid 1960s.  It is the story of literary men in Moscow and their adventures and tribulations when the devil and his entourage come for a visit.  This is one of the greatest novels ever.  Seriously, go read it.

Some years ago, I bought a book I’d never heard of called A Handbook for Visitors From Outer Space by Kathryn Kramer.  I really liked it and began searching for anything else she had written.  In this case, “some years ago”) refers to a time before Google. Unfortunately, Kathryn Kramer shares a name with a prolific romance writer.  This made it difficult to determine what else the author might have written.  Back then, there were a lot of channels on something called Usenet (a sort of collection of forums on every topic under the sun and then some).  One such channel was alt.20thCentury.Fiction which I read regularly.  I decided to post a query about A Handbook For Visitors From Outer Space and its author.  A few days passed but then I got a reply.  From Richard Powers (one of my favorite novelists).  He told me that Kathryn Kramer taught at Bennington College in Vermont and that she had, in fact published other novels.  Email wasn’t commonplace back then.  Mostly, only academics and government agencies used it.  I sent an email to an address I found for Kathryn Kramer with the subject line “Fan Mail”.  She replied quickly and thanked me for my appreciation saying something like “I was wondering if anyone had ever read that book.”  I picked up her two other novels over the next few years.

I read Rattlesnake Farming perhaps 20 years ago, maybe more.  I reread it last year.  It’s the story of a woman who suffers a trauma that leaves her (psychologically) speechless for ten years.  The story bumps around in various time frames including her life as a young girl, her teenage years and the contemporary situation as she deals with her family during a Christmas visit.  It’s an odd novel that’s wonderful in many ways.  I’ve never met anyone who has read this book so let me know if you do so we can talk about it.  It’s gorgeously written and well worth your time.

Next was The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker.  Baker’s approach to novels is to basically chronicle every thought a person has in minute detail.  It’s stream of consciousness done in a different way than other novels.  For example, his first novel, The Mezzanine takes place as the protagonist rides up one floor on an escalator relating what he’s thinking as he rides.  All of this minutiae is immediately recognizable by the reader.  The Anthologist tells the story of a moderately successful poet who has a contract to put together an anthology of poems.  He’s made all of the choices but is having difficulty writing the introduction.  It doesn’t help that his girlfriend has moved out and he’s sad and lonely.  It’s a lovely, quick read and, if you’re familiar with Nicholson Baker, you’ll know just what you’re going to get.

Finally, another reread.  Old Boys by Charles McCarry is the story of a disgraced ex spy who teams up with other retired agents to try to find his missing cousin Paul Christopher, also an ex spy.  You could describe the novel by saying it’s a description of what can happen when well trained, retired spies have the money and the contacts around the world to pull off rather amazing stunts.  You could describe it that way but it would be a disservice.  McCarry is nearly as good as John LeCarre and this novel (and there’s a whole series of Paul Christopher novels) is a good read and a good story.

I have started a novel by Barbara Kingsolver whom I’ve never read before.  It’s called Prodigal Summer and I’m enjoying it.  I’m not quite finished with it, though, so it’ll have to wait until next year.

 

 

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Rosa Parks

Sixty years ago today, Rosa Parks was arrested for refusing to give her seat on a bus to make room for a white passenger.  Montgomery, Alabama had a law that basically gave white people premium seating on the buses.  There was a “Whites Only” section at the front of the bus in which black passengers were prohibited.  The “Whites Only” section generally comprised the 1st four rows of seats but the bus drivers were able to expand that sections as the (white) ridership required.  Parks sat in the “colored” section after paying her fare but, when the bus driver expanded the “Whites Only” section to include the row that Parks was in, she refused to move to another seat further to the rear of the bus.

I learned about Rosa Parks in elementary school in the mid 1960s in Towson, Maryland.  At the time, racism was not considered to be a positive trait; at the same time, racism was evident everywhere.  In my working class, all white, neighborhood, if a black man or boy walked down the street, a few fathers would likely confront him to ask what he was doing there and perhaps to escort him out of the neighborhood.  There were virtually no black people in my school.  The first time I had the experience of meeting a lot of black people was playing Little League baseball.  Oddly, I don’t remember any incidents of coaches or players complaining about the presence of black boys on the teams.  So, while racism was formally decried, it informed a lot of what was daily life.

When I learned about Rosa Parks, the story had a sort of romantic feel about it.  Parks was returning home after a day working as a seamstress.  She was tired, we were told, and just was too pooped to get up and move.  She wasn’t trying to cause any trouble, she was just tired.  Since even 1960s white kids could understand the implicit unfairness of having seats on public transportation reserved for white riders, Parks was imbued with a bit of heroism in the telling of the tale.  Everyone could see the unfairness and everyone could understand being tired.

It wasn’t until decades later that I learned that Parks (42 years old at the time of the incident) wasn’t particularly tired.  She was tired of giving in.  Although the folk history of Rosa Parks sparking the Montgomery Bus Boycott didn’t include this detail, Parks was, in fact, an activist — a member of the NAACP and other groups agitating for civil rights.  So, why was the story distorted  when relayed to school children?

Looking back to my childhood, I think that the (mostly white) people who comprised my world were generally supportive of civil rights (at least publicly).  I think that most people understood that discriminatory laws were a bad thing and that it was good that those laws were gone or going away.  At the same time, they saw the black people marching and protesting and engaging in (god forbid!) civil disobedience as ‘trouble makers’.  They generally believed that things were gradually getting better for black people but that these activists were trouble; not only trouble, but (really!) setting back the cause.

So, there’s something insidious about the mythical Rosa Parks being cast as a heroic figure in the civil rights movement.  It’s sort of amazing that just 10 years after her arrest, her story was relayed in a positive light by elementary school teachers to their students.  At the same time, the fact that she was a civil rights activist prior to her act of resistance on that day had to be expunged from the story.  She had to be a simple woman, tired after working all day who merely refused to give up her seat.  It would not have been palatable to present a hero who was one of those trouble makers.  She was just a person like you and I trying to get home after work.

I’ve been thinking about this today because it’s the anniversary of Parks’ disobedience but I’m often seeing how much racism still exists and, worse, how much racism is practiced by people thoroughly unaware of the issue.  It’s built in to our society and we actually have to be vigilant and point it out when it’s evident.  Rosa Parks was a courageous woman, even though a ‘trouble maker’, who did what was necessary to push back against the outrageous demeaning she was subjected to.

 

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The Midas Touch – Late Capitalism

One day, some of King Midas’ men brought him a satyr they had captured in one of the king’s fields.  Midas recognized Silenus, the god Dionysus’ favorite satyr and ordered him set free.  Dionysus so appreciated Midas’ gesture that he offered to grant any wish the king might have.  Midas wished that everything he touched would turn to gold.

Dionysus frowned and asked Midas if he was sure that that was what he wanted.  Midas agreed that it was and so the wish was granted.  Midas, wanting to verify that his wish had been granted, laid his hand upon a bowl of fruit.  The fruit turned to gold.  He touched on thing and another and became giddy at the proliferation of gold objects in the room.

He grabbed his daughter by the hand to show her what he had done and what he could do. He was horrified to see a gold statue where his daughter had been.  He soon came to realize why Dionysus had hesitated in the granting of this wish.  He hungered and thirsted and whatever he tried to consume, of course, became unswallowable gold.

In early 21st century America, a nation that has embraced “free trade” economics for decades and whose devotion to that mythology has increased greatly over the last 30 or more years, a phenomenon similar to the Midas Touch has come to pass.  We have become a nation loathe to tax the wealthy because we believe that the wealthy are the “job creators” and that investments in private enterprise are superior to taxation.  Moreover, we must allow free enterprise to do what the market wishes and not thwart businesses’ desires with regulations.  Doing so could interfere with the “job creation” processes and harm our economy.

It may seem like I’m attacking the rich.  I’m not really.  The rich (I mean the really rich — if you’re thinking of the people who live in big houses in the nicest neighborhood you know, that’s not who I’m talking about), have perspectives and interests that influence their desires and their ideas of good policy.  The problem isn’t per se that they have so much money, it’s that the money is tantamount to political power.  Although no gods are around, they have gained the power to turn anything they touch into gold.  Our political system has evolved into an oligarchic charade in which 95% of the people are marginalized and their wishes and desires ignored.  The 1% can donate huge (to us) sums of money to candidates who will effect their wishes as policy.  Those huge donations have no effect on their day to day lives, they exist solely as lines in a ledger book.

In 2002, New York City was in perilous economic straits.  It’s deficit for that fiscal year was estimated at about $5 billion.  Michael Bloomberg, the city’s mayor at the time and a very wealthy man, could have written a check to cover the deficit and still control a $30 billion fortune.  I’m not attacking Michael Bloomberg or saying that he should have written such a check.  Undoubtedly, said check would have been a temporary solution and the fiscal problems, with causes unaddressed, would have returned.  Rather think about this:  one man, had the resources to cover the debts of one of the largest cities in the world and still remain one of the richest men in the world.  It would have been a significant chunk of the wealth he had accumulated but he still would have been fantastically wealthy!

Marx predicted that, in late stage capitalism, capital would begin devouring its own institutions in order to sate its requirement for growth and profits when the economy slowed to the extent that it wasn’t generating sufficient new wealth.  We can see evidence of this in the various investment inventions and derivatives that, seemingly, produce no objective goods, but generate profits.  If our current economic management persists we will see more and more cannibalism like this.  Corporate profits are soaring, job and wage growth are stagnant or falling and the great majority of us have little disposable income.  Without the economic engine of a prosperous middle class, capital looks elsewhere for its sustenance.  And it’s unsustainable.

We can’t expect the rich to come quickly to Midas’ realization that his power was unexpectedly crippling and harmful — to himself as well as to those around him.  Midas’ story, being a moral parable, comes with unmistakable signs of what has gone wrong and Midas’ awareness is inevitable and quick.  And power is intoxicating — one only willingly cedes it if it is causing harm.  And remember, for the most part, the rich are acting, as we all do, in their own interests, without malice and without gluttonous greed.

Nick Hannauer has realized that there’s a problem.  He is worth about $1 billion – a fortune he made in the late 20th century dot com boom.  In a Ted Talk, he points out that he’s not a job creator, that none of the vastly wealthy people can be a job creator.  He knows that consumer spending drives the economy.  He notes that his wealth allows him to purchase pretty much anything he wants.  This is true of all of the wealthy.  But even if every wealthy person went out and purchased everything he or she wanted, it would still not be enough to drive the US economy.  Policies that squeeze the vast majority of the people economically, even though they further enrich the wealthy, eventually create a world in which the rich cannot eat or drink.  Of course, long before that happens, as Hannauer says, the rich will look out of their mansions and see huge crowds with torches and pitchforks.

In our current oligarchic situation, it will be difficult — perhaps impossible — to reverse the ridiculous level of wealth inequality (a term, it seems to me, designed to sound absurd, as though the goal was for everyone to have equal wealth).  But it has to happen.  And the rich won’t realize that their power, their wealth, is causing the problem even when they begin to notice that there is a problem.  Only government can ameliorate the situation and government will be powerless to do so until the wealthy lose their grip on the reins of power.

Midas appealed to Dionysus to reverse the power to turn everything he touched to gold. The god instructed him to wash his hands in the Pactolus River and the power would leave him.  Before the rich go looking for such a river, a great deal of harm will occur.

 

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Charity and Capitalism

Back when I used to answer the telephone and occasionally had to suffer calls exhorting me to purchase something or donate money to some cause, there was one call that prompted a bit of thought.  The caller was soliciting money to create a fund for the widows and families of fallen police officers and fire fighters.  Certainly, this seems like a good cause.  But, I wondered immediately:  is it?

Assuming that the situation was as dire as the person soliciting funds described — widows and families destitute and needing to sell their late bread earner’s medal to fend off starvation — it immediately occurred to me:  why is it this way?

In the abstract, I think we can all agree that public servants whose jobs put them in peril should have the benefit of sufficient life insurance or a special pension so that, should disaster occur, their survivors are not wanting for food or shelter.  In more practical, immediate terms, comes the question:  “How are you going to pay for that?”  In a culture where taxes are anathema, even essential services are run on tight budgets with analysts ever on the lookout for a way to cut costs.

Yet even those of us who’d grumble about increased taxes are likely to feel at least a little compulsion to contribute to a fund to protect the families of policemen and fire fighters if they die in the line of duty.  I felt that compulsion when I got that call.  I also wondered, contrarily, whether the existence of such a fund, sustained by contributions (and sapped to some extent by overhead), prevents the governments that employ police and firemen from doing the right thing and providing a benefit for the families of the fallen.

I was reminded of this as I read this article this morning.  It’s called “Against Charity” and its thesis is that making charitable contributions sustains the adverse effects of capitalism. Since capital insists on the commodification of everything — including necessities like water, food, shelter — the deprivation that occurs is an inevitable result of capitalist logic.  Moreover, capital sets the terms for the cost of pulling a child back from starvation or funding a desalination plant so some village can have water again.

On the one hand, if we can ease suffering we should surely do so.  On the other hand, what if our efforts to ease that suffering obscure the causes of the suffering and so sustain the conditions that make the suffering inevitable?  It’s very easy to consider abstract suffering — homeless people we don’t know on street corners, poverty and starvation in countries around the globe — and then adopt a “that’s just the way it is” attitude.  After all, there’s little most of us can do individually to make things better.

Charity makes us feel better and so enforces this sort of hopeless complacency that we use to blunt the sight of the suffering in the world.

In fact, capitalism has managed, to an extent, to commodify acts of giving themselves.  Slavoj Žižek has written about coffee shops that tout “fair trade coffee” giving the indication that the coffee they serve has been procured in less exploitative ways than other coffees.  Consequently, we don’t mind paying an extra dollar or so for this cup of comfort because it has been produced in a nicer way than other cups.  Charity and profit — merged. Capitalist logic.

It’s a complicated issue.  If we see no way to replace capitalism with an economic political system that operates more equitably for us all, shouldn’t we at least assuage the suffering that is capitalism’s inevitable result (capitalism serves capital, not people)?  Even if such kindness perpetuates the problem.

 

 

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As Privilege Erodes, Bigotry Flourishes

Because I am often critical of President Obama when I write, whether here or elsewhere, I sometimes get friend requests from right wing people on Facebook.  In general, I ignore those requests (although, now that I’m trying to write more and to promote what I write on social media, I’ve become much more open to friend requests).  In one case, however, the friend request came from someone in Ocean City, MD, where I lived a few decades ago.  I thought that, although I didn’t recognize the name or the face, marriage and time may have made those factors illegible to me.  So, I accepted.

It turns out that she was a friend of a friend so she occasionally saw the sorts of things I write on Facebook.  She soon unfriended me.  There’s a curious quirk around how “friending” works in Facebook:  I still see what she writes and posts although, presumably, my stuff never shows up on her newsfeed.  I haven’t bothered to unfriend her because I find the sort of right wing news and opinion she shares to be mildly interesting and somewhat amusing.

As an aside, while we were still ‘friends’, I had a few interactions with her.  Often, I tried to point out that many of the incidents involving Obama that were producing froth on the right, hadn’t happened.  I provided links to Snopes.com as evidence.  Her response:  “It’s my understanding that George Soros owns Snopes.”  My unspoken response, “if that’s so, why doesn’t he spend some money on the damned thing; the interface has 1992 written all over it!”  Anyway, you can see how pervasively the “echo chamber” blots out contradiction of the outrage machine.

Recently, I read a Facebook post from her in which she recounted the story of how she had applied for a driver’s license in a new state (she had moved from Ocean City some time ago).  Although she was armed with what seemed like an overkill of paperwork, she failed to secure the license because her documentation was insufficient.  I’m sympathetic, because, as we are all aware, bureaucracy can be maddening, turning necessary and seemingly routine transactions into trials designed by Kafka.

She then opined that the hispanic men in line behind her probably would have no problem getting whatever they wanted at the agency.  She wondered if she would have been more successful if she’d been wearing a burka and flashing a green card.  Sigh.

She then noted that, based on information she got during the visit, she was able to go online and secure the documentation she needed for about $50.  So, presumably, a subsequent visit would result in issuance of a driver’s license even if she left her burka behind.  She wondered why this additional documentation was necessary since it was so easy, anyone could do it.  Interestingly, she is someone who complains bitterly about taxes (she is, after all, a tea party type).  The fact that she was being taxed $50 in order to execute a simple but necessary transaction was lost on her.  Rather, she focused on the notion that if she was a foreigner, whether legal or illegal, she would have been treated better.

As time goes on, life becomes more complicated.  In the not very distant past, if you were a white citizen of the US, while you expected visits to the DMV or other state agencies to be annoying and time consuming, you also expected to accomplish what you’d set out to do. For a number of reasons, now, this is not necessarily the case.  One of my assumptions is that, in the past, if something about your request was not routine, you could explain, be believed (assuming whiteness and citizenship), and the bureaucrat was empowered to make the transaction happen.  Now anomalies seemingly need to be handled by a special agent who is invariably at lunch or out of the office until next week; individuals on the front line can only routinely process what is routine.

Of course, my assumption above is merely speculation, based on my observation of business and life over 5 decades and more.  Her speculation, that immigrants would be treated better than she is based on xenophobia and the right wing news trope that immigrants are the cause of every ill in the country.  There is no reason, except her frustration that the transaction was not to be accomplished in a single visit, for her to assume that foreigners would fare better; that her white citizenship worked against her when she tried to conduct necessary business within the government bureaucracy.

Life gets more complicated.  Clerks on the front lines of government agencies, and department stores, and wherever, typically cannot do anything but process a routine transaction.  If the requests deviate from routine, a manager or supervisor is required, which itself demands more time, more annoyance, more frustration.  There are any number of forces that shape modern bureaucracy and they may not be all bad.  But frustration is frustration and we all have to deal with it.

Privilege has been ubiquitous for white men like me — so much so, that until it began eroding, it was invisible.  While it’s annoying to notice that privilege is eroding, it’s best to understand this as a result of increased recognition of the rights of all of us.  Privilege goes away because it was always inappropriate and now is beginning to be understood that way.

One of my observations of the ideology of the right is that, “if everyone was like us, things would be fine, but there’s always those ‘others'”.  When life is frustrating it’s because, directly or indirectly, of the ‘others’.  Bigotry’s seeds are always there and too many people are all too willing to fertilize and cultivate them.

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