PLAGUE TALK: NEW BITES OF INSIGHT

Imagine assembling for dinner with agreeable relatives, neighbors, and perhaps even some freeloaders, and just when you are about to stab your fork into a savory fried Mexican grasshopper, a pair of furry critters startle everyone by climbing onto the table. As they are sniffing the edibles, you expertly identify the intruders as mischievous black rats. Your guests recoil in revulsion. They refuse to share any table scraps with the interlopers. Don’t scold your companions for overreacting, if rats arrive at your house unannounced, it may be cause for concern.

Black rats (and marmots) have traditionally been a prime source of food for fleas that shuttle Yersinia Pestis, the bubonic plague bacterium. The opportunistic Yersinia and various cousin strains can be traced back six thousand years. Considering all the suffering the plague has inflicted on mankind over the centuries, this may seem counterintuitive, but the fleas prefer not to feed on humans. Their choice dish is rodents. But in a pinch, when those hunger pangs hit, fleas will swallow their pride and snack on people. When rat colonies are nearly depleted, fleas bond with humans. The most recent evidence indicates that is what occurred during famous outbreaks of the plague. Among the most celebrated were the Black Death of the mid-14th century, and the flurry that struck China and India in the late 19th century. For the latter, Yersinia was finally isolated and identified as the cause of the plague. (Note, for those seeking variety when acquiring ailments, the China/India edition has never closed shop and rears its ugly head on occasion.)

One of the rawest bones of contention is how the disease reached such epic proportions? Like today with so many gadfly conspiracy theorists peddling their COVID twaddle, there was plenty of recrimination. Those of spiritual leanings believed it was because of moral decline. Men and women were wearing their clothes too tight and brazenly revealing enticing body parts. Guys strutting around with bulging codpieces were an affront to God, so He smote their groins. Of course, the Jews were implicated. Blaming Jews has always been a default option in Europe. Supposedly they were secretly poisoning wells. Which doesn’t adequately explain why so many Jews died too. Although admittedly, they did not perish at the rate of the gentile populations. One reason is the Jews were lodged in segregated quarters and were usually more hygienic, thus limiting breeding prospects. And based on the most recent evidence (2020), it was determined that a certain autoimmune disorder – ” Familial Mediterranean Fever”, conferred immunity against the plague. Though other groups had the disorder, it was more common among Jews, affording them more protection but sadly making them targets for the righteous bloodthirsty Christian folks of that era. Regardless of one’s preferred intrigue, the best evidence indicates the plague was incubating a century before it exploded in 1347. Mongol groups who were scattered all over the geographical landscape evidently contracted it in China (but farther west than originally believed) and would pass it on to Europeans. It was conventionally accepted that during the siege of Caffa in Crimea on the Black Sea, the Mongols transmitted the plague to the Genoese (Italians) via biological warfare by catapulting diseased corpses into the city. That account no longer holds up to scrutiny, in fact, the siege really served to delay freight departures because the grain ships couldn’t be loaded and grain was vital to European nourishment. The Mongols were the culprits in tainting the Genoese, but it was only when grain deliveries resumed in the fall of 1346 after the siege did cheerful seafaring Italian merchants bring the vermin stowaways to ports in Europe. This was the “seeding” phase. The plague was dormant during the winter, then when it warmed up in 1347, the disease struck multiple locations simultaneously – ” synchronicity”, and the continent was engulfed in pestilence. If the rat supply could have held out it and not been pulverized, maybe humans would have escaped the fleas’ focus. The Italians might have continued to prosper and ended up ruling the world and everyone would have had to learn sign language.

Shifting from that nation of jovial opera singers back to the real world, to gain a better comprehension of the calamitous pandemics, we have to descend deeper into the tantalizing bowels of rat colonies. For those of you with pet rats, you can probably testify that they are amorous creatures. They have robust and satisfying sex lives and are prolific at producing offspring. One randy rat can beget 100 pups per year. Kind of like the Kardashians. That can make them a nuisance. The rats, that is. For instance, did you know that Washington D.C. has a rat infestation problem? No hidden implications concealed in that remark, just a factual statement. Yet, rats can be fickle, even the ones in D.C. If members of the pack become vulnerable, their comrades resort to cannibalism. It sounds shameless, even pregnant rats are devoured. From rat fucker to rat eater, as the saying goes. The unseemly appetite for one’s mates would have a cascade of effects.

The sequence goes like this: flea bit rat and passed on the plague, the rat got sick and infirm, the other rats ate it, thus absorbing the pathogens, they got sick and died, and eventually you had an epizootic eruption and the rat colony was ravaged. (Epizootic – think epidemic but for rats or other animals.) Once that happened, the fleas sought sustenance elsewhere and migrated to humans, which is designated as a zoonotic contagion. As the rats were doing all this scurrying around, some tried to avoid being consumed while the others strived to wolf them down, a real rat race, if you will. Many rats inhabited human dwellings. Ships, houses, and maybe the local brothel were all fair game. More bang for your buck, you could get an STD and a bonus of bubonic plague at no extra cost. That could make the groin swell.

In fact, a mysterious growth in the groin, bubo (buboes), was an indicator a person had been infected. Matters could get worse and often did when the buboes ruptured, oozing vulgar streams of stinky pus through the crotch. Ripe, sweaty armpits would balloon too, then grotesque strips of body tissue would rot and peel away before one’s wonderstruck eyes. This was the “primary” form, the bubonic plague. Though reportedly painful and even somewhat unappealing, it was really not so bad, if contracted you had a 20 % chance of surviving. The pneumonic version was worse when the microbes went airborne. You know the drill, wear a mask, stay six feet apart. Well of course in the 1300s people didn’t know that, so the effective measures applied in modern pandemics weren’t widely employed and pathogens vaulted from person to person. Although the bacterium could only travel a foot or so when expelled from the nostrils or mouth, the bulk of the population resided in close proximity, so when the snot flew, the body count grew. According to reports, it was not a pleasant send-off to the hereafter, the unfortunate patients drowned in their own blood. Only 1 % survived. Now that you are gasping and desire an end to the sorrows, we advance to what was frequently another stem of the plague, septicemia. This phase was merciless and fast. If you were a virgin like many of the Mennonites here in upstate NY, it was best to discard the clothes and indulge the carnal appetites, the clock was ticking. It would only be a matter of hours before there was massive hemorrhaging and more corpses were added to the ghastly cadaver tally. Septicemia was 100 % fatal.

Humans often made matters worse, they seem to have a knack for that. Being inveterate chowhounds, people had the destructive tendency to eat the meat of germ-ridden animals. This led to still another variation classified as ” Digestive Plague.” It was a surefire cure for constipation and presumably nauseating, with the net result being doom. This line of mortality is more difficult to track because people often nibbled on tainted meat and died of dysentery without the assistance of a pesky flea. And of course there was the usual cast of parasites who would enter the home of a deceased family and pick through their belongings. It was common to swipe clothes, which carried the fleas, which spread the disease. Serves those slackers right. One hopes we never witness a modern revival. If the plague afflicted locations like Rochester and Wayne County, it could potentially wipe out civilization in such places.

Yet even in the worse phases when regions were saturated, there were survivors. For them it was a great time to be alive during the Black Death, or ” Great Mortality” as it was dubbed in the parlance of the times. It was an exciting period, people shouted, some wept, and the more devout sought priests to whom they could confess their multitude of sins. One can only conjecture what those sessions revealed. But for those who were not felled by the scourge, there was a flood of relief, and a lot of free land for the picking as so many previous owners were now deceased. But it was contentment that was short-lived. The plague became endemic and would strike multiple times over the centuries. Summer and early fall featured the worst surges, then winter settled in and the rats who managed to elude fleas made themselves scarce. They began reproducing with enthusiasm and after several years when the population ramped up, the fleas struck again and piggy-backed on the rats and the cycle repeated. More congested demographic centers in France and Italy were subject to regular recurrences. They had the most buildings and homes, so the rats had more places to hide and regroup. Marseilles, a seaport, thus a highly vulnerable spot, would be tormented for nearly four hundred years with the last significant plague invasion occurring in 1721. Sigh, it is a historical surety that the French always get it in the end.

Still, despite their unspeakable depravity, the French worshipped the right god. Whereas the Turks farther east who made bad choices in selecting a deity, saw plague linger into the 19th century. On the bright side, some of their carcasses have been good specimens for DNA analysis, quite helpful in tracking the plague and its mutations. This has led scholars to dismiss alternate theories to the Black Death, such as the conjecture it was really anthrax that left such a frightening death toll. With an abundance of confidence, it can now be declared that it was Yersinia Pestis causing all the mischief. It is valuable to conduct such research as it provides insight into how pandemics work. This enables us to respond to potential widespread virulent threats in our own era, where we can be cocksure that with competent leadership, compliance with protocol and vaccination guidelines, and by amassing thoughts and prayers, we can avert disaster.

Teaching History: Statue Stories and Myth

The murder of George Floyd on May 25, 2020 opened floodgates of fury. Aroused protesters mounted a statute wrecking binge. Distressed culture warriors denounced the demonstrators and alleged the destruction would deprive the hoi polloi of vital chunks of history. Such a claim is tenuous. A Confederate deity of Robert E. Lee’s stature will not be erased from America’s grand mythos because a concrete image has been reduced to rubble. Do we really need such totems to preserve our history? To teach it? And if so, a history of what? History is always ripe for revision and hardly chiseled in stone. Yesterday’s heroes are today’s villains. If Columbus could peek out from his grave, he would attest to that. His cement head facsimile now resides at the bottom of a lake near Richmond, Virginia, where it erodes along with his reputation. Or take the case of once wildly popular children’s TV host Jimmy Savile of Glasgow. When reports surfaced that he was a child molester, his mold was given the yank. I submit that we need not honor such people with a public display to serve in the interest of history. Yet if Boris Johnson and Donald Trump had their way, statue saboteurs would be shooed off to prison for ten years. Birds could join the miscreants as cellmates too, they have been defecating on objects of veneration for years. Let us probe the issue of defecation and desecration in more depth.

The first stop will be the sordid tale of a ruthless despot. Dictators have a fetish for conspicuous enlargement. For decades in the Dominican Republic, Rafael Trujillo dazzled the impoverished masses with numerous building projects – toasts to the insufferable ogre himself. The testy Trujillo ruled for three decades and was so fond of his likeness and anatomy that an estimated 1800 sculptures were dedicated to him. His busts were everywhere, so were his mistresses. He felt he was deserving of glorification, after all, to become a tyrant takes preparation and endurance. Years before Trujillo was “elected” in 1930, he was trained by Americans in the nuts and bolts of torture. As a police chief, and later a general in the military, he put that instruction to good use. Then during that 1930 election, though he ran unopposed, his troops staffed the voting booths; if a maverick tried to sneak in a ballot for a write-in candidate – the soldiers shot the wayward voter. Trujillo won handily. You can imagine Trump thinking: “Now there is a leader I should emulate.” Trump’s envy would extend beyond political tactics to the genitals, Trujillo was also an insatiable sexual predator, his nickname was ” El Chivo” (” The Goat”). Reluctant females were intimidated into accommodating his voracious libido, families were imprisoned until consent was attained. Members might be fed to the sharks. Let history show that seduction takes many forms.

Trujillo’s penis prowess was celebrated with pillars. Very conspicuous tall pillars, one was forty meters high and in case anyone missed the point (so to speak), Vice-President Jacinto Peynado stressed that it was symbolic of Trujillo’s “superior natural gifts.” More massive phallic tribute was planned but enthusiasm for Trujillo began to slacken. What goes up, must come down. He wore out his welcome with the U.S. You might say he failed to rise to expectations. It happens. In May 1961 he was ambushed by plotters who executed him with weapons traced to the CIA. To wit, his life ended in an orgy of excitement and bullets. The Americans pleaded ignorance. They had no idea how frisky rebellious Dominicans secured possession of those guns. Regardless of how they were obtained, the assassins achieved their aim and the world had one less autocrat. Temporarily some of his associates and relatives maintained control, however they didn’t have his lasting power and were eventually ousted, then the national sport of statue whacking commenced. It is clearly a good example of how statues and a penis can be obliterated during heated feasts of emasculation without compromising history. No one is worse for the experience. Well, except for the owner of the once overactive joystick.

Would those who so ardently tender the “statues teach us history” argument find it objectionable if Osama bin Laden had his grotesque bearded puss cast in marble in New York City? Though clusters of pigeons may like it, I can state with reasonable confidence that the tolerant law-abiding citizens of the great metropolis would find it in poor taste. Rightly so, and the same is true of Blacks who regard statues saluting Lee, Jefferson Davis, and the legacy of Jim Crow as repugnant. They do not need visual reminders of centuries of oppression. Put the stars of the slaveocracy in a museum or on a battlefield where they are suited to a historical scenario but do not elevate their status with stand-alone tribute. Before anyone objects that it is absurd to entertain the idea of installing a landmark that features a terrorist like bin Laden, consider that it was not until December of last year (2021), that a monument featuring the founder of the Ku Klux Klan was removed. Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest was a forerunner of our modern American terrorist malefactors as he and his comrades went dashing about at night burning crosses and breeding mayhem after the Civil War. He was rewarded with an unflattering representation that sat along Interstate 65 in Tennessee for decades. Depicted while tenaciously clinging to a horse, firebrand Forrest seems almost astonished that he is so esteemed. His mouth is wide open, perhaps to collect droppings from winged opportunists. Artistically inclined mischief-makers had painted the barbaric Klansman pink before his eviction. Despite making for a rather ghoulish hue, one supposes it was better than cloaking him in a white sheet.

Controversy about exalting terrorists is hardly unique to the U.S. In June 2015, Gavrilio Princip was saluted with a two-meter bronze statue in Belgrade, Serbia. Larger in death than in life, Princip was the fanatic who assassinated Austrian Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo on June 28, 1914, igniting the chain reaction that led to World War I. A war that would claim nearly 15 million lives. Most of the international community is dismayed at the callous indifference of the Serbs, but to them, Princip was a freedom fighter and a hero. He would probably be flattered to know a bridge is named after him as well. When a nation is short on idols, one supposes any damn fool will do. There is no vaccination against stupidity. History does seem long on rogues and light on luminaries.

In England, where the natives alternate between bouts of grandiosity and self-flagellation, the preferred color for defacement is red. Edward Colston was a very successful investor and businessman in the 1600s. He became renown as a gracious philanthropist. He funded schools, hospitals, and numerous other charitable endeavors. A highly sanitized biography of Colston earned him enough admiration to have a statue installed in Bristol. An inscription lauded him as “one of the most virtuous and wise sons of the city…”; virtue and wisdom have always been in short supply in England. Initially, no mention was made of the primary source of his income, which was slave trading. However, historians have a way of making a nuisance of themselves, and by the 1990s, Colston’s transgressions were revealed and became a source of friction. A prankster took offense to Colston’s relic and reached deep into the creative well by writing “Fuck off slave trader” in red paint on the statue. This triggered a two-decade cycle of cleaning the statue then having it smeared in red again. Some contemplative folks even suggested just taking the goddamned thing down. Sycophantic symbolism is rarely amenable to common sense.

Partisans from various historical factions entered the fray and the structure remained intact, though the derision for his misdeeds didn’t cease. Then in the aftermath of the Floyd uproar in the United States, Bristol counterparts to American protesters decided it was time for Colston to go once and for all. His head was lassoed and detached, then gleeful hellions playfully kicked it through the streets before tossing it into Bristol Harbour. Pro-Colston apologists were appalled and Boris Johnson grumbled about how undemocratic the degenerates were. Boris can speak to being undemocratic and degenerate with a measure of expertise. Predictably, the old ” It’s part of British history” argument was carted out. In response, author Alex von Tunzelmann quipped: ” Slavery was indeed part of British history. So was syphilis, and nobody wants a statue of that.” Then again, maybe the French would. They have always harbored pride as being hosts of widespread venereal disease. Even the lecherous Mussolini thought the French were depraved.

Numerous other examples of statue disrespect could be cited. Lenin with his shiny bald head offered a desirable location for fowl to gather and deposit socialist shit. Stalin ever paranoid, probably wanted the birds captured and interrogated to thwart a possible counter-revolutionary conspiracy. His own plunge to the pavement awaited. Stalin bashing became a passion in Russia and throughout the former Soviet bloc, although Putin has been instrumental in rehabilitating Joe’s status in recent years as he felt history needed some shifty mending. Which returns us to the main issue of interpreting, compiling, and teaching history.

Whether in democracies or in states dominated by bullying strong men, a great deal of myth is manufactured. Statues are one vehicle for aiding the misconceptions. Though sometimes erecting them may come with the best of intentions, in other cases it is just an exercise in shallow idolatry. Often at the behest of a dictator. When they are constructed to honor someone, it might seem like a benign endeavor, but even then, caution is warranted. There is an old saying: ” They will name a street after a man one day, and chase the man down the same street the very next day.” Drafting history is always a fluid undertaking. It often changes as the script is being written. But it is not to be subject to the whim of an individual or a partisan interest. Nor should it be a repository for creating myths, as statues tend to do. In fact, in our current era where clashes over teaching history rages in schools and legislatures, we witness the full force of the importance of history. While destroying statues may seem to be worthy of applause, a certain wariness is in order, such activities can spiral out of control, and someone or some group still does the deciding what version of history meets their litmus test. But neither can those who condemn them hide behind a shield of patriotism. The historical record owes no fealty to them either. So how does one weigh all this and decide? For my concluding note I turn to scholar and historian Richard Evans: ” History isn’t a myth-making discipline, it is a myth-busting discipline, and it needs to be taught as such in our schools.”

1963: White, Red, and Blue, and Heartache Too

The clock flew past midnight. 1963 arrived. Tides of change were already roiling on day one. The weather was an overture. Birmingham, Alabama was struck by a rare winter treat when eight inches of snow blanketed the state in a sea of white. The Heart of Dixie would witness more gales that year, hot waves of cultural and racial disturbance. Black people battered for seeking dignity and equality. New Orleans was preparing to host the annual Sugar Bowl game. The Big Easy wouldn’t be spared, nearly five inches of snow mischievously massed on the ground in the outburst that swept through the South. Jazz and football lovers panicked and turned to alcohol for solace in the French Quarter because of the untimely tempest. Crimson Tide coach Bear Bryant wasn’t pleased. His team was scheduled to play Ole Miss and the cross helmsman may have been God in Alabama but even he couldn’t control the elements. Elsewhere, stirring at the entrance to the Gulf was a massive hurricane. Cuba would quiver in its path. A secular disciple of Marxism named Castro was not perturbed. The CIA couldn’t dislodge him and neither could Mother Nature. Maybe the Good Lord smiled upon the Communists after all. You would have to ask Dylan about that, he wailed that the answer was Blowin’ In the Wind.

It did seem like god-fearing congregations were seeing gusts of Red everywhere. Red had a different connotation before it became nomenclature for mentally petrified American states. Then again, maybe the multitude were seeing Blue. Better for politics but perhaps not in romance. Bobby Vinton recorded one of the huge hits of the year with Blue Velvet, then kept the tears flowing with Blue on Blue. Sobbing was becoming a national habit, Andy Williams expressed those sentiments with I Can’t Get Used to Losing You, but there was a reprieve from the heavens as the Angels sang My Boyfriend’s Back. The English were more celestial in their musical tastes, Telstar by the Tornados was named after a recently launched space satellite. Meanwhile back on earth, surfin’ music was making waves on the charts. Jan and Dean took you to Surf City where you could meet the Beach Boys’ Surfer Girl, and one of the biggest hits of the year was the latter’s Surfin’ U.S.A.

Betty Friedan made a splash when her seminal work, The Feminine Mystique, instigated ripples of discontent. Martin Luther King stabbed the country’s conscience with Letters from the Birmingham Jail. King would later utter a cry for the ages in the nation’s capital with his enthralling ” I Have a Dream” speech. For those with simian sensibilities, Planet of the Apes by Pierre Boulle furnished some hair-raising reading. You could take a Valium if the tension meter tilted you into a tizzy. The anti-anxiety antidote was introduced in 1963. Take two or three and don’t call me in the morning. Nerves back intact, you could dive into a true-crime narrative with Escape From Alcatraz. Author J. Campbell Bruce wasn’t monkeying around when he took you inside and outside the fabled bastion of punishment. Coincidentally, you could close the book on Alcatraz Prison. The icon of incarceration which hosted kind-hearted visitors such as Machine Gun Kelly and Al Capone, shut its gates for the final time just weeks before Campbell’s chronicle shot to fame. Surely the inmates had many cherished memories.

Maybe all that page turning wasn’t for the faint of heart. That’s okay, you could still remain upbeat because Michael DeBakey performed the first human heart transplant in Houston, Texas. Then as now, nothing said progress like Texas. The Lone Star State has always posed as a blazing beacon of edification for the whole country. The Gospel clearly took hold over generations of rectitude. Why most of their girls there have committed to almost total chastity all the way up to third grade. It would be remiss not to mention the good ole boys. What would Texas be without football and fertility? The youngsters came storming out of the tunnel wearing a helmet and rushed back in without one. Humping out to the West, there was an explosion of cheers for the Trojans as USC won the college football national championship on New Year’s Day, 1963, by squeezing out an exciting 42-37 victory over the Wisconsin Badgers in a tight battle. On the pro circuit, the Giants would be rendered horizontal as bridesmaids again, losing this time to the Bears 14-10 at Soldier Field in Chicago. The NBA finals was almost a foregone conclusion. It was the Boston Celtics as usual, taking the crown over the frustrated Lakers, four games to two. And as usual, the Yankees blazed into the World Series after winning 104 games during the regular season. They seemed invincible until they ran into the unfathomable … a whirlwind force of the likes which never may be witnessed again. Koufax, Sandy Koufax. A left-hander for the Dodgers who had toiled in obscurity during the team’s tenure in Brooklyn, was now attaining stellar heights. After posting a 25-5 record with a dazzling ERA of 1.88 and eleven shutouts in leading Los Angeles to the National League title, he faced New York in Game One. The baffled Bombers flailed away to the tune of fifteen strikeouts. Down one. Pride wounded, the luster tarnished and the bluster sapped, the now meek Yankees also dropped games two and three. Then it was Koufax redux and the predictable finale. Pen that as a sweep and long plane ride back east for the vanquished, sobbing and swilling the whole way home.

Despite the detours into despair, surely there was much to rejoice about in ’63. Indeed, watching the Yankees crumble was almost as delightful as viewing Elizabeth Taylor in the year’s blockbuster film Cleopatra. The versatile Taylor managed to steal time off from the set to commit adultery with co-star Richard Burton. It all proved too much for producer Walter Wanger who would later die, of a heart attack. Cleopatra was snake-bitten financially unlike the more wholesome The Sound of Music. The hills were alive with the stream of money and helped Fox recover from the losses on Cleopatra. It was time to raid the Valium bottle again if you flocked to the theater to see another Hitchcock masterpiece. The Birds were out in full force and pecking away at anything that twitched. It really was horror with a bite to it. Comic relief was in order after such an ordeal and Dick Van Dyke, Janet Leigh, and Ann-Margret provided it in Bye-Bye Birdie. The parade of star-studded casts continued with Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, and a host of others in The Great Escape. It would set the standard for films of that genre. It was verily a year of drama and death, but the world also welcomed Tatum O’Neal, Johnny Depp, and future director Quentin Tarantino. The latter would pile up the corpses in his own inimitable fashion. 

The cadavers would also gather in a far-off land called Vietnam as the American commitment in resources and manpower expanded. Before 1963 was out, there would be 16,000 U.S. military ” advisers” in the country, this included a large contingent of Green Berets. They were deployed by President Kennedy to prevent Southeast Asia from turning Red. To convince peasants of the merits of democracy, you slaughtered their families. In early November, the president of South Vietnam, Ngo Dinh Diem would be ousted in a coup and executed. Americans were complicit in the political intrigues. The puppet masters were in with both feet now and there was no exit strategy in sight. The South practiced democracy with the crack of a rifle. Civil Rights leader Medgar Evers was slain for the cause in Mississippi. Nina Simone responded with a musical outcry, Mississippi Goddam. The assassin score would rise. On November 22 in Dallas, Texas, JFK would meet his shocking fate. Texas taketh away and Texas giveth: Vice-President Lyndon Johnson from Texas replaced Kennedy. He inherited a land drowning in a cavity of gloom and heartache. 1963, a year teeming with historical tides. Was it a prologue for the rest of the decade?     

 

2021 HOLIDAY BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS

It is time to continue with my tradition of supplying the annual book recommendations. Now you can arouse some interest and evoke gasps of appreciation from your significant other when you bolt into the living room naked while wiggling their holiday gift. Yes that is surely music to your ears as you no longer have to fret over what to buy your erudite companion. With your appetite whetted, let’s get rockin’ with this year’s blessings.

Rock Me On The Water: 1974 – The Year Los Angeles Transformed Movies, Music, Television, and Politics – Ron Brownstein

America was still experiencing its lingering hangover from the tremors of the 60s as a political phenomenon named Nixon made his ignominious exit and new cultural icons pranced about the stage making their presence felt. Ronstadt was Rockin’ on the Water (thanks to Jackson Browne), and we still had time to detour for a little nostalgia – Heyyyy – Fonzie made his debut on Happy Days. Maybe by 1974 we were maturing, or at least slowing down; or worse, even running on empty. But really there was nothing to fear as the mandatory 55 MPH speed limit was passed to conserve gas. Prices had climbed to an unimaginable 42 cents per gallon. But as indicated in the title, Los Angeles was operating on a full tank of genius. Hollywood feasted on creative explosions with blockbusters like Chinatown, and The Godfather II. Perhaps we had something or someone like Al Pacino to fear after all. This is an offer you can’t refuse as Brownstein takes you inside the artistic fault lines on the West Coast. He effectively captures time in a bottle in this trip down nostalgia lane.

Glory Days: The Summer of 1984 and the Ninety Days That Changed Sports and Culture Forever – L. Jon Wertheim

Making the long jump to 1984, Orwell might have been shocked to see authoritarian states inching toward their demise. Many of those regimes boycotted the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles as they followed the Soviet lead with their adolescent lightweight Cold War posturing. Not that the world mourned just because the Albanians and Mongolians failed to show. Michael Jordan did indeed show, and soared into the spotlight as only someone with a nifty new Nike contract designating him as “Air Jordan” could do. He led the U.S. to the Gold Medal in basketball and America dominated the Games. And when it came to domination, it was a year where outspoken Martina Navratilova demolished opponents while wrecking the template for how a woman athlete was supposed to conduct herself. Even the lovable Pete Rose found a second wife. This is a book you will enjoy: You can bet on it.

Shooting Midnight Cowboy: Art, Sex, Loneliness, Liberation, and the Making of a Dark Classic – Glenn Frankel

While the West Coast began its ascent in the 1960s, back east, New York City languished. Once the capitalist and sports mecca of the nation, decay and depravity besmirched the city’s reputation. The urban zeitgeist was captured in the daring conversion to the screen of author James Herlihy’s Midnight Cowboy. The unsettling drama defied the Hollywood sin codes, and despite the X rating it became a box office smash and earned a spot in the pantheon of film royalty. No small feat as the shooting commenced during a citywide garbage strike. As you wade into the details of the movie’s creation, you will marvel how it took a talented cast of foreigners to expose America’s dark underside.

Mad At The World: A Life of John Steinbeck – William Souder

Whether you like Steinbeck or not (I do), his story is compelling. Souder’s prior works include an outstanding biography of environmentalist Rachel Carson and he maintains his high standard of quality writing with this account of the temperamental Steinbeck.

The Woman They Could Not Silence: One Woman, Her Incredible Fight For Freedom, and the Men Who Tried To Make Her Disappear – Kate Moore

Men once had too much power…and they abused it. In the 19th century if a husband couldn’t control his wife, he could have her institutionalized. Once confined, she was at the mercy of sadists from both sexes. Mrs. Elizabeth Packard (married to a god-fearing minister) was among them. Despite the infuriating oppression she resisted the conventions and mounted a counterattack against her tormentors. Caveat: This is very disturbing reading so have an anger button nearby that you can push.

Unacceptable: Privilege, Deceit, and the Making of the College Admissions Scandal – Melissa Korn

F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote: “Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different than you and me.” And here is a revelation from the Mule. They are not only different but they will steal, lie, and cheat to advance their cause. In the topic at hand it involved members of the wealthy and celebrity upper crust hiring an intermediary to bribe coaches and admissions personnel, falsify test scores, and fictionalize college applications to gain the upper hand in the selection process at highly competitive schools.

As someone who was employed in education for many years and had many excellent students who worked hard to earn their spots in whatever endeavor, I found all the subterfuge quite appalling. Read it and see if you concur.

Americanon: An Unexpected U.S. History in Thirteen Bestselling Books – Jess McHugh

The author provides quite a recipe of influential books featuring the likes of Betty Crocker (a fictional figure), Benjamin Franklin, Noah Webster, and Emily Post. Along with Dale Carnegie who wanted to help people ” Win Friends and Influence People”, the writers were of paramount importance in shaping and perpetuating the American mythos. To wit, if you worked hard, baked a tasty cake, and practiced proper etiquette, the world was yours for the taking. That was the theory at least. Reality rarely conforms to such lofty aspirations. The commentary on the books in question was illuminating, so you might like to add this to light up your holiday basket.

Wildland: The Making of America’s Fury – Evan Osnos

Osnos is a journalist who worked in the Middle East and China, not exactly oases of tranquility or liberal ideologies, then he returned to the United States in 2013. He was mildly shocked at the transformation of America as it was rife with polarization on the cultural, racial, and political fronts. It had become a real ” Wildland.” His reporting itinerary took him from the affluent enclaves of Wall St. manipulators to the despair of the Appalachians. Rich in observation and detail, it shows a country that is floundering as it has lost its moral compass.

Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid: America’s Original Gangster Couple – Glenn Stout

A perfect fit for the Roaring 20s, the Whittemores from Baltimore, Margaret and Dick, would feel equally at home in our current era. Chase the American Dream, have gun will travel, and consequences be damned. It made for great headlines back when the media stressed the sensational at the expense of accuracy, and prepared us for crime-couple narratives in ensuing decades. It will not end well for them, but it made for an exhilarating ride while it lasted.

Facing the Mountain: A True Story of Japanese American Heroes in World War II – Daniel J. Brown

A bittersweet account of the soldiers who bravely represented the United States in the face of blatant racism and the persecution of their families, many of whom were incarcerated in internment for merely being Japanese. Following the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Japanese families on the West Coast were stripped of their assets and forcibly relocated to camps where they endured a threadbare existence. Most of the children were American citizens (Nisei) but they were offered no constitutional protections. The males of military age were compelled to sign loyalty oaths and as a demonstration of their patriotism were allowed to join the armed forces. Some declined but a significant number did serve and would even earn respect from their detractors. The 442nd infantry regiment composed of these Nisei would undertake extremely hazardous missions and become the most decorated unit in American history. Yet the undercurrent of tension persisted as they purportedly fought a war for freedom while it was arbitrarily denied to their relatives and loved ones. Despite their achievements, integrating into postwar was fraught with difficulty. A poignant reminder how fragile liberty and democracy really are.

The Joy of Sweat: The Strange Science of Perspiration – Sarah Everts

With all this reading you may have worked up a sweat. Don’t fret, you can sell that sweat. There is no need for those enticing trickles of moisture to go to waste, there are companies that will pay to sniff your armpits. They have staff who are trained to detect the nuances in your odors and that information is used to produce fragrant deodorants. You need never stink again. You will soak up the details in this imaginative journey into labs, saunas, and date selection. One whiff and you will be hooked.

WHEN FARMING WAS DANGEROUS IN YATES COUNTY

Yates County is nestled in the bucolic blissful bosom of the Finger Lakes region in upstate NY. Home to just under 25,000 people and a number of Mennonite horses, the county is notable as a place where farm animals quiver when residents express amorous intent. This citadel of conservative sentiment offers the best in what progressive enlightened medieval thought, the NRA, and Q-Anon has to offer. Despite the idyllic pedigree, on occasion there has been a stain or two on the historical ledger. We must hoof it back to the year 1911 to investigate one of those raw historical blights. On a hill overlooking glistening Keuka Lake at a scenic spot known as Bluff Point, one Charles Sprague did willfully and wickedly aim a shotgun at unarmed George Martin (husband of the diminutive Minnie Martin), and shot him. The bullet went through the subject’s gall bladder and liver. Martin was mortally wounded, he grimaced in pain before his lamentable demise. Sprague had deliberately killed Martin. This was a homicide. An act that was no small potatoes.

Why did Charlie do it? Was he angry at George? Did he dislike him? Inquiries revealed there had been some squabbling between the two as well as a bout or two of barking between Sprague and Pascal Van Lew, who was the father-in-law of George, thus making him the father of the mourning Minnie. That fateful October day was an outgrowth of their ongoing feud. A dispute over potato harvesting made it impossible to patch things up. Sprague was a tenant of Van Lew and was supposed to help with the crops as part of his rent. He was not very reliable. It was hard to get good help in those days.

On the morning in question Sprague got off to an early start fortifying himself with alcohol before confronting his prey. Some studies show that adding booze to simmering resentments can make for a volatile mix. When Sprague returned to the farm, intoxication fed his saucy temperament and while waving a club in a somewhat menacing manner, Sprague demanded Van Lew, and George, and George’s loyal wife Minnie “get off of his land.” What audacity! It wasn’t Sprague’s land, it was Van Lew’s. The vexed Van Lew, still a stout eighty-two, told Charlie to go pound his pud or something equivalent. There was no hope of mending this breach, particularly when Sprague indicated he was going to get a gun and settle matters once and for all. Near high noon he did just that. After fetching a shotgun from his uncle, also named Charles Sprague, the deranged Charles Sprague stormed back to the premises and discovered that Van Lew had left. Levelling George Martin would have to do. One shot was all it took to fell Martin and set the tongues wagging throughout the county. The rumor-mongers probably mentioned that picking potatoes had clearly become a hazardous occupation.

Martin lingered before he died and he was coherent enough to declare that Sprague was the villain. A deputy sheriff and policeman collaborated in their arrest of Sprague who was held on the charge of first degree murder. A grand jury rendered the necessary indictment and the trial commenced on February 6, 1912. District Attorney Spencer Lincoln explained to the jury that if the guilty Sprague was convicted he would soon be residing in an agricultural shangri-la. Then the prosecution presented its case with Van Lew and the aggrieved Minnie testifying what a rogue Sprague was. They also included a story about a horse with eczema which left members of the jury scratching their heads. Evidence was entered detailing the fatal wounds, and after submitting the statement penned by George Martin before he breathed his last, the prosecution rested.

It made for a pretty compelling case and Sprague’s counsel tried to counter by claiming it was just a tale concocted by the vengeful Van Lew and grief-stricken Minnie. There were some holes in that legal Hail Mary as the relatives clearly didn’t manufacture the holes in the ill-fated George. The defense also contended that the shooting was “purely accidental”, again this was stretching the limits of credulity as Sprague had to make an effort to secure the weapon before he could accidentally unleash the fatal projectile. The highlight of the trial other than testimony about a horse with a nuisance itch was when Sprague took the stand in his own defense. He conceded that things had been contentious but he never intended to kill anyone. In fact he said he went to his uncle’s seeking a potato digger but grabbed a gun instead so he could go hunting, then when arguing with Martin the gun just kind of discharged while pointed in the direction of the victim’s liver. Sprague clearly regretted slaying Martin and if he had it to do over, he might have been content with the potato digger. If Martin could have testified, he likely would have agreed.

To buttress the defense cause, character witnesses were called on behalf of Sprague but the tactic backfired – they did him more harm than good. A presentation on ballistics sealed the deal and after a brief session that required only ballot, the not wholly impartial jury rendered a verdict of guilty. Sprague was displeased with the outcome. The judge then pronounced the sentence and Sprague was soon to become a baked potato.

His day of reckoning would be delayed because of appeals and as his wretched existence was drawing to a close he became fast friends with Jesus. The Catholic version. Auburn, NY would be the site where the climax would transpire and the method would be electrocution. Unlike some neighboring counties, Yates elected to employ a more civilized justice coda by entrusting the punishment to the experienced prison staff at Auburn. Just a handful of interested parties would be in attendance. Contrast that with the barbarians in Seneca and Wayne Counties, where over the decades hanging was the preferred technique and advance notice was issued so thousands could hang out and gape. Yes, they are certainly less well-bred in those backwaters, and capital punishment was a public spectacle complete with vendors who peddled refreshments as enthusiastic crowds gathered for a swinging denouement. One assumes a lot of roast beef sandwiches and salt potatoes were consumed at such events.

Sprague would have none of that, but the state did generously provide him with a free chicken dinner the night before his rendezvous with eternity. A plea to the governor to grant clemency had been rejected. As a curious aside, although his mother and sister visited him and even his aunt showed up to comfort him on the final day; Sprague’s wife was conspicuous by her absence. Not once did she stop at the prison to see him during his tribulation. One supposes she had better things to do. Many wives often do. Sprague didn’t seem distraught over her dereliction and his parting words were: “I am innocent.” On Monday, May 1 he was strapped to the contraption but there was a minor glitch in carrying out the terminal transaction. As a stout man of over six foot and 220 pounds it took more juice than expected to finish him off. The first jolt which lasted over a minute wasn’t sufficient. When he was examined by doctors, the heart was still beating. Sprague was zapped again and earned the distinction of being the last person ever executed at Auburn Prison. That was probably little solace to him as his corpse was returned to Penn Yan and buried in the Friend Cemetery. According to all reports, Sprague’s body has remained undisturbed and Penn Yan still serves as a haven for those seeking a wholesome lifestyle. To impart meaning, let it be known that the saga of poor George Martin, his devoted spouse Minnie, the antsy horse, and Charles Sprague is instructive because it demonstrates the toxic brew of alcohol and anger, and will be remembered wherever bodies and potatoes are planted.

Religious Zeal: Nuts, Flashers, and Bare-Assed Canadians

Picture the following scene: a beaming sweat-drenched evangelist swaggers across the stage, after a tense pause he tilts his head up, and clutches his groin…and bawls: “As a sign of my dedication to the Lord, I am going to cut my balls off !” It would grab people’s attention. Observers may infer he had a screw loose. A real flake like Jimmy Swaggart could probably sell it in a convincing manner: prostate from his prostitute pursuits, perspiring, panting and repenting, he unleashes a flow of crocodile tears and beseeches God for forgiveness: “Oh woe is me, I have sinned heavenly Father, lechery has been the ruin of me. Take these twin tormentors as my sacrifice.” In our era you may suspect these were just publicity stunts aimed at attracting media coverage, and of course, reaping revenue. Such theatrics might seem a little grotesque and even freakish, but there actually was a time and place when such zeal and dismemberment signified commitment to a fervent and rather odd religious group.

Long before Vladimir Putin touted his virility by strutting around topless while flexing his judo-honed muscles, religious aberrations disturbed the power elite in Russia. Although the Orthodox Church traditionally secured the loyalty of the bulk of believers and was usually yoked to political institutions, there were splinter sects. Arguably the most famous was a creative cult that emerged in the late 1700s. They were christened the “Skoptsy”, a merry bunch of believers who exhibited their conviction via tasteless testes pruning or females severing prominent extremities. In fact, the word Skoptsy is a mutilation of a word that means “to castrate.” That does require some elaboration. Those content to earn the designation ” Lesser Seal” merely forfeited their scrotum and its contents. Others went whole hog, the higher honors – the” Greater Seal” – Whoosh ! – the entire package rent asunder. The procedure could beget rejoicing and even bedlam. Conceive a penis bouncing along a barn floor, careening out of control as rubbernecks scrambled after it before it caused any mischief. A dysfunctional penis was a thing to behold. Initially the sacred rite was performed with a hot iron; a rather steamy ordeal that could take awhile. Apparently that was too traumatic for some prickly types so a blade became the instrument of choice. Mistakes were surely made. Failures probably grimaced and bashfully admitted that it was an excruciating experience and if they ever did it again more caution would be exercised. I am loathe to insert my personal opinions, but I would highly recommend the practice be introduced at Liberty University and similar strongholds of modern religious perversion such as the U.S. Supreme Court.

But let’s cut away from my editorializing and return to the clique in question. The leadership in the Romanov Dynasty grew irritated with the nutcases so they had the hardliners whipped (which the pain glutton Skotsy probably enjoyed), then sent to chill in Siberia. It did not purge the community entirely. Despite breeding being discouraged and sometimes even problematic, it was not entirely banned. Evidently not all Skoptsy shared the same enthusiasm for lopping off their reproductive equipment. This allowed a trickle of offspring to slow down that gloomy agonizing road to extinction. Converts were also harvested by simple recruitment methods. Boasting about disposing of one’s joystick seemed to perk folks up. After all, what else would one talk about at the campfire in such a frigid setting? “Hey, let me tell you about the time I fetched my trusty scythe and hacked my private parts to shreds. Took a few whacks but I got the troublesome little pests.” The transfixed listeners might wince but who wouldn’t want to join such a group? One had to admire such courage since they had no access to anesthetics or synthetic painkillers. Even if they did, using them would somehow diminish the feat. Better to be addicted to religion than opioids.

With all that lust for purity it was inevitable the Skoptsy would become a somewhat potent presence again. The most famous of them was Kondraty Selivanov, who escaped and claimed he was the “Son of God”, sans genitals. That probably made for some titillating borscht time chatter, “Did you hear that the snippers are out of the bag and on the loose again ?” Rumors spread, such was common in those pre-Facebook days, and Selivanov was soon considered a menace. But before he was declared mad and dispatched to an asylum, the Messiah impersonator planted seeds of faith and the number of disciples swelled. Devout followers wept for Selivanov and claimed he got the shaft. Many held fast to their convictions and it is estimated that in the early 20th century over 100,000 were still active, most of whom were peasants. Not very fertile ones at that. Under Soviet rule, Stalin had no stomach for pathological visionaries and their ghastly acts, so an intense repression was ordered and the movement petered out.

Like many fanatics that still roam the American religious landscape, these Russian diehards were itching for God to pound the final nail into the earthly coffin then sweep the believers away to eternal bliss. If the upright Skoptsy had adhered to the prescribed rituals they could travel light and soar quickly to their heavenly reward. They would have company as more oddballs swam in the spiritual chowder. God-fearing folks discovered there was more than one way to get the salvation juices flowing. We now pivot to a sober-minded band of Russians called the Doukhobors.

In case you don’t come across the word Doukhobor in your daily conversations, it means “spirit wrestler.” Masochistic bravado was not their fetish, though they did draw the ire of ruling bodies because rejection of authority was a centerpiece of Doukhobor sentiments. They didn’t invest much flesh and blood when it came to doctrine, petty theological disputes would dim the luster of the mystical core. Even Scripture was suspect, snatching just a few parables or phrases when needed was sufficient. While doing her fling servicing Trump as a moral therapist, the bewitching Paula White often did the same thing. Anyway, as indicated, the Doukhabors were more focused on the “spirit” and what was stirring on the inside rather than having dogma dictated from the outside. In that respect they resembled the Quakers; or even Kate Upton.

Like Quakers they were committed to non-violence which didn’t sit well in a 19th-century nation that frequently needed the military for one damn fool adventure or another. Refusing to join the army was a big strike against a subculture that confined its struggles to the spiritual realm; however it was coupled with another rather audacious transgression that really raised some eyebrows. While the Skoptsy created a spectacle by removing their testicles, the Doukhobors prided themselves on making their pleasure playthings visible for all to see. They paraded around nude, male and female. Baring it all clearly was a bold and cocky display of solidarity, even equality. It was hard to conceal a Holy Book in any nook so they passed on their wisdom with generous samplings of oral transmission. This no doubt heightened the sense the inner spirit was moving them in mysterious ways. In 1899, the czar moved them in less mysterious ways – a full-scale emigration to Canada was the solution to ridding Russia of these unclad eccentrics.

It was probably slightly uncomfortable for the Doukhobors romping about naked during the raw Canadian winters, just as it had been in Russia. Old-fashioned kick-ball games would be fraught with peril. Playing hockey would have been especially hazardous, particularly for goalies. I am just speculating that they actually cavorted around on the rinks while fully exposed, but if they did, surely there was the thrill of a score and players lifting their sticks in jubilation. This may provide a clue why hockey gained such a firm hold in the country. Some assert that even the French natives shed their garb when they hear the word “puck.” Such ecstasy has been sustained through the generations; perhaps Americans should look to the north to buttress their own moral stock. Indeed, is there a more shining example of saintly conduct than the bare-assed Canadians?

Not that Americans need to model Canadians to access quackery, when it comes to taking their pants off or diverting from the norm, homegrown evangelicals can grandstand with the best of them. Revivalism infected the masses before independence was inked and has continued right up to mind-blowing headline drama involving Jerry Falwell Jr. and his pool boy. Sordid sidebars have not quenched the quest for divine stimulation.

Returning to a simpler time we visit the First Great Awakening of the 1730s, when an unhinged James Davenport was a feature attraction. Then as now, a good soaking in dementia has always been part of Gospel peddling appeal. (Just ask Pat Robertson.) The daredevil Davenport liked to crash the services of other ministers and condemn astonished preachers to eternal damnation. More than once he was dragged off to the local hoosegow, kicking and screeching while peppering his captors with quotes from Jesus. When not confined for his unwelcome penetration into other men’s turf, he would hold his own rallies complete with all the howling and lamentation that would make him a good candidate for our modern televised soul saving circuit. Hell, Davenport was deranged enough he could probably be elected president in our era. Psychosis has its own rewards, throngs attended to hear his tirades. The climax of a service came when he implored the flock to renounce their earthly possessions. The Holy Ghost or some other vexing poltergeist then prodded people to cast their coats, jewelry, books and maybe even precious sex toys into a bonfire. Not their testicles or breasts though; the colonists could be such prudes. Davenport finally unraveled during a jeremiad when in a fit of passion he dropped his trousers and heaved them toward the flames. Men gaped, women shrieked. One of those very women pulled his chestnuts out of the fire (so to speak) as she retrieved the pants before they were consumed in the inferno. But his crusading torch was extinguished; Billy Graham he wasn’t.

If all the delirium and hysteria had only burned out with Davenport, then America may have charted a more rational, progressive course, but it was not to be. Some historians trace the genesis of the true revival movements to a week-long jawboning fest in Cane Ridge, Kentucky in 1801. It was fire and brimstone during the day, then moonshine and carnal depravity in the woods at night. Others make the case that the rise of Pentecostalism in the early 20th century is a more appropriate marker. This brand featured the whole package: preaching, faith healing, and even a touch of anarchy. As you would expect, California was an ideal host for an uproar. Yup, California, now there is a state that when it comes to religion and sex, they don’t screw around. You can almost hear a clipped Sergeant Joe Friday, Dragnet delivery: “Los Angeles, 1906, a Black preacher named Billy Seymour healed a Mexican with a club foot who hopped up and down in elation while spellbound white people gave him a big hand.” The deluxe version of American evangelism was up and running. Spectators also began to speak in strange tongues and the phenomenon spread throughout Los Angeles; purportedly, strange tongues can still be heard there.

It is now time to terminate this tawdry tale with a frosty observation. From the benumbing Siberian void of Russia where testicles and breasts held scant value, to the glacial terrain of Canada where frozen-stiff players perfected their slap shots, to the warm hearts of tempestuous Americans, madcap religious rites have dotted the landscapes. When restricted to the margins, intemperance can be curbed, but when it becomes mainstream and serves as an arm of the state, it becomes toxic. Rights get trampled, voting becomes a sham, and demagogues capitalize on the whole unholy mess and surface as messiah figures. Russia has its Putin, America has its Trump. Maybe the last best hope is those bare-assed Canadians.

A PROPOSITION ABOUT PREPOSITIONS

The Mule is going to proposition you. Now if that doesn’t get some hormones hopping I don’t know what will. So let’s tap those stimulation wires and get right to the meat of the matter. Among the many cherished moments in your learning voyage, it is a safe wager that you were molested by the stern commandment that you cannot end a sentence with a preposition. Innumerable colossi of pedagogy denounced such grammatical barbarity. Furthermore, they unequivocally declared that ending a sentence with a “with” or an “of”, and other similar linking lexical tots, was just plain immoral and wrong. Well here is the promised proposition – such proclamations were and are preposterous.

It would be criminal to just leave that thought dangling out there like some distressed participle, forthwith a defense of this noble contrarian stance is in order. We must pound the historical pavement to discover how this prescriptive preposition code infiltrated the god-fearing masses. Verily you are thinking: “You reveal who started this, and we’ll exact revenge on the villain or any wretched offspring. We’ll make his descendants live with Ted Cruz in Mexico for a year. Or worse, we’ll make them watch New York Jets games for a whole season.” Now nothing that drastic is in order but as you would well expect, it all began with a fucking Englishman. His name was John Dryden. With a name like that he was clearly a dullard who itched for some crumb to earn recognition. He succeeded. In 1672, Dryden got his ass all in a tizzy because he detested certain phrasing used by grammarian Ben Jonson. What was it that got him so animated? It was the following sentence: ” The body that those souls were frighted from.” Poor Dryden, he was beside himself: that “from” had him fuming. In his defense, he was diligent. To be consistent he checked all his own prior writing and tweaked it when necessary. No stranding of prepositions for him. Lamentably, he had ignited a compositional firestorm.

Preening types picked up the scent and piled on. A century later, the self-important Bishop Lowth was equally revolted and stated: ” This is an idiom, which our language is strongly inclined to.” Evidently, he failed to notice that he had violated the very precept he was condemning. Ha, lest anyone miss his meaning though, he brought out the verbal guns to stress his point, by arguing ” it is much more perspicuous to put the prepositions back where they belong.” That should have settled the matter for all time. If someone is convinced you had best be perspicuous about your prepositions, then you damned well better heed the admonition and never stray from the creed. The stakes were immense. You could be denied access to the best balls; or in the modern era, face the wrath of unforgiving grammar-check.

To snuff out any final voices of dissent, the rule about prepositions became holy writ in 1795 when it was printed in Lindley Murray’s ” English Grammar.” The venerated Murray was a Quaker, a lawyer, a fisherman, a botanist, and a writer; in that order. Originally from Pennsylvania he moved to England because he thought the weather might improve his faltering health. Perhaps he was an axiom or two short of a sound mind. Regardless, it was the shoddy English of the English that served as the inspiration for the above-mentioned publication. It hit all the right chords and was a smashing success on both sides of the Atlantic. Americans wouldn’t embrace anything from that quarter again with such enthusiasm until James Bond, and right on his heels – the rambunctious lyrically facile Beatles. Edition after edition of Murray’s sacred doctrines flooded the schoolrooms in America and England. Teachers could browbeat deficient students into preposition submission and cite a quasi-scriptural authority if challenged. The torrents of red ink did flow. Would the hue and cry ever cease?

The reign of Murray just had to end and one suspects the grammar guardians weren’t braced for the forthcoming shocks to the system. In the early 20th century apostates began raising their lowbrow heads. It was an early version of the “If it sounds good, write it” circle. There was no cause for an overreaction, they weren’t punctuation anarchists. They would never stand or sit for misplaced modifiers and inadequate clarity. For example they would not tolerate a sentence like this: ” Walking through the park with my girlfriend, the birds sang beautifully.” However romantically appealing it may seem, it is unlikely the birds were walking through the park with my girlfriend, though it could have been some birdbrained clod. No, the rebels weren’t saying you should scribble with abandon like a student-athlete football player in Texas, they were just seeking a little relief from ironclad standards. They thought such regimentation hampered creativity. A morale bump from a respected source aided their cause.

No less an authority than the oft-cited Strunk and White, which destroyed the ambitions of an untold number of aspiring writers, jumped into the fray. They pleaded for leniency as well. The critical issue in the placement of the preposition was effectiveness in the sentence. Yup, that’s where it was at. No need to be convoluted, stick the goddamned preposition at the end, if you want to. And in many instances the canon was discarded, like the prohibition against beginning a sentence with a conjunction. Pious holdouts remain. Stroking their utensils they remain poised to slash away at any perceived transgressions. But the tide has turned against them. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Surely there is no better thought to end with.

HOMAGE TO THE STATE AND THE RULE OF LAW

You can probably recall the disturbing images: roving hordes intent on spreading mayhem; bonfires where offensive literature was consigned to flames; and school children extending their hands in a salute of fealty. Dissent from state mandated edicts was tantamount to treason. At best it could result in expulsion from schools, eviction from homes, and economic sanctions. At worst it could lead to imprisonment, to the burning of homes and places of worship, and to be subject to mercy of frenzied riff-raff where victims were forced to ingest large amounts of castor oil, where cars were carved with swastikas, and where impromptu beatings were common.

What grievous transgression sparked such outrages? The purported wrongdoing was expressing contrarian beliefs. Even the highest court helped fuel the hysteria. By now you have pieced together the clues and realize that I am not talking about Nazi Germany. No, indeed, this was the United States in the 1930s and 40s and the targets of the wrath were Jehovah’s Witnesses. The incidents I described occurred in such diverse settings as Odessa, Texas; Sanford and Kennebunkport, Maine; Richfield, West Virginia; and elsewhere across America.

The trigger was something seemingly trivial, the refusal to salute the flag in schools. In 1930s America the gesture with the arm extended resembled the Heil Hitler salute in Nazi Germany. That similarity was objectionable to the Jehovah’s Witnesses and at a 1935 convention they denounced it as idolatry. Thereafter students from the religion refused to participate in school flag salutes. In 1935, in Minersville, Pa., with the endorsement of the superintendent and school board, the Gobitas children were expelled from school for their non-compliance. The superintendent called them ” perverts.” Sigh, God bless America and freedom of religion. A wave of expulsions ensued. The trampling of rights would be challenged in the courts.

Lower level jurisdictions sided with the aggrieved families but the haughty hyper-patriotic board persisted and in 1940 the case reached the Supreme Court. Felix Frankfurter, himself Jewish so one would think he would be sympathetic to the the plight of the persecuted, wrote the majority opinion in Minersville School District v. Gobitas. He declared that “the Court should not become the school board for the country.” To wit, the dismissals now had legal validation. Justice Harlan Stone penned a scathing rebuttal but the fuse had been lit. It was a signal to the rabble, the mob if you will, to embark on their cruelty spree. President Roosevelt denounced the brutality. That’s what presidents do in such circumstances. Three of the majority opinion justices were horrified at the tempest they unleashed. They wanted to put it back in the box. Wow, that rings so contemporary.

Amends would be made, somewhat. In 1942, the flag pledge and salute would be modified, that is, the outstretched hand would find its way to the heart. After all, what sensible Americans wanted to be associated with the crackpot Nazis? No, we can’t, rather couldn’t have that. Nevertheless, the ritual was still mandatory and in enlightened Charleston, West Va., those pesky Jehovah’s Witnesses were shown the door again. Out, out damn delinquents and heretics. Only approved believers and nationalists need attend. Sigh, God bless America. What’s the point of a First Amendment if we can’t have state approved convictions and canons?

Wisdom suffused the Supreme Court justices as the esteemed arbiters contemplated that very issue and after some minor squabbling in a 6-3 decision, they decreed that the Barnette children in question had their rights violated and if they didn’t want to salute the flag, they could exercise that right. The 1943 – West Va. School Board v. Barnette case became a marker for First Amendment rights under the “Compelled Speech” doctrine. Disappointingly, Frankfurter remained steadfast in his opposition, but Stone was vindicated. It was also retroactive to the Gobitas family and other casualties of the flag-waving excesses.

In sum, what transpired with the Jehovah’s Witnesses is instructive. Free expression, free speech, and freedom of religion are precious but fragile liberties. One hopes that the courts will safeguard those liberties. Along with the president and other elected officials, they stand as the guardians of democracy. Central to the whole fabric of democracy and society is respect for the rule of law. When the rule of law is undermined by any party, democracy becomes enfeebled, and the mob runs rampant.

Annual Book Recommendations: 2020, with a catty comment or two.

Before you plug in your requests at Amazon or Abebooks.com to make your holiday gift purchases, you might want to peruse the following list to see if you find something so irresistible you alter your selection plan. Even higher stakes may be in play, perhaps you can transform your entire future. You might even say to hell with your friends and relatives and just buy something for yourself. Note, I prefer Abebooks, though the books are more expensive than Amazon the shipping and handling is often free. Besides, I try to avoid Amazon because I don’t like that greedy bastard Jeff Bezos and consider him despicable for the way he treats his employees. He is an abomination and even his ex- and now very wealthy ex-wife, closed the book on him.

But I will keep my opinions to myself and move on to the main menu. As usual there is a cross-section of entries, so hopefully there will be a tasty item or two for everyone among the word hungry multitudes. No special order of preferences here, just choices that qualify because of good writing, engaging topics; or in a few cases – relevance to our current American train wreck of politics and devilish cult leader worship. Okay, enough of the prelim because as Henry Ford once said, ” You don’t build a reputation on what you are going to do.” So let’s do it.

Let us start with Start By Believing: Larry Nassar’s Crimes, the Institutions that Enabled Him, and the Brave Women Who Stopped a Monster by John Barr and Dan Murphy. Michigan St. was the home base for the perverted Larry Nassar, a “physician” with a seemingly unassailable reputation. The regrettable truth is that while providing therapy for thousands of athletes including Olympic level gymnasts, he was exploiting the young girls for his sexual gratification. Despite several decades of questionable practices and suspicions, and an occasional accusation, the deviant was protected by the sports hierarchy and administrators. Eventually enough convincing evidence and testimony shook the whole athletic edifice and the elusive predator was finally trapped and prosecuted. Sadly, too many of his facilitators escaped unscathed. Put this in the grotesque column and I don’t recommend sharing excerpts at the holiday dining table but do highly recommend the book.

Where there are crimes, there is evidence, and beginning in the 1930s, Edward Oscar Heinrich, the “American Sherlock Holmes”, was a pioneer in collecting clues and scraps and then packaging them into case-worthy accounts. As his prestige grew, so did his ego. That led to some tainted testimony with unjust results. Although admittedly somewhat of an oddball he altered the course of forensic science. American Sherlock: Murder, Forensics, and the Birth of American CSI by Kate Winkler Dawson covers the breakthroughs and limitations of criminal science that are part of Henrich’s impressive but also blemished legacy.

No Man’s Land: The Trailblazing Women Who Ran Britain’s Most Extraordinary Military Hospital During World War I – Wendy Moore. Women doctors were a rarity in the early 20th century and women surgeons even more of a novelty. Those that were permitted to practice were generally restricted in their patient options, largely attending to children and other women. Operating on men was regarded as scandalous as it would expose unsullied females to seeing intimate and occasionally dysfunctional male parts. Apparently such naked revelations would contaminate the women with moral pollution, surely sending them into a downward lustful spiral. The long reach of Victorian codes still maintained its grip, particularly in tradition-bound England.

However as the massive bloodletting of the war continued unabated, pristine sensibilities were discarded and women surgeons were at the cutting-edge of severing longstanding prejudices. Their expertise under trying conditions attracted effusive praise and they were permitted to establish their own hospital in London. Always under the scrutiny of male skeptics, and often to the astonishment (or dismay) of their critics, the women proved as facile with a scalpel as their male counterparts. They tended to be more fastidious about sanitation too. Imagine that. In the post-war many men expressed their gratitude for surviving with their vital functions intact.

The author expertly stitches together a compelling narrative thread of the social and political milieu. Overcoming barriers on the medical front was one limb of striving for equality. The battle for suffrage, though temporarily stalled because of the war, would continue to lurk in the background. Some concessions were made in 1918 as women over the age of thirty in the United Kingdom were granted the right to vote. Evidently if they could handle a lacerated male organ they were worthy to cast a ballot.

We now depart from the congenial confines of the hospital to lumber into the movie studios for the next entry – The Big Goodbye: Chinatown and the Last Years of Hollywood – Sam Wasson. Despite a number of misfires, constant revisions to a maddening script, trying to appease a cantankerous actress, and repairing the psyche of a misery ravaged director, “Chinatown” survived to become a film classic.

An inside look at how the project evolved takes you through the settings and some of the famous scenes. Among the most memorable is when Jack Nicholson (at his professional best) slapped Faye Dunaway. To capture the moment and whip up authenticity, he really swatted her, and repeated the whacks until the lighting and impact was just perfect. A number of the cast and supporting staff would have gladly substituted for Nicholson to perform the deed because Dunaway was a testy waspish type who didn’t play well with others. While she was sustaining a sore jaw, Roman Polanski was attempting to rebuild the pieces of his shattered life. He returned to Los Angeles from Europe to direct the movie and to confront the demons of his tragic marriage. A marriage that ended several years before when the Manson Family savagely butchered his enchantingly beautiful wife, Sharon Tate. That sub-plot made for a wrenching background in his production of the film noir masterpiece. A must-read for the movie aficionados in your circles.

Let’s begin our next choice with a hypothetical situation. Suppose you have a relative in West Virginia and their home is in a remote area. Now suppose they are watching the favorite TV show in that neck of the woods – ” Touched By An Uncle”, and then suddenly the house catches on fire. The fire department is contacted and the wail of sirens is heard as the trucks go racing to their destination. ” Mountain Mama !”, you can imagine all the excitement. The kinfolks are bellowing, ” Fire on the mountain, run boys run.”, but there is a hitch in the plan. The directions are rather vague: Look for the unpaved road where there is a white house with the paint peeling off and has chickens out front. Admittedly that seems like an unlikely scenario. But is it? In fact, if you dive into The Address Book: What Street Addresses Reveal About Identity, Race, Wealth, and Power by Deirdre Mask, you will discover it is not so uncommon. Many places, not just in West Virginia, but in the world, don’t have house numbers, and indeed some areas don’t even have street or road names. And maybe some places in London shouldn’t, for instance there is a Cock Lane, which used to house a row of brothels. I confess I don’t know how far it is from Upper Butts St. and I don’t think I would want to get lost there. But you can’t lose by having this unusual work shipped right to your home. Just make sure you supply the right address.

Let us return to still another arousing fantasy scenario. Coincidentally, this one also has links to West Virginia. In this case imagine a political firebrand with no scruples who will manufacture falsehood after falsehood in order to advance his own career. A real loose cannon, you might say, one that intimidates members of his own party (Republican toadies), and is committed to dismantling the Constitution and making a shambles of the rule of law. As dumbfounding as that may seem, the United States once had such an amoral madcap hellhound, and his name was Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin. In Demagogue: The Life and Long Shadow of Senator Joe McCarthy by Larry Tye, we see how the template for the current conservative movement under pseudo-conservative Trump first gained traction. McCarthy seized on Communism as the sinister threat de jour as he paraded about making sham accusations and ruining innocent lives. He was granted Senate investigative power to stalk his prey thus empowering the Red Scare with legal sanction.

Beginning with a 1950 speech in West Virginia he punched the xenophobia hot button and rode it to national fame. Tragically a large segment of the media was complicit in helping him maintain his staying power, and many of his Republican allies hopped on the outrage bandwagon to contribute to the hysteria. Like his mutated offspring Trump, McCarthy was drunk on power and would get increasingly belligerent when called on his excesses; unlike Trump, he was addicted to alcohol. When Trump needs a fix, he reaches for the Twitter controls. But whether the targets are Communists or immigrants, the key ingredients to nourish the commotion are hate and fear. Mark this as another biographical masterpiece by Larry Tye who also did an excellent biography of baseball immortal Satchel Paige. As for McCarthy, after directing the media circus for nearly five years, the camera would hasten his undoing in the televised Army-McCarthy hearings of 1954 when he was confronted by Army attorney Joseph Welch with his provocative inquiry: ” Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?” One wonders how Trump would respond.

So who are the clans that infuse bombastic political figures with such potency? In America it is the Religious Right that has a vested interest in promoting their anti-democratic agenda, attaching themselves to incendiary leaders who will further their crusade. With The Power Worshippers: Inside the Dangerous Rise of Religious Nationalism, Katherine Stewart shows how the financial and organizational bricks of the movement have been assembled as they continue their march toward demolishing the Constitution and the protections it affords. To them, cultural issues like abortion, evolution, and choice of bedroom partners, are really just wedge topics to rally the hoi-polloi to score political points and amass more power. Of course many of them violate their own moral precepts while waving the Bible. To wit, a relatively recent Trump photo shoot.

As corrupt magnates like the Kochs supply the financial fuel and Trump pulls the partisan levers, we end up with a freakish cast of mutants prancing about the national stage. One should shudder when they think about imbecilic Betsy DeVos holding the reins to education power in our country. Then there is the pageant of Trump’s petty stable. There is the cuddly screech-owl Kayleigh. You can almost hear Trump protesting: ” I did not have sex with that woman!” As always, we should take him at his word. Or her equally cuddly predecessor, the beguiling and witty Sarah Huckleberry Sanders; or Kellyanne Condom, another real bucket of joy and vivacity. It would be remiss not to mention spiritual advisor and fund-raiser Paula White, an asset who grunted and strained to summon angels from the depths of South America and Africa to steer the faithful to the ballot box. Stripped down to the bare essentials, what all the cranks and zealots have in common is commitment to religious nationalism in all its undressed fervent glory.

The lust for domination has had its deleterious effects. The judicial system is now swarming with fanatics who barely give lip-service to the rule of law; adding to the septic mix is the recent frightful Supreme Court appointment of a sectarian dogmatist. The anti-science stance of messiah Trump and his right-wing religious disciples have turned the COVID trauma into a national slaughterhouse. Make no mistake, ousting Trump is only a palliative, the bedrock of Trumpism is still intact. Stewart’s book is a good examination into why it must be continually resisted.

After that tour through the turbulence of tempestuous politics it is time to turn to more tame terrain – Pennsylvania steel mills and high school football. Playing Through the Whistle: Steel, Football, and an American Town by S.L. Price is a probing analysis of Aliquippa, a working-class, multi-ethnic city that thrived during America’s age of industrial dominance. But like so many factory based enterprises in the Rust Belt it would experience a steep economic decline.

Despite those depressing setbacks, the city never wavered in its enthusiasm for football. In fact for decades both during plenty and scarcity, the sport served as the cultural glue. Aliquippa not only manufactured steel it produced hard-nosed NFL players. Stretching back to the 1940s with the lesser-known Frank Ribar through the 60s with elite players like Mike Ditka and into the recent past with All-Pros like Darrelle Revis, the competitive programs kept the city on the sports map. Price’s work is worth the price as it is an entertaining and provocative meshing of sports and society.

Matters may start to sound a little bat shit crazy now but America’s greatness was not built on just iron and the gridiron, it was also bolstered with a healthy (well maybe not so healthy) supply of bat and pigeon shit. Yes, mounds and mounds of the tantalizing excrement was valuable as fertilizer. ” Guano” as the treasured commodity is known, had the U.S. ranging far and wide to claim territory so the manure could be extracted and delivered to the homeland. It took a special and caring person to do the so-called ” dirty work.” Legislation was even enacted to ensure that America would never run out of shit: the Guano Islands Act of 1856. You can read all about that and more in How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States by Daniel Immerwahr.

Although the U.S. tends to shy away from the notion it is an empire, the reality is that ever since the colonists landed and ultimately achieved independence, it has exerted its power and influence. Whether quasi-legally as in the Louisiana Purchase, or through aggressive acquisition such as prying large chunks of land from the obstinate Mexicans, and right up to the present where the American military has troops in almost 150 countries, the U.S. has taken on all the trappings of an empire. There has even been speculation that America has intervened in spots when it perceived potential threats to its oil supply. Whatever the motive, there have been repeated land grabs throughout our history and this deftly written and insightful account is a slick and polished effort at bringing much of the shit to the surface and reader’s eye.

Part of that very American empire was in Hawaii and we now segue to the only fiction book on the list this year – To Wake the Giant: A Novel of Pearl Harbor by Jeff Shaara. Returning to the best sellers list Shaara swings his attention to the Pacific theater with one of his more compelling works. Beginning in the late 1990s with his Civil War blockbusters he has spun his way through various stages of American history in a rather convoluted manner. I thought he faltered on several occasions but this time he draws you into the tense atmosphere of the era and site of the catastrophe with a well-crafted build up. There is an appealing cat and mouse quality as it weaves back and forth between American negligence and the Japanese perspective and preparation for the attack. A good complement to this writing would be the 1970 film Tora, Tora, Tora. With or without the movie as a prop, I found this to be Shaara’s strongest release since his earliest publications.

It is time to close on a positive note as I dip into the oldies’ stack for a music pick. Written in 2011, Fire and Rain: The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor, CSNY, and the Lost Story of 1970 by David Browne reflects on the major artists and the recording industry in that crucial transition year. There was still momentum from the 1960s as evident from the tragedies at Kent St. and the vocal anti-war movement, but idealism was falling by the wayside and stronger traces of angst and despair were seeping into to the youth culture. The break up of the Beatles delivered a shock and Dylan had long departed from the protest ranks to ruminate in a Self-Portrait. The hits kept coming but the tone had changed, often just subtly. Browne is facile at explaining the who, what, and why.

As an addendum, here is a quick bonus list without the annotations.

Six Days in August: The Story of Stockholm Syndrome – David King.

The Fire and the Darkness: The Bombing of Dresden, 1945 – Sinclair McKay

Supreme Inequality: The Supreme Court’s Fifty-Year Battle for a More Unjust America – Adam Cohen

Eliot Ness and the Mad Butcher: Hunting America’s Deadliest Unidentified Serial Killer at the Dawn of Modern Criminology – Max Allan Collins

The Back Roads to March: The Unsung, Unknown, and Unheralded Heroes of a College Basketball Season – John Feinstein

Pharma: Greed, Lies, and the Poisoning of America – Gerald Posner

And now that you and your insignificant others are fortified with an abundance of seductive page-turning, may they facilitate your glide into a more intimate and amenable 2021.

 

 

 

 

1968: The Devil, Politics, Protests, and Plagues

President Lyndon Baines Johnson slammed his fist on the table and cursed. He was upset. LBJ was seeing red. 1968 was not starting well. The Vietnam circus was unraveling. According to General William Westmoreland, the chagrined ringmaster in the field, America’s enemies were behaving “deceitfully.” Those inscrutable cunning communists cheated, they breached a ceasefire and staged a multi-prong strike in the South. They eschewed guerrilla warfare and brought combat to the cities. It was a thrust that earned instant fame by being christened with a battle tag: The January Tet Offensive. A mortifying apocalypse was upgraded to featured consumption for mainstream TV. Americans were sickened by the carnage, which included the live execution of a Viet Cong officer. His polluted socialist brains spilled onto the street after receiving a pistol shot to the temple. Fallout was inevitable. Johnson’s credibility was tarnished and his control of the Democratic Party machinery was slipping. He would be called to account when a surprising showing in the New Hampshire primary by upstart Eugene McCarthy sent shockwaves through the political establishment. Lurking in the shadows was a Kennedy ready to pounce. Anger, havoc, and the protracted Asian bloodbath were on the menu of a nation wrenching in turmoil. 1968 was soiled by rage and sorrow. Nefarious forces were at work.

For all his good deeds with the Great Society and the War on Poverty, the millstone of Vietnam proved too great a burden for Johnson. After Bobby Kennedy added his chips to the Democrat nomination table, LBJ capitulated. On March 31 the frazzled Johnson stunned the country when he announced he would not seek re-election. This was an extraordinary gesture for an incumbent. Upheaval ensued in the political universe and the Devil saw an opening. Well, not really the Devil, just Richard Nixon. Tricky Dick resurrected his checkered career and secured the Republican nomination. Scowling was kept for private as the ” New Nixon” tidied up his eyebrows and TV persona, but he very much resembled the old Nixon when it came to lowbrow tactics. He played to racial animosity with his Southern Strategy and employed “law and order” rhetoric to feed on citizen’s fears. Punching the race button and stoking fright became a favorite ingredient in the GOP cookbook. Adding distasteful white frosting to an ill-flavored election cake was the unapologetic Alabama segregationist George Wallace, the growling bigot joined the dogfight as a third party pest.

Martin Luther King, the polar opposite of Wallace, was slain by an assassin’s bullet in April in Memphis. The primary voice for restraint in the civil rights movement was silenced and his death detonated another explosion of urban pandemonium. A projectile from a white man put to rest an inspiring leader and his dreams of nonviolent solutions to racial friction. Bombs, bullets and bayonets replaced discourse when riots swept through over 100 cities. The national temperature was soon tested again. In June, jubilant Robert F. Kennedy, the best hope for the Democrats and perhaps the country, was murdered in a Los Angeles hotel after winning the California primary. Cries of anguish gave way to apathy. Others groped for the imaginary law and order lifeline. Nixon would be the beneficiary as he edged lackluster Hubert Humphrey by a fraction in November. Wallace played the spoiler as the once solid South abandoned the Democrats. The birth pangs of a new political order wailed as tribute was paid to the Devil.

The Prince of Darkness continued his prowling into other venues. He left his seed of abomination in movie theaters, to be more specific, in the womb of Rosemary Woodhouse (Mia Farrow). After success in Poland, producer Roman Polanski touched the sore spots of sexism, male domination, and control of a women’s body in his American film debut with Rosemary’s Baby. Satan was a box office hit and had the bonus of an incubus birthed in Manhattan. What would they think of next? Simians taking over the earth? Well in fact that is what happened in Planet of the Apes, another high grossing sensation. One might conjecture that the way things are going with all the monkey business in our nation’s capital, maybe we should let another species run things. But returning to 1968, customers loved their science fiction and they were enthralled by what many consider the greatest film in the genre – 2001: A Space Odyssey. This collaboration between author Arthur C. Clarke and producer Stanley Kubrick seemed to have a special attraction for viewers who primed themselves with hallucinogens or a few joints before floating into their seats. The cult following vaulted 2001 to the number one spot for sales and it has had remarkable staying power in succeeding decades. Perhaps because it anticipated Artificial Intelligence and the possibility that machines could go haywire. Don’t scoff at the latter notion, computers really do have glitches on occasion. Crash.

Sometimes benign aliens hotfooted to planet earth. Erich Von Daniken proposed such a scenario in Chariots of the Gods, a best seller constructed on the pillars of pseudo-science and plagiarism. According to the imaginative German author, extraterrestrial species visited ancient civilizations and conferred the best of their technological knowledge and wisdom to primitive inhabitants scampering around in loincloths. After depositing discernment and advanced know-how, the outsiders zoomed away. Some may speculate they wanted to be spared the distress of watching The Kardashians; or worse, Fox News. Sigh, mental poverty has no limits. When in doubt, blame the Mexicans! Arthur Hailey did in Airport. Hailey’s culprits accidentally steered an airplane into a snowbank and blocked a runway. Clunk. Meanwhile another pilot aborted his flight and attempted to return to the airport during the middle of a gravely dangerous Chicago blizzard. Is there any other kind? The skipper wanted that runway. He needed that runway. Problems multiplied when a crackpot tried to blow up the plane. Some passengers were frightened. Making matters worse, Mel, the man responsible for directing traffic and averting a disaster was distracted because he was having marital problems. Apparently his wife was angry because he was wooing a divorced stewardess. What a seductive saga. Critics panned it, readers loved it; and two years hence, Burt Lancaster starred in the film version. It was also well-received in that medium with many claiming the movie was better than the book.

Moving from fiction to fact, if you flew south of the border you could witness another drama. Mexico City hosted the Olympics in ’68 and although the U.S. would dominate the athletic events, including 15-year-old Debbie Meyer winning three gold medals in swimming events, the summer spectacle was awash in political and international discord. Major boycotts were planned if South Africa participated, the apartheid regime yielded to the pressure and did not send athletes. Soviet judges cheated, nothing new there. The biggest uproar involved black athletes from America and Peter Norman from Australia. During a medal ceremony while the Star-Spangled Banner played, Tommie Smith and John Carlos stood on the podium and raised their fisted gloves in a “Black Power Salute”. In a show of solidarity, Norman wore a Human Rights badge. The response was swift and venomous. International Olympic President Avery Brundage had the American athletes expelled from the team. There would be no political saluting devilment on his watch; except for back in 1936, when he served on the Olympic Committee, he found nothing objectionable about Nazi salutes at the Olympics in Berlin. Brundage was still at the helm in ’72 when Israeli athletes were slaughtered but he insisted the Games must go on. Some observers suspected him of harboring anti-black and anti-Semitic sentiments, he denied this, and the old coot lived out his final years in bliss after wedding a 37-year-old German princess. He was 85 when they exchanged vows. This was before Viagra. Probably little in the way of marathons for those two.

Surely the rest of the sports world could offer some normality. Indeed it did. The Packer juggernaut marched along with predictability when Green Bay won Super Bowl II with a 33-14 victory over the Oakland Raiders. It was a mismatch. Detroit grabbed headlines for something other than riots when the Tigers defeated the St. Louis Cardinals in a thrilling seven game World Series. After a one year hiatus, the Boston Celtics got back on track beating up their old punching bag, the Los Angeles Lakers four games to two, to capture still another NBA crown. And years before he took up homicide, elusive O. J. Simpson won college football’s Heisman Trophy as he slashed through defenders to lead the USC Trojans to the national championship. That Simpson came by his talent naturally; others, maybe not. A dark foreshadowing of the future of sports reared its ugly head when mandatory drug testing was introduced at the Tour de France in reaction to the death of British cyclist Tom Simpson the year before. For the first time, Olympic athletes did likewise – just right this way and piss in the bottle, please. So much for a dirty, poorly kept secret, those East German and Soviet competitors who could lift a jumbo jet used performance enhancing drugs. There ya have it, goddamned atheistic Communists cheating again.

Surely music must have been a sanctuary from the reach of Lucifer. Alas no, even lyrics burned with tribute to the Wicked One, the Rolling Stones boldly said so with Sympathy For the Devil. That was clearly too sacrilegious for the taste of some so they turned to Merrilee Rush for relief and she provided it singing Angel of the Morning. Devils, angels, good heavens, the music charts were getting downright Spooky (The Classics IV). Yes, Those Were the Days (Mary Hopkin), and we thought they would never end. We just whirred along in fantasy on our Magic Carpet Ride (Steppenwolf), or were content to Dance to the Music, as Sly squealed, ” It was for people who only need a beat.” All harmless fun for sure, but 60s music could hardly go a few months without a little controversy; oh hell, a lot of controversy, and it came from an unlikely source – the country studios in Nashville. Tammy Wynette triggered a firestorm when she implored women to Stand By Your Man. The single was released in September and originally she didn’t even like it because of the high notes she had to hit and hardly expected the uproar that would ensue. Epic Records mischievously promoted it as “TAMMY WYNETTE’S ANSWER TO WOMEN’S LIB.” The timing was propitious as it managed to hit the raw nerves of the Feminist movement that was gathering steam, and a song that was meant to be just a filler ended up a classic. Tammy confessed she even came to like it. Sometimes things just grow on you. Like fame and royalty checks.

Tammy not withstanding, women kept protesting and with good reason, the civil rights theme of equality was contagious. Students continued protesting the Vietnam War in larger numbers, and protests swept France as well. The French probably weren’t sure why they took to the streets but saw others doing it so thought it was a good idea and imitated them. Citizens of Czechoslovakia knew why – they detested their Soviet oppressors. The Prague Spring described the modest trends toward reform introduced by Czech Communist leader Alexander Dubcek. Sensing that Moscow was losing its grip on a satellite nation, Soviet leader Lenoid Breshnev ordered 500,000 Warsaw Pact forces into the country to subdue the rebellious impulses. It sent a message to any other Eastern bloc rabble-rousers harboring notions of uprisings. The United States did protest Breshnev’s crackdown but was too trauma stricken to mount a more aggressive response. In addition to dealing with the festering sore of Vietnam, the anti-war demonstrations, and a raucous election year, a plague struck. The Hong Kong Flu reached pandemic proportions, claiming an estimated one million deaths worldwide, including 100,000 in America. The virus mutated and subsequent waves added to the fatality total. An exclamation point for a year of tribulation. And with it, a lesson was ignored – biology and evolution is no respecter of persons or politics.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1967: A SUMMER OF LOVE, AND THE LONG, HOT SUMMER

Descending into dreamland, your thoughts drift. A cascade of images filter through the fading contraceptive semi-conscious veil. Is that you wearing flowers in your hair? Maybe you whiff the scent of a seductive fragrance. Possibly a trace from your gleaming yellow floral adornment, or pungence wafting from snugly rolled paper aglow in all its intoxicating glory. Inhale deeply now to trap every wisp of this heady time warp. Where is this trip taking you?

In a purplish swirling flash you are beamed to San Francisco. To Haight-Ashbury. It’s 1967. What was in that little pill your comrade gave you? You’re acting funny and you don’t why. A haze is all around as you gaily glide through Haight during the Summer of Love. Maybe you can kiss the sky, or at least bundle with your intimate new mates. Many are just like you. To butcher a phrase from Timothy Leary: they are turned on, tuned in, and dropping out. The district is ground zero for the counterculture. Hippie heaven. Yes, love was in the air. Shed those inhibitions. Copulate to your heart’s content. Do your own thing. One-hundred-thousand bohemians packed in the euphoric nirvana can’t be wrong. All youth qualified for the orgy of elation and excess.

If the Bay Area wasn’t on the docket, buy a ticket, motion pictures could cue a heartbeat flutter. In The Graduate, a lovesick Dustin Hoffman finally snatched his bride (Katherine Ross), but only after bedding her bewitching mother (alluring Anne Bancroft). Illicit love and West Coast ecstasy; Berkeley style. Sometimes romance can be a tangled web. Maybe the English had a better idea. To Sir, With Love didn’t follow the usual formula, students loved their teacher, Sidney Poitier. Not in the carnal sense of course. It was an affair of admiration and respect. Sir had standards. A surefire prescription for a short career today.

Even the villains shared in the passion. Bonnie and Clyde loved each other and relished robbing banks too. The latter led to their downfall. A demise captured in a grisly finale that represented a watershed in the industry by pushing blood splatter past the censor grade. The hemorrhage continued. Apparently violence and carnage worked. Sometimes twelve-fold. The Dirty Dozen featured an all-star cast led by Lee Marvin in a World War II massacre mission. Sprinkle in a grain of gravitas as it was loosely based on an actual event. It engrossed the audience and was one of the top grossing films of the year. Superstar Paul Newman added to his aura when he took a bullet for moviegoers in his portrayal of a rebellious inmate shackled to a chain gang in Cool Hand Luke. A nod of tribute to the anti-hero. A rifle shot from a guard extinguished Luke’s body in the taut climax. But his free spirit endured. A metaphor for the sixties? The studios kept cranking out the crowd pleasers. In The Heat of the Night featured Poitier at the top of his game again. Alongside Rod Steiger (who won the Oscar for Best Actor), the daring film spoke to deep-seated bigotry in the South. It captured five Oscars and is considered a landmark in tackling racial relations via cinema.

1967 was certainly a banner year for movies as you never knew what would pop up next, and that was also true when a bride and groom cemented their relationship in holy wedlock. Sometimes would-be blissful unions encountered troublesome interference. Race mixing and love inflamed some heads. As a legacy of longstanding white supremacist traditions, anti-miscegenation laws were still on the books in Southern states. The 1924 Virginia Racial Integrity Act prohibited marriage between “whites” and ” coloreds”. Mildred Jeter (black) and Richard Loving (white) were sentenced to a year in prison for violating the statute. The honorable Supreme Court of Virginia unsurprisingly upheld the conviction. Would the United States Supreme Court be amenable to a reversal? A surprising outcome awaited. In the 60s the highest court in the land under Chief Justice Earl Warren consisted of more enlightened members than the bulk of current immoderate right-wing ideologues. Warren et al showered the Lovings with affection by unanimously vacating the prior decisions and declared all race-based restrictions on matrimony unconstitutional. The decree had profound impact. People wept. Others raced to wed and Loving Day is celebrated on June 12 in honor of the ruling. It also established precedent for legitimizing same-sex bonding. Although that was much longer in coming.

Justice does experience delays. In April, Muhammad Ali refused induction into the military and was summarily stripped of his Heavyweight title and primary source of income for three and half years. An all-white jury who heard his case delivered a damaging blow to the Black Achilles. He was declared guilty. Perhaps their decision had an underlying racial motivation. After the usual appeals sojourn, Ali was acquitted by the Supreme Court, not as many believe, on religious grounds, but because of a prior administrative error. Justice Thurgood Marshall, himself a warrior in due process battles for decades, and the first black to be appointed to the Supreme Court bench in August of ’67, had recused himself from the Ali 1971 hearing because of prior involvement. Still, the verdict was unanimous.

Elsewhere there was less peaceful resolution to racial tumult. Detroit experienced the worst riot in the U.S. since the 1863 Civil War New York City draft uproar. For five days the streets were aflame and it required the intervention of the Michigan National Guard, and the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions to squelch the mayhem. The casualty rate was significant, 43 died and nearly 1200 were injured. Two-thousand buildings were destroyed and 7200 people were arrested. It was just one incident in the Long Hot, Summer where civil unrest bubbled over in Atlanta, Boston, Buffalo, Milwaukee, Newark, and Rochester (reprise of ’64). Even Tampa participated in the tempest after a white police officer shot an unarmed black teen in the back. The young man subsequently died. The officer was acquitted. Imagine that.

With all the commotion the boomers needed music as a narcotic to ease the pain. Let’s resume your swoon as you ” Picture yourself in a boat on a river.” Ahh, you absorb a wave of psychedelic glitter of ” tangerine trees and marmalade skies.” And those diamonds in the sky are so sparkling. The Beatles have clearly struck the mother lode again. This time with Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, which would become among the most critically acclaimed albums in rock history. Score that as a major achievement for studio mastery, but it was back to the West Coast for the live fireworks. The Monterey Pop Festival in June was the main event on the year’s musical calendar and it brought the counterculture into the mainstream. Hendrix was there and beginning his ascent into rock stardom. The feisty Janis bawled and strutted her hour upon the stage, and so did the immortal Otis Redding who gave an intense, arousing version of I’ve Been Loving You Too Long. Monterey was later regarded as a tune-up for Woodstock. But the crowning triumph of the 60s Generation was two years and a continent away. At the time Monterey stood as a sensation in its own right.

All the spectacle was very exciting for sure, but even the most stout of the frisky youngsters needed a respite. Lighting up the incense and snuggling up for a relaxing read was often a nice diversion. The baby boomers incurred the disdain of stiff-necked, sexual and mental dullards in later years. Maybe they received an F for orthodoxy, however the offspring of the Greatest Generation were cerebrally facile. They could cope with provocative material such as William Manchester’s The Death of a President, released in November. The author was an admirer of President John F. Kennedy and the book was an account of the beloved leader’s lamentable assassination in Dallas. Jacqueline Kennedy commissioned the work and the former First Lady obliged Manchester with multiple interviews for the content, as did a host of others. One who did decline was Maria Oswald, the assassin’s widow. Perhaps she suspected it might present her husband Lee in a less than flattering light. Regardless, before it could be released, Manchester managed to antagonize everybody. Instead of he said, she said; it was he quoted what she (Jackie) shouldn’t have said. The Kennedys didn’t like it, LBJ and his staff didn’t like it. The public loved it. The sales ticker hit the million mark in a short time. What good is history if it doesn’t have bickering and a dash of scandal as part of the package? It even mentioned that Jackie smoked cigarettes. Who would have thought? Camelot going up in smoke. Certain revisions were made, then Manchester sped off to the hospital to enjoy his well-deserved nervous breakdown.

It was definitely not a good year for the Irish, why even the seemingly invincible Boston Celtics lost to the Philadelphia 76ers in the NBA finals. Chamberlain had his revenge on Russell at last. There was a reprieve for the fine folks and exemplary fans in Boston though. After years of futility on the baseball diamond, the Red Sox finally made it to the World Series. There they would fall prey to the St. Louis Cardinals, or more specifically to pitcher Bob Gibson. The hurler was an otherworldly figure: glaring, scowling, ferocious, indomitable. He was recovering from a broken leg which seemed to affect his temperament. He appeared more ornery than usual, and he broke the Boston hearts allowing only 3 runs in 3 games. He won the Most Valuable Player Award. One report even claimed Gibson smiled. Tom Landry never smiled. His Fundamentalist God didn’t permit joy. Grief would come to the stone-faced coach and his Dallas Cowboys on the last day of 1967 on the last play of the NFL Championship. The determined Packer quarterback Bart Starr nudged the ball in from the one yard line as players scrambled for traction on the frozen turf of Lambeau Field in Green Bay. In football lore, the contest has been dubbed the ” Ice Bowl” because of the glacial conditions where the recorded wind chill was – 48 F. It has made for a great conversation piece over a hot cup of coffee ever since.

A chill descended as the Summer of Love and the Long, Hot Summer wound into fall, then winter. In November the UN Security Council passed Resolution 242, declaring that Israel must return the land it seized in the 6-Day War earlier in the year. Israel refused, and the morass of competing interests made the Middle East an enduring political and diplomatic minefield for succeeding generations. That same month in an audacious act, Senator Eugene McCarthy announced he would challenge sitting president Lyndon Johnson for the Democratic nomination in 1968. McCarthy signaled intent to run on an anti-Vietnam War platform. LBJ felt secure, his commander of the American forces in Vietnam, William Westmoreland, assured him ” There is light at the end of the tunnel.” Military triumph was inevitable. U.S. forces were nearing their peak of half a million and engaging in their bloodiest exchanges in the conflict. There was growing skepticism about government claims, maybe McCarthy was onto something. Probably not. You don’t know because your slumber is interrupted. Tap, tap, tap. A big furry orange creature with big green eyes fix their piercing stare: somewhere a food bowl is empty. Reverie surrenders to the mundane. But somewhere in the recesses of your mental canvas the hum of an organ purrs. Did you really skip the light fandango? Perhaps another dream session awaits, perhaps another odyssey of love, and and perhaps even less hate in 68.