Christmas with Hendrix and the Beats

hendrix

From an odd little Christmas story, well told:

I took a seat on one of the pews several rows back from the front. They began playing a tape Allen Ginsberg had sent from somewhere upstate for the occasion, reading his poetry in his distinctive cadences, cheerful no matter the subject matter. Ginsberg’s chant was filling the church when I smelled a woosh of patchouli oil to my right. I turned just as Jimi Hendrix slid in and sat down next to me.

What planet was Hendrix from? He didn’t hang around very long on this one, but his spirit lingers.

third douglass

Swamp Rabbit had commandeered my laptop and was reading aloud from a column by David Blight, who got rave reviews for his recently published biography of abolitionist orator and writer Frederick Douglass:

Douglass left a timeless maxim for republics in times of crisis: “Our government may at some time be in the hands of a bad man. When in the hands of a good man it is all well enough.” But “we ought to have our government so shaped that even when in the hands of a bad man we shall be safe.”

The bad man in Douglass’s world was President Andrew Johnson, an unreconstructed racist who was impeached but very narrowly avoided being kicked out of office.  But Blight, in his column, was also making a point about our current president — who is as bad as Johnson, or worse — and the flaws in the Constitution that allow truly rotten presidents like Donald Trump and Johnson to abuse the power of the office in a big way.

“Them Founding Fathers really blew it,” Swamp Rabbit said.

He explained that there’s no legal remedy for a president who sucks up to foreign dictators. A president who wants to scuttle healthcare reforms, stir up hatred of minorities and foreigners, sabotage efforts to slow climate change, and use the presidency as a vehicle for further enriching  himself.

Impeachment is supposed to be an option, but a corrupt and/or mentally imbalanced president isn’t likely to be kicked out of office while the party he belongs to controls the House or Senate. (So much for checks and balances.) And there’s the 25th Amendment, but that wouldn’t work either.

“Them legal scholars don’t even know if a president can be indicted for committing crimes while in office,” the rabbit said. ” Or how to keep him from blowing up the world if he’s in a foul mood.”

“So how do we fix the problem, rabbit?” I said. “Does everything depend on what Robert Mueller finds?”

He called up an article by a psychiatrist who, together with a bunch of other shrinks, devised a plan that would require a president-elect to take a fitness-for-duty exam before assuming office. She explained that the test would measure “trust, discipline and self-control, judgment and critical thinking, self-awareness and empathy,” just like the U.S. Army’s field manual.

“I saw that,” I said, “But how can a test prove what the shrink called psychological pathology? What if Trump’s bad behavior is part of a calculated effort to please the kooks and bigots that make up his base?”

“Them’s good questions,” the rabbit conceded. “The shrinks ain’t quite thought it through, I reckon.”

“So we’re stuck with a loose cannon who holds the nuclear codes,” I said. “What’s your solution?”

“I ain’t got one yet,” the rabbit said, closing my laptop. “I’d ask that Douglass dude, but he left the building in 1895.”

Terrible humans hire terrible humans

File this one under “It takes one to know one” :

President Trump has named Mick Mulvaney, the director of the Office of Management and Budget, as acting White House chief of staff.

In response to the announcement, Mulvaney tweeted: “This is a tremendous honor. I look forward to working with the President and the entire team. It’s going to be a great 2019!”

However, in a 2016 video surfaced by the Daily Beast, Mulvaney called Trump a “terrible human being,” just days before the presidential election.

Mulvaney is the pernicious little grifter appointed last year by Trump to sabotage the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, which Sen. Elizabeth Warren helped create to prevent payday lenders and other bottom feeders from fleecing the poor. After Mulvaney’s mission was accomplished, Trump sent him to the OMB.

Now Mulvaney is replacing John Kelly, the four-star bigot who couldn’t keep a lid on his contempt for Trump. The new chief of staff is as terrible as Kelly and should feel right at home in Trump’s Cabinet, a who’s who of terrible humans hand-picked to wreak havoc on the federal government.

I mean people like Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos, hired by Trump to help destroy the public school system; Andrew Wheeler, the former coal industry lobbyist (!) currently in charge of neutering the Environmental Protection Agency; Secretary of the Treasury Steve Mnuchin,  dubbed “the foreclosure king” after he made a fortune using deceptive business practices to help banks foreclose on legions of homeowners who fell behind on mortgage payments during the Great Recession.

There are many more, but I can’t go on, it’s too terrible. Pardon the Taxi Driver reference, but let’s just hope the Mueller probe and other investigations bring a real rain that washes Trump and all his scum out of the White House.

And let’s hope the rain comes before Trump does something really terrible in a last-ditch effort to stay in  office.

Digging deep for ‘new’ Beatles gold

I blew my mind out in a car, coming home from a gig in Bethlehem, PA, listening to “Glass Onion” on the radio. First Ringo’s snare and then bang, the whole bad-ass rhythm section and John singing I told you ’bout strawberry fields… Three verses altogether, with a bridge between the second and third. Oh yeah. The cryptic lyrical references to earlier Beatles songs. Each verse ending with Looking through a glass onion. The string section swooning up and down at the eerie fade-out.

I thought whoa, they don’t make them like that anymore, do they? As if to underscore my thought, the DJ instantly played “Glass Onion” again. Afterwards, she announced that she’d actually played two different versions of “Glass Onion,”  in connection with the recent release of a six-CD remix of the Beatles’ The White Album.

“I couldn’t tell the one version of the song from the other,” I told Swamp Rabbit when I got back to the shack. “They both sounded great. I’d buy the whole boxed set if I could afford it.”

“Why do a fool thing like that?” the rabbit grumbled. “It’s a lot cheaper to download.”

I had to think about that. You could argue that the purchase would be worth it. Co-producer Giles Martin — son of George Martin, the “fifth Beatle” — did a great job of giving The White Album a “sonic tune-up” without messing around too much with the group’s artistic intentions.

But you could also argue that it’s pathetic of me to think about satisfying my craving for new music by purchasing yet another expensive remix of 50-year-old Beatles songs, even if the sound quality is great.

“What you care about sound quality?” the rabbit said. “The only CD player you own is the one in your beat-up old laptop.  Just use your phone.”

My drunken friend had a point. I’m no audiophile, and the culture has changed. Technology marches on. CDs are becoming a thing of the past as streaming services take over. Recorded music has become more mobile, more affordable, more disposable.  This is good for casual listeners but bad for new artists, who can’t make nearly as much money on streamed recordings as artists made on vinyl and CDs in the old days.

I thought of those miners in South Africa who have had to dig thousands of feet farther underground to find new gold. How much deeper can the record companies dig before they extract the last classic-rock nuggets?

“Where are the new mines, the new sounds, the new artists for the ages?” I said.

“Maybe they’re out there, maybe they ain’t,” the rabbit replied. “One thing for sure is you ain’t gonna find them by living in the past.”

Footnote: There are 125 tracks in all, if you count the demos and session takes. As one snarky critic put it: “The market for a set like this is limited to fetishists and completists and that strange baby-boomer contingent that can’t quite let go of the idea of actually owning one’s own music.” I’m still in the latter category — I like liner notes and cover art and so on — but I’m not buying the boxed set.

Will media admit to being duped? Nope

I’ll bet a lot of reporters and editors and talking heads hated Krugman for pointing out the obvious a week before the midterms:

False equivalence, portraying the parties as symmetric even when they clearly aren’t, has long been the norm among self-proclaimed centrists and some influential media figures. It’s a stance that has hugely benefited the GOP, as it has increasingly become the party of right-wing extremists.

Too many peeps means too few penguins

penguins
African penguins commiserate at Lehigh Valley Zoo

Swamp Rabbit and I were on a sales job at the zoo, discussing what should be done about humans who destroy rainforests in order to expand production of palm oil and soybeans and so on. And how about the greedy owners of  those commercial fisheries who are helping kill off the African penguins?

“We should chop ’em into little pieces and feed ’em to the penguins,” the rabbit said.

He told me it’s not only fishing industry bosses who are villains, it’s the whole human race. It’s the fact that this sub-species of penguin, which is unique to southwestern African coastal areas, is running out of places to breed because human settlements keep expanding.

“But what are people supposed to do?” I said. “Just stop moving into places where wildlife live?”

“You got it,” he said. “There are way too many peeps, Odd Man. It’s time to cull the herd.”

Obviously, he was still reeling from the recent news that humans have wiped out 60 percent of the world’s wildlife since 1970. I was sorry I showed him the news story.

We strolled past a little water park reserved for North American river otters,  a woodsy patch for Mexican gray wolves (another  endangered sub-species),  a raccoon in an outdoor holding pen, and a porcupine and skunk in another. The long circular trail eventually took us back where we started. A zookeeper was feeding big chunks of fish to the penguins.

“Zoos give me the blues,” Swamp Rabbit said. “They ain’t nothing but jails, even the nice ones.”

“Not true,” I replied, watching the penguins chow down. “This zoo beats that shack in Tinicum where I live. The food here is better, too.”

Trump’s snake oil still potent

Yesterday I showed Swamp Rabbit a line from a pre-election news story:

Two years of political volatility will culminate Tuesday, when voters for the first time since the stunning 2016 election render a nationwide judgment on whether Trumpism is a historic anomaly or a reflection of modern-day America.

Now it’s Wednesday and the people have spoken. Trumpism isn’t an anomaly, it’s a reflection of the deeply held beliefs of more than 40 percent of American voters.

Trump has slurred Latinos, mocked the physically disabled, bragged of being a pussy grabber. He has declared bankruptcy six times, championed a massive tax cut for the one percent, gutted the EPA, tried to kill Obamacare, antagonized America’s closest allies, started an ill-advised trade war with China, embraced Vladimir Putin and other dictators, obstructed the Justice Department’s ongoing probe of Russian interference in recent elections, and much more.

Trump’s fans don’t flock to him in spite of his beastliness; they flock to him because of it. They look in the mirror and see him. He knows his base is solid, which is why he campaigned so hard in the midterms for candidates who are almost as hideous as he is, but not as popular — Ted Cruz, Rick Scott and so on. His personal intervention arguably helped Republicans maintain control of the Senate and hurt African American candidates for governor in Georgia and Florida.

“You don’t know that for sure,” the rabbit said.  “Maybe them peckerwoods was just doing what they thought was best for them.”

“They were doing what Trump said was best,” I replied. “They were voting for protection from elitists and Muslim terrorists and uppity blacks and armies of Central American who were coming to steal their jobs.”

I told him that Trumpism in its natural state is a brand of snake oil that first caught on with blue-collar Democrats who backed George Wallace in 1968 and thus helped ensure the election of Richard Nixon.  The brand became more potent over the decades as clever right-wing propagandists worked to convince “Middle Americans” that blacks and feminists and heathens and sinister socialists were responsible for the ongoing decline in their standard of living.

“That’s just a lot of talk,” the rabbit said. “What’s it got to do with Trump?”

“He’s the guy who mainstreamed the brand,” I replied. “Only a master con man can sell snake oil on such an enormous scale, at just the right time.”

He stood up and glared. “You ain’t gonna start comparing Trump to them dictators again, I hope.”

“You said it,” I said. “Not me.”


Footnotes: The U.S. is still split in half, just as it was before the Civil War… Yes, Democrats recaptured the House. Not by much, but it’s a start… Whatever happened to that investigator? Mueller, I think his name was.


The scariest story of them all

Swamp Rabbit was trying to choose the Halloween week’s scariest story. It was Donald Trump threatening to rescind the 14th Amendment, he said. Or it was Trump’s statements blaming the media for the pipe bomb mailings and the slaughter of 11 Jews in Pittsburgh.

I shook my head and showed him a news story that was even spookier than the pre-election behavior of Agent Orange and his henchmen:

Humanity has wiped out 60% of mammals, birds, fish and reptiles since 1970, leading the world’s foremost experts to warn that the annihilation of wildlife is now an emergency that threatens civilisation.

The new estimate of the massacre of wildlife is made in a major report produced by [the World Wildlife Federation] and involving 59 scientists from across the globe. It finds that the vast and growing consumption of food and resources by the global population is destroying the web of life, billions of years in the making, upon which human society ultimately depends for clean air, water and everything else.

“That ain’t news,” the rabbit said. “Everybody knows about over-fishing, and that most land animals are gonna get wiped out to make room for soybean fields to feed all them chickens and cattle that humans eat.”

But that’s crazy, I told him. Too many extinctions would upset the balance of nature forever. We’d be looking at a drastic decrease in the number of people in the world, especially after you figure in global warming.

He sipped  from a pint bottle of bourbon. “The world can afford to lose a few billion peeps. Ain’t no other way to sustain all them ecosystems and get the climate under control.”

I glared at him. “That’s pretty cold-blooded, rabbit. You’re talking about human beings, not termites.”

“Do the math,” he said, shrugging. “Think about all them pandemics waiting to happen. And the lack of fresh water.”

I showed him a story about how the Trump gang wants to freeze fuel-efficiency standards for cars and trucks because it’s already too late to keep the world from warming by seven degrees by century’s end.

“You’re a nihilist, just like Trump,” I said.

Au contraire,” he replied. “I’m just a jaded old swamp rabbit. He’s president of the United States.”

Footnote: The book to read is The Sixth Extinction by Elizabeth Kolbert. But be careful, it might drive you to drink.

If you’re going to lie, lie bigly

“Sure,” he said. “I worked for some sidewinder who sold junk furniture to poor peeps.  He could lie about anything. He showed some old lady a broken old rocking chair and said this here’s an antique, Abe Lincoln owned it. She said don’t tell me that, I ain’t no fool. But she was laughing. He kept at it and she bought the chair.”

I shook my head. “Trump is the president of the United States, not some junk dealer. He’s been trying to kill Obamacare since he got elected. He wants to protect insurance companies, not people with pre-existing conditions.”

The rabbit waved me off. “What he wants is to not get impeached, which might happen if the Dems do good in them midterms.  He’ll say anything to avoid that.”

I objected. Surely there’s a limit to the amount of lying Trump can get away with. There’s a point where even his most ardent fans will realize they’re being played.

“Ain’t gonna happen,” the rabbit said. “Most peeps like to be lied to, so long as you look them in the eye and sound like you mean it.”

The rabbit elaborated: Trump long ago mastered the art of the con. He knows that the best way to defend his lies is to tell more lies, because the media unfailingly report his lies as if they might be truths. And he knows his fans will believe his lies, or pretend to believe, because his lies are tailored to fit their fears and prejudices.

After ruminating, I had to agree. The bigger Trump’s lies, the more his fans believe him. Reporters are “enemies of the people.” Democrats aren’t the other party, they’re an “angry, ruthless, unhinged mob.” That “caravan” of migrants is a cover for “unknown Middle Easterners” heading toward the U.S. border with bad intent.

Trump’s fans thrill to this sort of talk, the way kids (and adults with short attention spans) thrill to superhero movies. They want Trump to be like the savior in that David Bowie song:

Someone to claim us, someone to follow
Someone to shame us, some brave Apollo
Someone to fool us, someone like you
We want you Big Brother

If you think I’m exaggerating, you haven’t seen videos of Trump exhorting enthusiastic rednecks at his get-out-the-vote rallies. You haven’t seen them laugh when he pretends to body-slam a reporter.

Autumn in Pennsyltucky

Swamp Rabbit and I had just finished another dreary sales trip and were driving home from Pennsyltucky, that vast stretch of Trump country that lies between Philly and Pittsburgh. Billie Holiday was on the radio, singing “Autumn in New York,” an elusively moody song, warm and fuzzy on the surface but elevated by Holiday’s irony to a bittersweet meditation on memory and loss.

At one point she drops the irony and sings Autumn in New York/Is often mingled with pain. It’s like a stab in the heart. I had to make an abrupt stop on the shoulder of the road to recover. This rattled the rabbit, who’d been dozing next to me.

“Why you stopping?” he shouted. “You having one of them mood swings?”

“My hope tank is on empty,” I replied. “We didn’t make any sales today. I was a fool to think I could save enough money to quit this job and be my own boss again and succeed at something that  would somehow cancel out all the disasters I brought on myself over the years.”

“Quit listening to that depressing shit,” the rabbit said. “Put on some happy music.”

He reached out and pushed a button on the dash to change the radio station. Billie Holiday went away. Some moron was singing I’m in love with your body, over and over.

I got the car back on the road and said, “Turn off that garbage, rodent, or you’re walking home.”

He pushed buttons until an NPR news report came on. A scientist said it was too late to save the planet from global warming. Donald Trump praised a congressman who body-slammed a reporter last year. Then he brushed aside evidence that a bunch of Saudis killed and dismembered a Washington Post reporter.

“There you go,” the rabbit said as the newsreader droned on. “Non-stop bad news. That should make you feel better.”

I resisted an urge to kick him out of the car. He was half-right. The news doesn’t make me feel better; it makes me feel vindicated. See, I told you the new dark age was coming.