Money Talks

Daily writing prompt
If you had the power to change one law, what would it be and why?

One law? One change? So many goals. Such a small ability to change with only one alteration. But I know what I’d like to do: stem the river of contributions into our elective political system that were forced open by the Supreme Court’s “Citizens United” decision. Supposedly, a restoration of First Amendment rights, it has allowed incorporated entities to flood campaigns with money.

The old saying is that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Well, money in nearly unlimited quantities is the lubricant of corruption. Need money for your primary win, raise money. Your opponent is flush with cash from Pacts and corporations; get some of your own. I’m from New York City, where the saying “ Money talks and bullshit walks” is popular. I can’t imagine a situation where a politician gets big money without ties attached to it. Remember, Boss Tweed and Tammany Hall were New York City institutions. You get what you pay for.

It might be far-fetched to say that all the ills of our current political situation spring from one decision. But when the powerful disproportionately direct the way things are run, the general populace gets the leavings.

For a bit of background on Tammany ( and the dawn of modern-day political corruption), read about it in the short book: Plunkett of Tammany Hall. It’s a memoir of a Tammany Tiger related to a New York City journalist. The link is to a Project Gutenberg e-book. It’s revealing, amusing and educational: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2810/2810-h/2810-h.htm

Dictablanda

I sometimes see a prompt and have to sit on it for a while. I have to cogitate my veritabilities as my old friend Bill ( Captain Zero) used to say. This one, ” Books I’ve been given,” was one of those. Then it fell into focus. I went out to the porch and started paging through a shelf full of old ethnographies on Spain.

Back in the early seventies, way before Lou as an applied anthropologist, I was dedicated to going to Spain and doing my Ph.D research there, as my mentor in undergraduate anthropology had. By graduation in 1975, I had absorbed pretty much all the Spanish ethnography in English. And quite a few of those available in Spanish.

Dictadura And Dictablanda

Looming large in the background of these ethnographies were the events and personalities of the Spanish Civil War. Caudillos, Anarcho-Syndicalists, Falange, Franco, Primo de Rivera, and many more. And one phrase stuck out: Dictablanda Y Dictadura. Soft dictatorship ( blanda is soft in Spanish), versus hard ( dura is hard in Spanish). Soft dictatorship and hard dictatorship. Think about dictablanda as a sort of dictatorship in which the appearance of civil liberties is preserved. But not the essence. In dictadura You’ve got the big leader who violates civil liberties with impunity and without much excuse.

Many on the Left in the sixties and seventies perceived America as a dictablanda sort of place. If you were a minority, it was harder rather than softer. The Left packed up and left Dodge at the end of Vietnam, and with Civil Rights, they assumed, won. But many of us continued to see how big money talked. Yeah, we continued to think it was dictablanda.

This morning, listening to continued idiocy on the news, this prompt and hunting through the old shelf of ethnography, I started to wonder if it was slipping into dictadura.

I’ll leave you with a very brief Wikipedia articel on this, and let you connect the dots:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dictablanda

The Way Back When Machine

Daily writing prompt
What are your favorite websites?

Currently, I feel as though I’ve landed in the Way Back When Machine. It’s the 1960s again, and I trust nothing that comes out of our Federal Government. If the White House predicts blue skies, I check websites belonging to the BBC, CBC, and The New York Times to see if it will rain instead. If they say white collar crime is up, I check NPR, The Independent, and Marketplace to see if it is blue collar crime. I have a few others too, but those are the ones I’ll check first. Each gets its turn at critique and analysis.

History

Sometime after we shed Tricky Dicky Nixon, my trust in the government was, if not totally restored, allowed to expand. We seemed to generally have a competent, if sometimes bumbling, bureaucratic system that operated competently most of the time. Despite persistent stupidities, it wasn’t blatantly awful. I was even part of it for several years, and came to appreciate how dedicated GS employees tried to strike a balance. I was a GS 12 stroke something and learned firsthand how hard it was to get it right all the time.

Then came the results of the last Presidential election. Like many the dismantlement of that system that I had come to respect, if not totally trust, was hard to watch. It’s been replaced by sycophants that I can neither trust nor respect. Where I might have once merely read a bit of commentary, I am now forced to investigate.

No, wait. In truth, much of the time, there is no need for investigation. Much of the drivel coming out of the current administration is prima facie idiotic drool dripping out of the mouths of incompetent idiots. So you see, I am right back to the 1960s. And feel that I have somehow tumbled into a science fiction novel’s Wayback Time Travel Machine.

The 1960s. Oy! It was bad enough the first time around.

Today’s Politics and Abusive Relationships

The other day, I realized that as a country, the United States has become trapped in an abusive relationship. How would I know? I was in a few before therapy helped me realize that being abused was not how I wanted to live my life. Subsequently, I was able to extract myself from the abuse and built a healthy relationship with a wonderful woman. But I remember all the anguish of abuse.

Watching the news and reading the papers recently, it seemed to me that as a nation, we have gotten involved with a classic abuser. There is ongoing ridicule, gaslighting, intimidation, neglect, verbal abuse, and threats. There is no cranny or nook deep enough for you to avoid what gets thrown at you.

Watching clips of the news, I recalled similar behavior from a woman I thought I loved. Like many in the country these days I felt that my abuser could and would change. I accepted my guilt for the things I was told were wrong with me. And most important of all, I could not believe that it was her, not me, who was violently wrong.

The day I confronted my abuser and ended the relationship was a great day of liberation for me and a day of anger for my abuser. She claimed that no one had ever walked out on her. I mentioned to her that there was a first time for everything.

Viewing the polls, I realize that broad segments of the population have yet to acknowledge the cost of the abuse, despite economic and personal losses. It’s incredibly hard to acknowledge that you are abused, confront the abuser, and leave them.

I can assure you of one thing. They need you lots more than you ever needed them. Leave.

You Gotta be kidding me!

Daily writing prompt
Describe your life in an alternate universe.

My life in an Aternate Universe? You gotta be kidding me! Been there and done that.

Through most of the 1960s, I lived in the Twilight Zone: Folkie Palaces with wall-to-wall mattresses for arriving and departing Pius Itinerants on pilgrimages, political activism ( have demonstration will travel), and much more. That’s just the surface. I still can’t reveal all the bad Vodoo. Do you have the correct security clearances?

Songs I never sang

Any, this morning I was drinking coffee and eating my breakfast cereal; nothing out of the ordinary. But the radio announcer was going on about the latest absurdities from the house formerly known as the White House, but now known as the headquarters for the Trump Occupation Zone. The announcer was mumbling something to the effect that The Donald was interested in an immediate and new Census—one that would not count, I assume, anyone who wasn’t a Republican. About that time, my mind started to drift back to that alternate universe I once experienced.

There I was, once again in the living room of my friends Bob and Chris – staunch IRA sympathizers. They had just done rehearsing a set of IRA inspired ballads, diatribes and other songs. They finished off with a chant I’d often heard them do:

The original song was part of a Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem medley. But my friends used the one verse as a sort of chant to signal the end of a performance set. The way they did it was very effective. And if from the songs they selected, you didn’t get it, that they were IRA supporters, this final chant nailed it.

So there I am awash in memory, disgusted by current events, and worried for the future of Civilization ( Yup! Capital C.), when the following ditty pops into my mind:

Audience Participation!

OK. Now, like all good folksingers, I have a participatory bit where you are expected to join in. I’ll know if you are sitting back there and being silent.

Hey you, over there! Don’t smirk, and pull on hair follicles from your nasal mustache!

Now, one, two, three, and four….

Now one more time, with feeling, and make sure to stomp your feet in time. If you really want to get into this, go over to your window, open it, stick your head out, and let the neighbors know how you feel about it! You hear that gal from a block over, and that dude from down the street! You’ve got a political movement! Once Again!

Very good. Now take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and relax. Gets the heart thumping, doesn’t it? Well, that’s it for now. I gotta check my schedule for tonight, and see if I’m on the schedule for any of the old coffeehouses I used to perform in. Comebacks are hard!

Bought

Daily writing prompt
What would you change about modern society?

It’s well known to my family and circle of friends that I peg the end of the Vietnam War as the point when many of my peers just walked away. They’d been involved in anti-war and civil rights activities for years. They had been ardent warriors for peace and civil rights. Now the causes won, and the dealer had dealt the last hand. It was time to settle in for a well-deserved rest. So, for those with the resources, it was back to college, grad school, or into dad’s brokerage firm. Nice middle to upper-class lives beckoned.

Into the gap eventually flowed an abundance of opposition from fundamentalist, right-wing, and reactionary groups. My former peers, themselves settling into more conservative roles in society, assured themselves that the arc of society was now set on nobler ends. It was OK. Surely things would not revert to some 1950s status quo?

Well, over the past decades, the rich have gotten richer, and the rest of us have stayed in a rut. Investigate if you will how candidates generate revenue for campaigns. Then tell me, convincingly, that the candidate is not bought. I don’t know about you, but when I spend money on a product, I expect something in return. Now don’t glower at me for pointing out a basic fact of economics.

The dinosaurs are long departed, and it remains to be seen whether American Democracy will join them. My advice to all of you who don’t vote? Get out the vote. But before you do, take a bit of effort to find out who’s spending money on the candidates—a bought democracy is no democracy.

PEJORATIVE!

I don’t know about you, but I’ve started running out of expressive expressions that let people really know how I feel about the turkey turds in Washington. Mere obscenities just don’t cut it anymore.

Just as I was bout to despair, my son introduced me to the Rude Compounds on Reddit. Someone cross-referenced the use of compound pejoratives on the site. Damn. The choices are huge. No blogger should be without this handy tool. Choose an expletive deleted from one side and match it up with a corresponding one that suits your mood.

Now you refer to your favorite politicans as a doucehwaffle, piss clown, wank goblin or other terms of endearment. Yup, next time wonder lad from Utah make some real idiot comments about assasinated politicians let your inner angst rip by labeling him a butt clown or a wank wit.

It’s almost too good to be true.

By the way, I’m surprised that the WP AI agreed to make the illustration for this. Even AIs, I guess, have low opinions of the political caste!

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Rotten?

Daily writing prompt
How do you want to retire?

At age seventy-eight, I am still working, contributing to a retirement plan, and saving for a future retirement. I’m still playing catch-up from the disruption caused by the “Reinvention of Government” under Bill Clinton. I’m my own analyst at running the numbers every month as I review the accounts, and worry about what the latest political idiocies will do to my future retirement, and my abilities to withstand the stresses the politicians invent to keep me agile and working into my eighties.

I frankly feel that the political caste should share the pain equally with the rest of us. Politicians should have been reinvented out of existence with my job. Congress should have exactly the same healthcare travails as we rank-and-file citizens, and the examination of waste in government should start right where it begins in Congress and the White House.

Enough bull shit about government workers, welfare, social security, and cheats. We should root it out right where it starts, at the top. Or as an old Spanish proverb has it – “A fish rots from the head down.”

John’s Art of the Con

eagle weathervane

This is the original story that featured my “not quite a friend” John the con artist. I based this and other stories in the series on a real person we knew, and theings he actually said and did.

In my early adult years, I moved around, plying the trade of a Pious Itinerant. To wit, I was a folksinger. I first performed in coffeehouses in New York’s Greenwich Village, but moved on to Boston, New Hampshire, Philadelphia, D.C., Maine, and importantly for this story, Baltimore.


Baltimore was an essential stop in my periodic ramblings not because the coffeehouse scene was so good for me, but because some of my best friends lived there. Bob and Chris had a house open to all wanderers. Life at their home in the ’60s was exciting. There were political radicals of all stripes, folkies like me, artists, and lots of people who just wandered in. Chris was the emotional den mother of this band of unlikely cohabitors. Almost anything could happen during a night of round-robin folksinging, political discussion, and sometimes body ( and bawdy) art.


An occasional visitor was John, no known last name, no known previous residence. John was a self-declared “artiste of the con.” He claimed to be so good that he had run a successful rent scam on several of the disreputable fortune-telling parlors downtown. He convinced them, in his tale, to pay their rent to him after convincing them that he had purchased the properties. He’d go to city records to get some official-looking public documents for their specific addresses and convince the fortuneteller to fork over their rents. The con was a onetime only scam, but lucrative. It was also dangerous; some of those folks played rough when they discovered they’d been conned. I believe that was what led to John’s sudden departure from Baltimore.
Before John split town, he decided during one night of alcoholic fug to impart to me what he humbly called “John’s Art of the Con.”

1.) A good con artist enrolls the fish in the scam. The fish becomes a collaborator. If and when the swindle collapses, the fish is too embarrassed to turn in the artiste.

2.) Be honest in all the little things; this lowers the level of suspicion when you tell a whopper. A corollary to this is that a half-truth is much more effective than a whole lie.

3.) Be generous. Gifts to charity help establish your bone fides as a pillar of the community and place you above suspicion.

4.) Don’t be greedy. Most scams artists get caught because they don’t know when to stop.

5.) Don’t involve family or close friends; you need them for protective cover when things go south.

There were others, but considering the amount of beer consumed that evening I am surprised that I remember these.
The one rule that truly stuck with me was number one because it was later confirmed by people who had worked in the intelligence field.
Conversations with a colleague working in criminal justice and a friend in corrections suggested that few career criminals have the discipline needed to apply the rules coherently or consistently. This explains why so many “smart” criminals are in prison, as my C.O. friend points out.

That’s where it pretty much rested until the mid-’90s. I was traveling into the Mid-Atlantic for an in-water boat show. After setting up the afternoon before the show started, I retreated to my hotel room for a shower and a nap before dinner. I rarely watch T.V., but when I travel, I’ll turn on the hotel set to see if I’m missing anything. That afternoon I was surprised. The spokesperson for a Congressman was making an announcement about the Congressman’s upcoming reelection bid. It had been thirty years, but there was something about the guy that seemed familiar. The hair was thinner, there were jowls and about twenty excess pounds around the waist. But, the diction, the facial expressions, the choice of words, and the hand gestures were all John.

John was one of the smart ones. He had latched onto a long-running scam with a low conviction rate.
It was really our fault. We had thought John was a petty scam artist. In fact, he had higher aspirations.

A Contenda!

This time of year, I spend just a bit more time watching TV or on my computer, watching politicians offer warm and sincere feelings of brotherly love, joy, and best wishes for the New Year. 

Just the week before, they’d been snarling about jailing the miscreants who opposed them in their righteous campaign against whatever idiot cause their aides had fabricated for them to rant about. But having grown weary of the negative, they find themselves transformed by the nature of the season of joy.

One can grow weary of watching the rapt and rapturous expressions that have overtaken these virtuous warriors as they lay down their innuendos, sneers, and threats of legal sanctions. All is peace and joy as they tape the 10-—or 15-second spot for their constituents.

Okay, I’m not a child, so I’ve watched this “Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” transformation countless times over the years. Once I get past the hypocrisy, I find myself admiring the bravura performance. In the words of Marlon Brandon’s character in On the Waterfront :

“I coulda had class. I coulda been a contenda. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let’s face it.”

Absolutely, they coulda have been somebody instead of a bum.