Just Jake

America was going on the greatest, gaudiest spree in history.

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

Astute economists predict we're on the brink of another Roaring '20s, according to Axios.

"The economy may be close to consolidating years of technological advances—and ready to take off in a burst of productivity growth," Axios says. Those advances include digitization, AI, robotics, remote work, solar, and biomedicine.

A spree is overdue.

Although World War II drove three decades of productivity gains, that growth all but stopped in the 1970s. Despite a blip in the 1990s—attributable to computers—productivity has stagnated ever since.

But businesses have been investing in the new technologies over the past decade, and are mastering their use, Axios says. As a result, they're situated at the very bottom of a "productivity J-curve." 

They are ready to skyrocket. A survey by the World Economic Forum reveals 80% of businesses are accelerating digitization; 80%, remote work; and 50%, job automation. A big productivity leap is right around the corner.

That's just jake, as they would have said in the 1920's.

Bad Breaks

Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on
in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace,
like a clock during a thunderstorm.

— Robert Louis Stevenson

While 2020 brought misfortune to so many, it was kind to me—so much so, I often felt spooked. 

The things that went well for me all went exceedingly well, while the things that went wrong were without consequence.

I often felt like Jean-Paul Sartre's fearless skier, who enjoys such complete dominion over the slopes that he glides down them weightlessly, not even leaving tracks in the snow. (He is Sartre's metaphor for the unbounded ego.)

I felt like that skier, anyway, until last Sunday, when a fall on the ice in my driveway left me with five breaks in the bones that form my left ankle.

Now I'm an invalid; in pain and facing surgery; and will be laid up in a cast for over three months.

The caregivers in the ER were all quick to point out, "Just be happy you didn't conk your head on the pavement."

They were absolutely right, of course.

I'm happy I didn't hit my head. I'm also happy for the good neighbors who rushed to my rescue; for the ambulance drivers who arrived in 10 minutes and wheeled me out of the house and into the hospital; for the doctors and nurses on duty in the ER last Sunday, and for the surgeon who's going to install plates and screws in my leg next week; for sympathetic friends and relatives; for my oldest son, who played sitter while my wife finished her last week on the job (she's retiring); and for my wife, who's playing sitter now—and will for another 12 weeks, provided I behave.

As she pointed out, given the lockdown, I picked an excellent time to break five bones. Or the excellent time picked me.

She's sleeping right now and I'm perched on the sofa with my splinted leg up on a hassock. The only sounds are those of the windchimes outdoors, an occasional car on the road, and the tick-tock of the kitchen clock.

I pray for a quiet mind in 2021. "Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace," Stevenson said.

Even a fortunate son is liable to bad breaks.

How about you?  

Above: "Clock" by John Murray.

Christmas 1779

Christmases tended to be tough on the Father of Our Country.

In 1740, George Washington's boyhood home burned to the ground on Christmas Eve. The family sheltered in the cook-house for what the eight-year-old later called "a cheerless Christmas Day."

In 1753, while stationed on the frontier with the Virginia militia, Washington spent Christmas Eve at a trading post named Murdering Town, where his troops did battle with the French and Indians.

In 1759, during the couple's first Christmas together, George and Martha Washington stayed in separate rooms at Mount Vernon, because Martha was violently ill with the measles.

In 1776, on the darkest Christmas of the American Revolution, Washington crossed the Delaware.

In 1799, only two weeks before Christmas, Washington caught a wicked head cold and died.

Washington's Christmas of 1779 was quite a bit better.

The day saw the commander-in-chief and his Continental Army hunkered down in bucolic Morristown, New Jersey. 

Three weeks before, Washington had chosen the village as his army's winter quarters, because a nearby mountain chain made it invulnerable to British attack. He summarily ordered his troops to build log cabins to live in, and threatened the villagers with martial law, if they failed to open their homes to his officers. 

A merchant named Ford loaned his home to Washington, a house so luxurious it prompted George to ask Martha to travel from Mount Vernon to the Ford Mansion, to join him there for the holidays.

On Christmas Day, the couple dined in comfort in the Ford home; and while they dined, in a tavern two blocks away Benedict Arnold stood trial for war-profiteering—a charge he'd be cleared of, but barely.

Nine months later, Arnold would betray Washington, committing the deed that still makes his name synonymous with treason: conspiring to surrender West Point to the British.

A Cunning Plan

George Washington died of a throat infection 221 years ago this week.

But he almost didn't.

Aware he was dying—and afraid of being buried alive—Washington begged his personal secretary to assure him his body would not be interred until three days after his death. 

Accordingly, Washington lay on view in the "saloon" of Mount Vernon for the three days after his last breath.

But a certain Dr. William Thornton wasn't having it.

He had a cunning plan.

A European-trained physician, Thornton had been summoned to Washington's bedside three days before, in order to save the dying president through tracheotomy. Arriving late, Thornton found Washington not in bed, but "laid out a stiffened corpse" in a wooden casket in the saloon.

So the good doctor pivoted, as he described years later in a scientific paper:

"The weather was very cold, and Washington remained in a frozen state for several days," Thornton wrote. "I proposed to attempt his restoration, in the following manner: first to thaw him in cold water, then to lay him in blankets, and by degrees and by friction to give him warmth, and to put into activity the minute blood vessels, at the same time to open a passage to the lungs by the trachea, and to inflate them with air, to produce an artificial respiration, and to transfuse blood into him from a lamb."

Washington's relatives rejected Thornton's ghoulish plan, asking would it be right "to recall to life one who had departed full of honor and renown; free from the frailties of age; in the full enjoyment of every faculty; and prepared for eternity?”

Scorned, Thornton asked the family to consider replacing Washington's wooden casket with a lead one, so the dead president might some day be removed from Mount Vernon to the new US Capitol.

The family gave the late president his lead coffin; but the body still lays in the family vault, just a stone's throw from the saloon.

Above: George Washington's life mask.

December 1943

You are the fairy tale told by your ancestors.

― Toba Beta

Think you have it rough this Christmas, snowflake?

Our forebears had it rougher.

I wouldn't trade all of 2020 for a day during 1943.

In December of that year, a planetary war was raging and America was "in the midst of fully mobilizing," says archivist Kevin Thomas.

"For families looking forward to celebrating, if such a sensation were practicable, the resources to do so were as strained as they would be for the entire war—both materially and emotionally."

In December 1943, Thomas notes, the buildup to D-Day was in full force. Americans heard the president on the radio on Christmas Eve announce that General Eisenhower would lead the invasion.

Around the country, Americans not in uniform competed for jobs and housing. Paychecks were frozen. Inflation was rampant. Unions were striking and Blacks rioting. The government had to nationalize the railroads and coal mines to assure their operation. And women had to go to work full time in shipyards and tank factories.

In December 1943, you had to use stamps to buy meat, coffee, bread and butter—and you couldn't buy a new pair of shoes, an icebox, tires, or a car. 

Often you ate meatless dinners from your Victory Garden, and your Christmas dinner likely came from a box of Kraft Mac & Cheese. You didn't dare drive anywhere for the holidays—there was no gas, your tires were bald, and the cops were on the lookout for "nonessential travelers." 

If you had any money and wanted to give someone a Christmas gift, it was likely going to be a war bond.

But you knew you had it a lot better than the millions of Americans in uniform stationed overseas—particularly those in the combat theaters.

Above: Freedom from Fear, Norman Rockwell. 1943.

Party of the Rich

This would fix what is a significant burden on our society.

— Kenny Turnage

The very week a 50-year study of tax-cuts for the rich hammered the final nail in trickle-down economics' coffin, a rising Republican star in California was fired from his appointed office for advising governments to let Covid-19 "cull the herd" of children and the poor—a firing that came the same day we learned Trump and his toadies at HHS had been advocating the very same policy all summer.

It's hard sometimes to tell whether Republicans have been reading Ayan Rand or Madison Grant. But, being Christmastime, more likely they've been feasting their eyes on Charles Dickens.

You'll recall from A Christmas Carol Scrooge's embrace of GOP-style Malthusianism in response to a charity canvasser:

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute."

“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.

“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

“And the union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“The treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigor, then?” said Scrooge.

“Both very busy, sir.”

“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge.

“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned—they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."

Economist Thomas Malthus, popular when A Christmas Carol appeared in 1843, believed that global famine was inevitable, given population growth, and that governments should therefore promote mass human extinction.

Why so many members of the GOP today embrace Malthus's "life-boat ethics"—and do so proudly—should come as no surprise to anyone.

Since the Gilded Age, the GOP has—and always shall remain—the party of the rich, the party of the greedy, the party of Scrooge.

What's in a Name?

American code names since 1989 have been designed for PR value.

— Matthew Stibbe

Few members of the public know that, when the White House couldn't find a name for its vaccine rapid-development program, 14-year-old Barron Trump came up with "Operation Warp Speed." 

With a nod of the head, his family voted to adopt the name around the Sunday evening dinner table.

The program has delivered, but the name has not, turning millions of Americans off to the vaccine.

The worry they consistently invoke: the vaccine was rushed, and therefore isn't safe.

Now the hapless Administration is scrambling to launch a $300 million trust-building ad campaign.

If only Trump had been more at home on Pennsylvania Avenue, and less on Madison Avenue, he'd have listened to his career scientists instead of a 14-year-old. 

Many more Americans would be sanguine about their shots.

Career scientists, after all, named "The Manhattan Project, "Gemini," and "The Genome Project."

A perfectly pedestrian code-name like "Luke," "Operation Jade" or "The Bethesda Project" would have calmed nerves, saved lives, saved money, and sped reopening.

We can thank the Germans for pioneering the use of code-names for military operations during World War I. 

Their use really took off during World War II, when Churchill—a man of words (and deeds)—took the time to instruct his government on the wise choice of code-names.

In a typewritten memo, Churchill advised that operations should not be named by code-words that convey overconfidence; disparage the operation; trivialize the operation; or reveal the nature of the operation.

He advised, instead, that code-names derive from ordinary words used out of context; or from proper names, such as those of the gods and heroes of antiquity, famous racehorses, and British and American warriors of the past.

"Care should be taken in all this process," Churchill concluded. "An efficient and a successful administration manifests itself equally in small as in great matters."

In keeping with Churchill's dictums, Alan Turing's codebreaking operation at Bletchley Park was named "Station X;" the invasion of North Africa was named "Operation Torch;" and the Yalta Conference was named "Argonaut."

Churchill himself came up with the code-name for D-Day, "Operation Overlord."

"American code names since 1989 have been designed for PR value," says brand consultant Matthew Stibbe. 

And the danger therein? 

That the name undoes the accomplishment.

Thinking Cap

Yesterday, I toured Delaware's Fort Dupont, built by the federal government during the Civil War to protect Philadelphia, and decommissioned at the end of Word War II. During the latter conflict, the fort, besides protecting Philly from U-boats, housed over 3,000 German POWs.

Delaware's acute manpower shortage in 1944 prompted the Army to put the POWs to work. Under light guard, captured Germans soldiers and sailors worked inside Fort Dupont as dishwashers, waiters, grocers, butchers and groundskeepers; and in nearby communities, as farmhands, canners, chicken processors, and garbagemen. German POWs even rebuilt the boardwalk at Rehoboth Beach. The Germans were treated with dignity, well fed and clothed, and paid for their labor—40 cents a day.

While the Army was roundly criticized by The Philadelphia Inquirer for "coddling" the Germans—columnists called Fort Dupont the "Fritz Ritz"—few civilians knew the Army, under pressure from Eleanor Roosevelt, had undertaken a massive "reeducation" effort designed to denazify the POWs.

The effort, led by Eleanor and a committee of Ivy League educators, comprised a kind of "barbed-wire college" where critical-thinking courses were taught, using subjects like civics, history, geography, art, film, music, and literature.

At least half of the German POWs—draftees in Hitler's armed forces—required little in the way of coursework to become denazified; but just as many—avid, vicious and fanatical fascists—required intensive instruction. The educators found these Nazis, regardless of age, to be "intellectually and ideologically adolescent," lacking all self-awareness and prone to accepting propaganda as fact (they believed, for example, Hitler's claim that the Luftwaffe had leveled New York, and were shocked to learn the city still stood).

By the end of the war, over 370,000 German POWs in America graduated barb-wire college. Student assessments were positive. "Most now know that there is only one superman and that he is an American reporter on the Daily Planet," one educator wrote.

As coincidence would have it, as I was touring Fort Dupont, home-grown Hitlerites were massing in downtown Washington. The coincidence led me to wonder: Do we need another reeducation effort? And how timely Dr. Jill is an educator!

Wunderkind

I remember at age 12 riding with friends on the Tubes downtown, to visit a men's hat shop off Herald Square, where I bought a Greek fisherman's cap to go with my new wire-rim glasses.

I remember, too, how happy we always were to hear Cousin Brucie play yet another new Beatles tune on the radio, and to find yet another new album by the band gracing the front rack of the record store.

I loved how John referred to boys as "lads," girls as "birds," and friends as "mates;" how he made wise-ass statements during interviews and released inane tape recordings at Christmas; how he wore mod glasses and hats; how he'd been born in the midst of a Nazi air raid and given the middle name Winston; and how he seemed to have wisdom beyond his years.

The Beatles were as puzzled by their overnight success in America as anyone. But I never was.

The band, after all, had songs like "Help," "All My Loving," "Help," "We Can Work It Out" and "Nowhere Man." 

The band had John.

I read a comment on social media today, oh boy, by someone who couldn't remember the name Mark David Chapman or his motive, and I realized 40 years is a long, long time. It just doesn't feel like it. 

Life is very short.

Panacea

Americans—boosterish businesspeople, in particular—are being lulled into believing the forthcoming Covid-19 vaccine is a panacea, a "universal remedy."

It isn't.

According to the new issue of Health Affairs, at the current rate of confirmed new infections per day, over 160,000 Americans will die in the six months after the vaccine's rollout.

Those deaths alone are enough to scare people into avoiding stores, malls, movie theaters, concerts, sports events, conventions, tradeshows, airports and other places where crowds gather.

The optimism is mistaken.

Panacea entered English in the 16th century. It derives from the Latin name given by the Ancient Romans to various herbs thought to cure illnesses. 

The Romans borrowed the word from the Greek panakeia, or "cure-all." The Greek god of healing, Asclepius, had a daughter named Panacea. Her name became synonymous with medicinal plants.

The vaccine is coming, but it isn't the cure for what ails us.

Time is.

Parting Words

The application for injunctive relief presented to Justice Alito and by him referred to the Court is denied.

— The Supreme Court

For better or worse, I've been basting Trump on Goodly since November 28, 2016, for the threat to decency and democracy he represented.

Note the past tense: represented.

Yesterday, with only 18 words, the Supreme Court parted Trump from the office he has soiled.

As Trump fades into obscurity—he's already fading by the moment from this writer's thoughts—take heart in one thing.

Obscurity is forever.

Vaccine against Fake-Believe

Typically, conservatives stand in the way of economic recoveries. 

This time round, antivaxxers do.

Unless at least 85% of Americans are vaccinated against Covid-19, a rebound remains out of reach, according to Anthony Fauci.

But most Americans will never get the jab, if antivaxxers have their way.

Like those of the QAnon followers, antivaxxers' kooky beliefs rest on conspiracy theories: Covid-19 is a Democrat hoax; a Chinese weapon; a 5G side effect; a "plandemic" hatched by Bill Gates; a Commie plot to insert tracking devices in our arms; an evil inventor's dastardly scheme to control our thoughts.

Fortunately such nonsense is assailable, says Cambridge psychologist Sander van der Linden, through a method he calls prebunking.

Prebunking works like a vaccine against disinformation.

Because it's so "sticky"—able to overshadow real news—disinformation can't be debunked, van der Linden says; the only cure is to prebunk it with a strong dose of reality.

Van der Linden's fake-believe "vaccine" comes in the form of a warning. 

Through behavioral studies, the psychologist found that when believers of disinformation are informed they're being manipulated, they tend to question, if not reject, false claims, and become less willing to share them.

Much like a stop light, van der Linden's vaccine works because the warning ("You're being manipulated!") interrupts our processing of news—which is unconscious—and forces us to slow down. 

At slower speeds, we no longer accept news at face value. Our brainwaves, as it were, become disinformation-resistant.

An effective way to warn conspiracy-theory believers they're being manipulated, van der Linden adds, is to acknowledge actual conspiracies in history.

Reminding or informing them, for example, that Richard Nixon once duped the whole country suggests that they, too, can be deceived by wrong-doers.

Dim Bulbs

Stupid people have all the answers.

― Socrates

No industry—events included—is spared its share of dim bulbs.

You encounter them every day on social media platforms, where they continue to insist the pandemic is "fake" and that Covid-19 precautions are a "Socialist plot against America."

I encountered a dim bulb recently: a CEO who, ironically, runs a company that sells light bulbs to tradeshow exhibitors. 

The proud leader of a "dream team" (according to his company's cheesy website), he went ballistic when I questioned his dimwitted thinking.

Our confrontation began when an accomplished events-industry journalist I follow posted a comment on LinkedIn.

She lamented the fact that the states are inconsistent about their Covid-19 precautions concerning crowd-sizes.

"It's only gonna get worse under Biden," the CEO shot back, ignoring the fact that states set the rules. 

"He's not about business, like he claims. All shows are moving dates. Exhibitors are getting pissed. ISC WEST moved from March to July now. Then what? Canceled again. Either just shut all shows down until we can get back to normal, with people interacting, or just open up and let who wants to come, come."

I replied to him, "So you're willing to risk the health and safety of attendees, so you can make money? Nice!"

The CEO replied, "Do you go to stores and shop or do you sit home by yourself? If the stupid masks worked, why is there still this widespread virus? Many stories of the tests not being accurate. You just need to stay home by yourself and think the Democrats didn't lie and cheat in the last four years. I see where you're from. Don't tell us how to live our lives. This is the USA."

I replied, "Not logical or informed."

The CEO replied, "Crawl back under your rock."

I replied, "I am in the majority of Americans. Sorry, pal."

The CEO replied, "Sorry, you're not, you just think so, you're not American, you're a Socialist in hiding. Again back under your rock with your mask and gloves or maybe in the basement with Joey. You don't want to fight like true Americans. By the way, tough guy, I'm not your pal."

I replied, in kind, "You strike me as a fascist. Do your customers know you are a fascist?"

The CEO replied, "You strike me as an idiot that can't paint, Demtard. Back under your rock, Demtard. Back under your rock."

I replied, "Business failing? Panicking? No surprise." I included a link to my recent post about increasing mask-wearing at tradeshows.

Without reading my post, the CEO replied, "We really don't care what you think. Back under your rock, basement dweller."

I replied by posting a meme:

The CEO replied, "Again, back under your rock. Go look for your little tree, basement dweller. Did you paint that? Back under your rock."

I replied, "I see from your website you are cashing in on Covid-19 by selling 'social distance' crap. What unmitigated hypocrisy! And what a crappy website. All the photos for the social distance crap have fake captions. Funny! Chump."

That ended our back and forth. 

Dim bulbs always burn out.

NOTE: The above is unedited, except for corrections to the CEO's abysmal spelling and punctuation.

Artists on the Big Screen

Hollywood loves artists because they're observant, flawed, eccentric and vulnerable—qualities a main character must have to win over the audience. 

Artists also allow directors to smuggle scores of "beauty shots" into their films. Always a plus.

Here's my list of the top films depicting artists (in chronological order). Take advantage of the lockdown to watch them.

Rembrandt (1936). Suddenly widowed, the Dutch painter's life—and work—take a dark turn.

The Moon and Sixpence (1942). A British stockbroker rejects middle-class comfort for la vie de bohème. Paul Gaugin as seen through the eyes of Somerset Maugham.

Lust for Life (1956). A day doesn't go by when painter Vincent Van Gogh doesn't struggle with self-expression. We get an earful. (And eyeful.)

The Agony and the Ecstasy (1965). The Pope relentlessly insists that sculptor Michelangelo completes a mural. The surly sculptor hits the ceiling.

Savage Messiah (1972). Sculptor Henri Gaudier-Brzeska will do anything to gain an audience. Anything. A raucous art-adventure directed by Ken Russell and starring the young Helen Mirren.

Vincent and Theo (1990). Proof that every artist needs a devoted patron. A stunningly filmed passion project from director Robert Altman.

Pollock (2000). Proof—80 proof—that whiskey will wreck an artist's life. A chilling passion project from the star and director, Ed Harris.

Renoir (2012). Old age can't stop a determined artist, especially when his household revolves around him.

Mr. Turner (2014). To some artists, romance arrives late in life. A charming and beautiful period film.

Big Eyes (2014). A wife paints pictures the public loves, but her husband takes the credit. A surprising period romp from director Tim Burton.

Final Portrait (2017). Giacometti can't seem to finish the portrait of a friend. A joyful film about creativity—my favorite on the list—directed by Stanley Tucci.

Red (2018). Mark Rothko tackles his greatest challenge: the meaning of art—and of life.

Helene (2020). A Scandinavian painter falls in love with her art student, but he thinks of her merely as a good teacher.  

There are dozens more fine films about artists I'd include on a list of runners-up, including Moulin Rouge (1952), Caravaggio (1986), My Left Foot (1989), Basquiat (1996), Surviving Picasso (1996), Frida (2002), Modigliani (2004), Rodin (2018) and Sin (2019).

What film tops your list?

NOTE: Be sure to visit my website. Paintings make great gifts.

Me and My Stubb's

I'm not a hypochondriac, I'm an alarmist.

— Woody Allen

How many times a day have you decided you've caught the coronavirus? 

In my case it's four, at least.

But I've managed to avoid routine trips to the emergency room thanks to the sage advice of a Detroit-based MD.

Dr. Susan Malinowski published her advice in Medium back in early April, when the pandemic was new and tests nonexistent. 

She had already caught the virus and lost her sense of smell.

"Until we have adequate testing, don’t ignore this simple symptom," the doctor wrote.

"Yes, there are other causes for loss of smell, but take it from someone who’s been there, the loss of smell is profound. 

"Get a jar of chopped garlic and monitor your sense of smell along with temperature every day. If you can’t smell the garlic, even in the absence of other symptoms, quarantine for 14 days and wait for it to return."

I had no garlic at the time, but I did have have a bottle of garlic-laden Stubb's. 

So I unscrewed the cap and took a whiff from the conical bottle first thing every morning—plus any time my inner alarm sounded (again, about four times a day).

Stubb's became my Covid-19 test kit.

Stubb's doesn't need outside marketing advice; but I'll give it, anyway. 

Should sales of BBQ sauce ever decline, Stubb's might take a page from Arm & Hammer, which boosted flagging sales of baking soda with the claim that it kept refrigerators smelling sweet.

Although at-home Covid-19 tests may soon be plentiful, you can't store them in easy reach, alongside the baking soda.

Nor use them to spark up a burger.

The Late Hunter S. Thompson Answers My Question

NOTE: I awoke today to find this mysterious note on my bathroom sink.

Bob,

You addled bastard, you approached me in your fetid dream last night and asked my advice. 

At least, I think you did—I had the Cowboys game on at the time, and Washington was stomping them, like they were a gang of sick junkies.

My attention wasn't fully yours. 

If I grasped your question, you asked what America should do with 45, now that the maddened crowds—like Bond in the grand finale—have dispatched his fat diapered ass.

The Ephedrine supply is practically nonexistent here, so I must keep my answer brief.

America doesn't have to do anything about 45. 

Come mid-December—too chilly for tubby to golf in Virginia—45 will depart DC permanently for his rat-hole in Florida, announcing by Tweet a "hard-earned" Christmas vacation. 

From there, Snowden-like, 45 will flee to Moscow, requesting permanent asylum.

Putin will grant the asylum, glad for yet another thing to lord over fatso. 

But when Putin learns 45 is broke and knows no Top Secrets the Kremlin doesn't, he'll graciously deliver one of his infamous gifts.

The only question for America: where to dispose of the remains?

I suggest the ruins of Reactor 4 in Chernobyl.

— Hunter

Anything You Want

You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant.

— Arlo Guthrie

Last year, my wife and I spent three late-summer days in leafy Stockbridge, Massachusetts, the home of the now-derelict Alice's Restaurant. The restaurant's front door was padlocked, but I managed to sneak inside through the adjoining building (another greasy spoon, this in full operation). Not much to see of Alice's Restaurant except dust, cobwebs, and a few splintery tables and counters.

This year, I'm grateful for many things, not the least of which include the annual airplay of Arlo Guthrie's anti-war song—the only song about Thanksgiving that isn't insufferably schmaltzy. I'm also grateful Covid-19 hasn't ripped family members and friends from my life or denied me a cozy, if crimped, lifestyle.

Millions of other Americans can't say that.

Behavioral scientists believe gratitude, the "affirmation of goodness," survives from our primate-days, when we thrived by helping others and being helped in return.

Psychotherapists believe gratitude is as much a "practice" as an inborn emotion. Counting your blessings makes you upbeat, sociable and generous; combats depression; and wards off many unhealthy emotions, including envy, resentment, anger and contempt. AA calls the practice an "attitude of gratitude."

Although few Americans know or care, Gettysburg is the reason we celebrate Thanksgiving every year. The holiday—intended by Lincoln as a "day of thanksgiving and praise to our beneficient Father who dwelleth in the Heavens"—was instituted by executive order three months after the Federal government's Pyrrhic victory outside the Pennsylvania town. 

Seven score and seventeen years later, we mark the holiday not by thanksgiving and prayer, but by overeating, watching football, and avoiding any mention of the "party of Lincoln."

Quite the comedown.

So let's set things aright.

This week, I challenge you to write down three good things that have come your way in 2020, and imagine your life without them. The items you list are up to you: they can be can be people, ideas, objects, or events. Anything you want.

Fishy

Holocaust deniers love a red herring.

A red herring is a statement meant to divert our attention from evidence. For example:

All Jews weren't exterminated. So there was no Holocaust.

The Holocaust-denier's favorite, this red herring ignores the fact that victims have survived genocides throughout history.

Right now, Rudi Giuliani is peddling red herrings. He employed one in a federal court this week:

Republicans weren't present for every ballot-count.
So Trump won the election in Pennsylvania.

Rudi's red herring ignores the fact that the election results in Pennsylvania were carefully audited by state and county election workers. Republican poll watchers, although they should have, failed to visit every election-return warehouse in the state. But Republicans' laziness doesn't reverse the outcome.

The noun phrase red herring dates to the early 13th century, when, to compensate for the lack of refrigeration, fish peddlers would salt and smoke fresh herring. A red herring was smoked so long—usually 10 days—it would turn from white to red. Poor people and British sailors lived on the tangy treats; so did Catholics throughout Lent. Red herrings were—and are—known as kippers, a favorite British breakfast food.

Two centuries later, writer Gerland Langbaine noted in The Hunter that you could train your hounds to follow the game's scent by trailing a kipper on the ground.

A century after Langbaine's handbook appeared, newspaper journalist William Cobbett related a fable about a boy who used a kipper to distract a pack of hounds from their prey. Cobbett compared the hounds to sloppy journalists who chased after "false leads."

Cobbett cemented the metaphor in English speakers' minds when he wrote that a false lead is a "red herring," because "its scent goes cold" in a day.

In Nonsense, grammarian Robert Gula defines a red herring as "a detail inserted into a discussion that sidetracks the discussion." It's purely and simply a logical fallacy.

Red herrings are bull—and bad for you. 

And, frankly, Rudi's are giving me a haddock.

Trifles

A trifle consoles us, because a trifle upsets us.

— Pascal

Trifle is an 11th century word that derives from the French trufle, meaning "tiny deception."

A trifle can ruin a day—or make one.

Bob Dylan captures the ominous power a trifle yields when he sings: 

Yes, I received your letter yesterday,
About the time the doorknob broke. 

When you asked me how I was doing,
Was that some kind of joke?

Trifles deceive. 

They lead us to believe the world either has our welfare in mind, or is out to get us, when neither is the case. No, the world, as Wittgenstein says, is all that is the case. When it comes to you, the world is more or less unconcerned. Only the narcissist thinks otherwise.

If a trifle makes you unhappy, don't sweat it; a good one's bound to turn up soon.

And if it doesn't, rejoice in the fact that there's always coffee.

Make it your mantra: I won't latch on; I will let go.

Meet Me at the Fair

I invite you to grab your sweetheart, don your mask and come see my exhibit of original oil paintings for sale at the Center for the Creative Arts’ Annual Artisan Show, next Saturday, November 21, and Sunday, November 22.

At the event—a weekend marketplace for fine art and handmade crafts—you’ll meet over 20 artists of the Brandywine Valley. 

They’ll be offering original paintings, jewelry, ceramics, wearables, leather goods, decorations and more.

Original oil paintings make wonderful gifts for the holidays.

The show takes place Saturday and Sunday, November 21-22, 2020, 10 am-5 pm and 11 am-4 pm. Admission is $5 (kids 10 & under free). Proceeds go to help the Center. 

Buy your timed tickets in advance.

Strict CDC and State of Delaware guidelines for health and safety at events will be followed.

The Center is located at 1149 Yorklyn Road, Yorklyn, Delaware 19736.

Meet me at the fair!