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My life will be in your keeping, waking, sleeping,
laughing, weeping.

— Norman Newell

As a kid, I often watched "Million Dollar Movie," a nightly broadcast on New York's WOR-TV.

The show comprised mostly old B movies like The Crawling Eye, Cat People, Godzilla, Mighty Joe Young and Tarzan and the Mermaids.

My pal Mookie, also a fan, called the show "Hundred Dollar Movie."

One particularly arresting movie aired on "Million Dollar Movie" was a new one at the time, an Italian film called Mondo Cane.

Mondo Cane was a depressing Cold War-era "shockumentary," elevated above other nonfiction films of the day by virtue of its schmaltzy theme song, "More."

The most arresting segment of Mondo Cane depicted the nuclear nightmare America had recently visited upon the wildlife of Bikini, where in the 1940s and '50s the US Air Force had dropped a series of atom bombs—23 in all—to test their lethality. (Click here to watch this segment.)

Who would have thought in 1962 that industry, and not the American or Soviet nuclear stockpiles, would bring about Armageddon?

But it seems like industry will—unless checked by government.

Yesterday, President Biden proposed to spend $555 billion on climate programs designed to check industry, the largest sum ever proposed by any chief executive to address global warming.

He wants not only to cut carbon emissions, but to do more.

He wants to create more forests. More farms. More jobs. 

But a two-bit chiseler, Joe Manchin, stands in the way.

Without Republican support in the Senate, Manchin's vote is needed to pass Biden's proposal into law. 

That's unlikely. 

Manchin, a puppet of the nation's fossil fuel producers, plans to rip Biden's proposal to shreds.

Have no doubt that Manchin is a crook. 

He has not only received more political donations from fossil fuel producers than any other senator—more than twice the second largest recipient—but is becoming rich from coal. 

Disclosures show he earned over $5 million as a coal broker in the past 10 years.

If Biden's proposal fails to become law, we know precisely who to blame.

The skunk from West Virginia. 

Red Tape

Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.

— Honoré de Balzac

It took me five trips to Delaware's DMV recently to get a new driver's license and registration.

Five.

At every step in the months-long process, the clerks provided verbal and printed instructions to follow, both of which were always—always—wrong.

The procedures were Byzantine and no one I encountered knew what he was doing.

Complexity and frightening incompetence prolonged my agony—although I must admit I grew fond of the hot dogs. 

(There was a long queue at the entrance to the building, where a vendor sold Polish dogs from a cart. Two dollars bought you a hot dog, chips, and a soda; by my third trip, I’d become a regular. Mo and I were on a first-name basis.)

My ordeal's origins were evident from the start.

Although the DMV used yellow tape to demarcate the queue, the underlying problem was red tape.

"Red tape has killed more people than bullets," novelist Ben Bova once said.

It almost killed me. (The hot dogs didn't help.)

The expression red tape enjoys a six-century history.

It originated in the 1600s, when nobles and lawyers began—literally—to bind batches of paperwork with red tape.

To open a batch, you had to "cut through the red tape."

Red tape went from literal to metaphorical use three centuries later.

Dickens, Carlyle, Longfellow and other writers all used the expression in the 19th century to deride bureaucracies.

During the American Civil War, bureaucrats in Washington, DC, took red tape to new lengths, using roll after roll after roll of it to seal envelopes and bundle documents, according to the National Archives.

In fiscal year 1864 alone, the War Department purchased 154 miles of the stuff—nearly twice the length of Delaware.

HAT TIP: Ann Ramsey, no friend of red tape, suggested this post. 

Unbundled

The creator economy allows people to unbundle from traditional employment and still be successful.

— Destinee Berman

Ageism is a thing. 

Indeed, a basic tenet of Critical Age Theory (CAT) holds that ageism is systemic.*

It begins to affect you the day you're no longer carded for an alcohol purchase.

Things go downhill from there.

By your late 60s (my age), ageism rears its ugly head every day. 

Waitresses give you the senior discount without asking; kids hold open doors for you; your mailbox is stuffed with offers for long-term care; your spam filter is clogged with emails about ED; and all the TV and Facebook ads feature Tom Selleck.

Worse, whenever you're asked for the name of your employer, the only answer the clerk will accept is "retired."

I'm not retired; and never will be, Lord willing. 

I'm unbundled.

To be unbundled is to be part of the gig economy.

A perhaps creaky part, but a part nonetheless.

Currently, I consult to clients; advise three nonprofit boards; tutor a high-schooler; write occasionally for magazines; and, first and foremost, paint original still lifes in oil.

Just ask the IRS whether I'm "retired."

I have no issue with anyone who's really retired, but only with those binary people who believe everyone over 60 must be retired, when in truth a lot of us are unbundled.

Why isn't that on your form, punk?

*NOTE: Bob James' Critical Age Theory (CAT) is not to be confused with linguist Eric Lenneburg's Critical Age Theory. The latter pertains to children; the former, to geezers. Lenneburg's theory is, in addition, widely accepted, while James' theory is still controversial.

Pie in the Sky

I was delighted to tell this couple the print they had picked up for less than the price of a pizza was the work of the most celebrated figurative artist of the 20th century.

— Will Gilding

A British couple bought an £18,000 print for £12, only because they liked the frame that came with it.

The print is one of an edition of 46 signed and numbered in 1998 by Britain's greatest 20th-century figurative artist, Lucian Freud.

The couple began bidding in auctions for fun last spring, during a Covid-19 lockdown. 

They bought a lot of two picture frames for £12 one day, and were given the print, attached to two pieces of cardboard, because it was part of the lot.

The husband decided to use the cardboard as a drip-pan while he worked on his motorcycle, and tossed the print aside. 

But it suddenly appeared one afternoon on the BBC show Secrets of the Museum.

The gleeful couple contacted auctioneer Will Gilding, who verified the print's authenticity and set its price at £18,000—a lot of dough for the price of a pizza.

The original etching would cost millions, Gilding says.

The lucky couple's print goes on auction in November.

Lucian Freud, grandson of Sigmund, is best known for fiercely realistic portraits of friends and family members, who often sat months on end for the finicky artist.

The couple's print depicts Freud's assistant, the artist David Dawson.

NOTE: £18,000 equals US$24,800.

Leg Up

Eighty-two years ago today, nylons went on sale to the public for the first time.

Inventor DuPont had chosen Braunstein's, a women's fashion store in Wilmington, Delaware, as the test site for sales of its new "miracle yarn." 

Four thousand pairs of nylons sold the first hour. 

"Women went nuts," storeowner David Braunstein told the local paper. 

They climbed over the counters, nearly crushing the clerks, to get their hands on the product, then fled the store with their purchases to try them on.

The curbs were lined all day with frenzied women slipping on their new hosiery.

We scoff at it today, but in 1939 Dupont's Nylon, the first commercially viable artificial fiber, was a "modern wonder" and a breakthrough in textile manufacturing. 

The first successful synthetic polymer, it was also a breakthrough in chemical engineering.

Nylon only came about because DuPont's executives a decade earlier had decided to forego profits and, like Bell Telephone, invest in "pure science." (DuPont's previous efforts at "applied" science had produced only Rayon, a cellulose fiber that flopped, because it sagged and crumbled.)

Although disdained by academics, DuPont's executives managed to attract Harvard chemist Wallace Carothers to lead the company's research team.

Within four years, working without constraints, Carothers' researchers synthesized the first polymer by linking short resins into long chains of molecules. 

Eight years later, they created a silky "artificial yarn" they derived from coal tar.

DuPont dubbed the creation "Nylon" and produced over two million pounds of the stuff that same year, turning all of it into women's stockings.

The company captured nearly a third of the US hosiery market within 12 months.

You could say pure science gave DuPont a leg up on the competition.

NOTE: Learn how Nylon and Braunstein's fought World War II.

Ship of Fools

No one is entitled to be ignorant.

— Harlan Ellison

Investigators this week found that a $2 billion warship burned because no one aboard turned on the fire-suppression system, according to US Naval Institute News.

The USS Bonhomme Richard burned last summer because its crew didn't know how to fight a fire, investigators concluded.

The fire-suppression system could have been activated, and the warship saved, by the push of a single button.

"It is surprising that nobody on the scene knew how to activate the system," a defense expert said.

A number of other missteps, including delays in reporting the fire, a disorganized command response, and a failure to seal off the area where the fire began, only worsened the situation.

The Navy blamed 36 individuals, including five admirals, for the ship's loss.

The incident is the second of its kind in eight years.

The USS Miami, a $ 1.6 billion submarine, burned in 2012.

The fatalist in me says catastrophes like the one aboard the Bonhomme Richard are overdetermined—brought about not by one, but by a "cascade of failures."

You could chalk the disaster up to hubris; but I'm more apt to blame sheer ignorance.

Americans have a romance with ignorance. It's at the bottom of most the errors and bad decisions we make, from investing in subprime mortgages to electing Donald Trump.

Our unfathomable ignorance is inexcusable, given how easy it is to become moderately informed about almost any topic. (Google it.)

Our widespread ignorance is willful, woeful, and thoroughly unconscionable.

We get what we deserve.

POSTSCRIPT: I felt a bit crabby when I penned this post. But less than 24 hours later, Maria Shriver wrote "most people don't want the truth," citing Trump's launch of his new social media platform TRUTH. She's right, by gum.   

Becoming Unamerican

Americanism in all its forms seems trashy
and wasteful and crude.

— Christopher Hitchens

Shockwaves coursed through the superhero universe this weekend following the announcement by DC Comics that the slogan of Superman, its 83-year-old Man of Steel, would be revised.

"Truth, Justice and A Better Tomorrow" will replace Superman's former slogan, "Truth, Justice and the American Way."

While Superman was unavailable for comment, Goodly reached seven other superheroes for their reaction to the news.

"Holy defamation!" said Robin, Boy Wonder and sidekick to Batman. "This upsets an 80-year tradition of honoring Superman's adopted country. It feels like Buddy Holly has died all over."

"Trump's chickens have come home"

Wonder Woman expressed no surprise at the announcement, citing various foreign-policy positions taken by former president Donald Trump. 

"All of Trump's chickens have come home to roost," she told Goodly. 

"America's image globally is in the toilet thanks to him. It's like facing Kryptonite to tell someone overseas you're an American. I can't fault DC Comics for its decision to distance Superman from this country."

Referring obscenely to the company's management, the Incredible Hulk asked, "What are they smoking over there? Sure, I support diversity and inclusivity as much as the next guy, but this takes things too far. It's not patriotic. Next, they'll announce Superman's gay."

DC Comics in fact announced that the "new" Superman, Jon Kent, introduced in July as the son of Clark Kent, is gay and will date a gay refugee reporter in a forthcoming issue of the comic book.

Jon Kent and BFF

The announcement of Clark Kent Superman's new slogan particularly offended the ears of Captain America. 

"I guess they'll have to change my name too now," he lamented. "I'll never get used to 'Captain Tomorrow.' Sounds like a brand of laxative. I'd rather just be called 'Steve.'"

But Supergirl was sanguine about her cousin Superman's new slogan.

"Does it really matter?" she asked philosophically. "People got upset when Avis dropped 'We Try Harder.' They're still in business, last time I checked."

Whether a rebranded Superman will remain in business another 80 years is anyone's guess, however.

"'A Better Tomorrow' isn't a slogan, it's an aspiration," said Ironman. "It sets a higher bar for the Man of Steel. All Americans can benefit from a higher bar."

"I think 'A Better Tomorrow' sounds quite timely, given the immanence of climate change," said Conan the Barbarian, adding, "We don't all agree about America's role on the world stage in the future, but we can all agree about one thing—that the day after today will be tomorrow."

UPDATE: Hyperallegic reports that several right-wing media outlets have lashed out at Jon Kent's sexual orientation. No superheroes were available for comment.

Get the Name of the Dog

My task is, by the power of the written word, 

to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, 

before all, to make you see.

— Joseph Conrad

In The Elements of Style, Strunk and White pooh-pooh lazy writers—the majority—because they're so often satisfied with imprecision.

You see their slothfulness on display every day:

• "The Searchers is the greatest Western ever made."
  
  
• "The number of Americans diagnosed with 'broken heart' syndrome has steadily risen in the past 15 years."
  
  
• "Some records from The British Invasion in the mid-'60s can be very valuable."

By saying so little, sentences like these tax readers' minds. They squander readers' energy in guessing what the writer means to say.

Good writing avoids imprecision by drawing word-pictures.

Word-pictures comprise concrete details—specifics—that allow readers easily to imagine the world the writer seeks to depict. 

Anything less is filler. Eyewash. Baloney. Horse hockey.

• "The Searchers is the greatest Western ever made" merely tells you the writer likes this cowboy movie.

• "The number of Americans diagnosed with 'broken heart' syndrome has steadily risen in the past 15 years" merely tells you that incidents of a weird disease have increased.

• "Some records from The British Invasion in the mid-'60s can be very valuable" merely tells you there's demand for vinyl recordings by bands like Peter & Gordon.

Precision, on the other hand, would have told you, among other things, what distinguishes The Searchers from all the other hundreds of Westerns; how fast cases of "broken heart" are accelerating—and whether the disease affects a lot of people, or only a few; and which mop-top bands' records are hot.

Lazy writers favor the generic, as Victorian sociologist Herbert Spencer said in The Philosophy of Style; and, because they do, they always leave readers guessing. They should, instead, aim to produce "vivid impressions" with their words.

Writers should avoid, Spencer said, abstract sentences like "When the manners, customs, and amusements of a nation are cruel and barbarous, the penal code will be severe." They should write instead "When men delight in battles, bullfights, and gladiatorial combat, they will punish by hanging, burning, and the rack."

Spencer calls the use of vivid word-pictures a "thorough maxim of composition."

Writing coach Peter Roy Clark calls Spencer's maxim "Get the name of the dog" (or the "Fido Theorem").

"Such was my affection for this writing strategy," Clark once told an interviewer, "I wanted to use it as a book title. 

"Anticipating the literalism of SEO, my publisher decided the title should reflect what the book was really about. In the end, Get the Name of the Dog became Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer. 

"Get the name of the dog" does appear in Clark's Writing Tools as Tool Number 14. But it's much more important.

"It ranks as Number 1 in my heart," Clark said. "Every strategic move I’ve shared over 30 years derives its existence from the Fido Theorem. 

"'Get the name of the dog' stands, for me, for the whole. In other words, if the writer remembers to get the dog’s name, he or she will be curious enough and attentive enough to gather all the relevant details in their epiphanic particularity."

Got an email to write? A memo? A report? 

Get the name of the dog.

Tom Foolery

The mob has no memory; it can never comprehend when its own interests are at stake.

― Alexandre Koyré

Despite his pivotal role in our nation's founding, slaveholder Thomas Jefferson is about to be cancelled.

Watching the wholesale cancellation of the Confederates, mossbacks like myself knew, in our hearts, the founder's days were numbered.

Being White and powerful, his erasure was inevitable.

Mobs are just as oppressive as governments, and faster acting.

And have no doubt it's a mob that's gunning for Jefferson, a multiracial one comprising angry Blacks, Latinos, and Asians. 

When it comes to condemning Whites' hypocrisy, this mob's unstoppable.

Hypocrisy like Jefferson's no doubt merits condemnation.

But cancellation?

Jefferson deserves better.

Jefferson's cancellation lumps the Founding Fathers with the Confederates "in a way which minimizes the crimes and problems of the Confederacy," Jefferson scholar Annette Gordon-Reed told The New York Times.

I agree with her.

While Jefferson owned slaves, he didn't extol slavery; he called it, in fact, a "moral and political depravity" he'd abolish were abolition "practicable."

For my own part, I've tried for years to plumb the depths of Jefferson's hypocrisy and finally found forgiveness in historian Henry Wiencek's dark biography, Master of the Mountain.

In Master of the Mountain, Wiencek makes clear that Jefferson, our celebrant of liberty and equality, kept slaves because he could not bear to lose Monticello to his creditors, nor see his daughter and grandchildren plunged into poverty. 

Had he been frugal (he spent a fortune he didn't have on books, groceries, and fine wines) and smart about business (farming and manufacturing), Jefferson well might have freed his slaves. But he was neither, and he didn't.

Instead, Jefferson ran up enormous debt and remained, his whole life, a slave to his slaves, earning a four percent profit from breeding and selling them—a "bonanza," according to Wiencek.

Jefferson, a failure at farming and a klutz at commerce, sold out his ideals for a soft life.

And for his sin—monetizing people—the mob has moved to cancel the author of our Declaration of Independence, decrying all statues of Jefferson as symbols of "the disgusting and racist basis on which America was founded."

But that's the way of mobs. 

Forgiveness demands acceptance, something mobs suck at.

Mobs are really only good at vengeance.

So here's my prediction of who's next on the block.

Jesus Christ, founder of the most oppressive institution in the history of the world.

It's inevitable.

Welcome the twilight of the idols.

Reunion

Vive memor leti, fugit hora.

— Persius Flaccus

William Shatner has nothing on me.

He rocketed into space last week; but I rocketed back in time.

I attended my prep-school class's 50th reunion this weekend.

My impressions of the event are ajumble, because so many long-forgotten faces swam into view all at once and in so brief a time. 

Until Friday afternoon, I had not stepped foot once in Jersey City for all the 50 intervening years, nor spoken to more than four or five of my 200+ classmates from Saint Peter's Prep.

That's one hell of a long gap.

But a score of hours just aren't enough to bridge five decades' distance. 

And so I found, throughout the weekend, that behind the façade of reminiscent smiles, nods, handshakes and chatter, an ocean of memories boiled—memories that at some moments threatened to swamp me. 

(The feeling of being swamped was quite appropriate to the locale, given that that neighborhood of Jersey City, Paulus Hook, is barely above sea level and catastrophically floods during big storms like Hurricane Sandy.)

I'm convinced nostalgia, in tiny doses, is good for you. 

Most psychologists would agree.

But it can be a little unnerving in large spoonfuls.

A 50-year class reunion is a megadose of memories.  

Nonetheless, when I left Jersey City on Sunday afternoon, I felt fine: relatively young and healthy; sane, solvent and sociable; and grateful—exceedingly grateful.

I left grateful to the fates and to my folks, who'd given me a wonderful gift: the chance to pal with a bunch of overachievers during my four most-formative teenage years. 

What a powerful preparation for adulthood. 

And what sweet memories.

Sweeter still was the realization that I was able to attend the reunion at all.

So many of my classmates and dear friends—the solemn list was read aloud during our "reunion mass"—are dead and buried.

They missed a great party.

Vive memor leti, fugit hora.

Live mindful of death, the hour flees.

HAT TIP: Thanks go to classmate Mike Healy. Absent his urging, I would not have attended my class reunion.

Diehard

I was whitewashed and wasted professionally.

— Bob Dylan

Urban Dictionary defines a "diehard" as a fan who's "completely 100% obsessed." When it comes to Bob Dylan, that fits me to a T. 

There are millions of us Bob Dylan diehards around the globe.

Upon meeting, we can size up one another's standing as Bobcats readily, merely by asking whether our devotion extends even to Dylan's early-'80s albums like "Shot of Love," "Infidels," "Empire Burlesque," and "Knocked Out Loaded," released during a period of his career he would later call "wasted."

If the answer's yes, we know definitely we're dehards, companion members of the species Dylanus invictus.

So it's like a diehard's Christmas to listen to the latest Bob Dylan album, "Springtime in New York," Volume 16 of "The Bootleg Series."

On five CDs, "Springtime" packages nearly 60 alternate versions, rehearsal tracks, and outtakes from Dylan's albums of the early '80s, with the result that you are immersed for over two hours in works of unmistakable lyrical and melodic genius.

Stripped of '80s synthesizers, gated reverb, and digital overengineering, the recordings sound live and "unplugged," like classic Bob Dylan tunes. Some stripped-down versions of the songs are so well performed, they put the haphazard versions released in the '80s to shame.

The alternate versions of many of the songs, moreover, offer you a chance to follow a tune's development, and to ponder why Dylan would recast lyrics another songwriter would have sold his soul for.

All in all, "Springtime in New York" will remind you how vastly rich Dylan's song catalog is—even his catalog from the early '80s. 

NOTE: Should you want a distilled edition of the five-CD album, a two-CD edition is available for one-fifth the price of the "deluxe" one.

Strawman

There is a strange interdependence between
thoughtlessness and evil.

— Hannah Arendt

I'm tired of Conservatives' relentless use of the strawman.

A "strawman" is an argument that substitutes an opponent's statement with a distortion thereof, in order to "disprove" it.

A strawman is fallacious. It takes its form in this manner:

Liberal: Black lives matter.

Conservative: My opponent says Black lives matter, but White lives don't. I'm sorry, all lives matter. He's dead wrong.

The Conservative in this case has distorted the Liberal's claim by assuming (1) it excludes all lives but Blacks' and (2) that to "matter" means to "prevail."

To prevent use of a strawman, you need to present a steelman.

A "steelman" is an iron-clad argument. It makes the strongest possible case for a claim and prevents your opponent from distorting your position.

It might take this form:

Liberal: Blacks suffer from systemic racism in this country. Our entire way of life devalues Black lives, and puts Blacks at a material disadvantage—socially, economically, and politically. Without conscious effort, we thwart Blacks' attempts to live peacefully and well, and treat them as if their God-given lives didn't matter. But, in their own eyes at least, they do matter.

Conservative: So, you're saying the system is rigged?

Liberal: Bingo!

A steelman grants the opponent the benefit of the doubt and assumes his intentions aren't evil.

Sadly, that's not always the case. And so you often hear debates like this:

Liberal: Blacks suffer from systemic racism.

Conservative: Blacks don't suffer racism—that's ancient history. They just want preferential treatment. The whole idea that there's systemic racism is Marxist hogwash.

Telegraphic counterarguments like the one above betray both the evil intentions and shallow-mindedness of their makers, two common qualities of Conservatives today; qualities that put persuasion out of reach.

As philosopher John Stuart Mill said, "He who knows only his own side of the case knows little of it."

If he only had a brain!

Sticks in the Mud

Let everyone be happy, we have no problem with that; but they must not be allowed to overshadow traditional family values.

— Vladmir Putin

If, as neocon Robert Kagan claims, a second Trump Administration is a fait accompli, I will find myself three years from now in the shoes of the millions of democrats who stood idly by while Hitler's minority party took control of Germany.

You, on the other hand, may find yourself celebrating Trump's triumphant return, because—deep down—you're a Conservative. 

You're sick of our institutions pandering to Blacks, Latinos, Native Americans, Muslims, atheists, women, queers, and the disabled; and sick of Liberals, who egg on these legions of malcontents.

One hundred eighty years ago, the philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson defined a Conservative as someone who believes that all change is deterioration. 

A Conservative, Emerson said, is the guy who's always always pleading for necessity; always apologizing for the way things are; always defending the castle; always stoning the prophets; always saying no. A Conservative is a Cassandra; a worrywart; a stick in the mud.  

A Conservative is also a fatalist, according to Emerson: he clutches to "facts," refusing to see there could be "better facts." To him, the world is a jungle, a shithole, a disease.

A Liberal, on the other hand, relishes change—and speaks and acts to bring change about. To her, the world is an experiment, an Eden, a dream.

And she doesn't care if her speech or acts offend or upset the applecart. 

She could give two shits.

A Conservative, Emerson said, is "neighborly, social and debonair;" a Liberal, "imperious, pretentious, and egotistical."

The Conservative minority of Americans today are sick of feather-brained Liberals, the "coastal elites" so happy and willing to upset the applecart, just so a handful of weaklings can feel good about themselves.

"Let everyone be happy," the minority says. "We have no problem with that—as long as you don't challenge family values."

The trouble lies not in Conservatives' views—many of which I share—but in their readiness to criminalize the speech and acts of antagonists.

That readiness leads to individual, mob, and police violence; to mass arrests and imprisonments; and to gulags, pogroms, work camps, and death camps—faster than you can shake a stick.

Even here, in the good old USA.

Tradeshow Organizers Must Diversify. Here's How.

The enterprise that does not innovate ages and declines.

— Peter Drucker

If I'm bearish on tradeshows, I have cause.

Lulled by easy money, show organizers seem allergic to innovation; a condition that makes them ripe for disruption.

The best defense against disruption lies in product diversification—a sound strategy in good times, an essential one in hard.

That should be obvious.

And it should be obvious that, because they're selling audiences to advertisers, tradeshow organizers need look no farther for diversification tactics than to magazine publishers—the poster children for disruption.

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, the Internet eviscerated magazine publishers' century-old business model. In a painful "print apocalypse," more than 10,000 magazines disappeared from inboxes.

Savvy magazine publishers responded by diversifying their product lines, pushing their number from one, two, or three to more than a dozen.

Those include:

Content. Aiming at readers, the publisher sells subscriptions or raises revenue through crowdfunding.

Branded content. Aiming at advertisers, the publisher functions as a traditional creative agency.

Events. Aiming at both readers and advertisers, the publisher organizes live, virtual, and hybrid tradeshows and conferences, selling registrations, booths and sponsorships.

Ads. The publisher acts as a traditional one, selling ads and advertising programs that can be targeted to reader-segments.

Awards. The publisher operates an industry awards program, collecting entry fees and selling tickets to celebratory events.

Merchandise. The publisher acts as the operator of a "discount club," selling memberships to readers who want to avail themselves of a portfolio of discounted products and services.

Data. Aiming at advertisers, the publisher sells data that advertisers and third parties can use to target prospects and leverage adverting programs.

Leads. The publisher takes on the role of a lead-generation firm, using webinars and telemarketing to capture new leads for advertisers.

Consulting. The publisher acts as a marketing, sales or business consultant, providing advertisers and peers expertise.

Software. The publisher licenses proprietary software and sells IT consulting and support to its peers.

Brand licenses. The publisher equips other marketers to leverage its brand, selling them the rights to use its "seal of quality."

Capital. The publisher acts as an investor and broker, launching specialized private equity funds within its industry.

Writing Rule #26

An unnecessary word is like a cinderblock on the highway.

Blarney

 

Legal reasoning can be unreasonable.

The 5th circuit federal appeals court last week allowed Texas to resume its ban on abortions, after Senate Bill 8 had been struck down.

The state attorney general argued that, since Texas does not enforce its anti-abortion law, it cannot “be held responsible for the filings of private citizens.”

The court bought the argument. 

The logic of the decision is as follows:

• Senate Bill 8 endorses vigilantism.
• Vigilantism is outside the law.
• Therefore, Senate Bill 8 is constitutional.

How twisted is this? This form of argument could also prove the following:

• An EU law protects leprechauns.
• Leprechauns aren't members of the EU.
• Therefore, the EU law is constitutional.

Monuments Men

I asked the captain what his name was and how come he
didn't drive a truck. He said his name was Columbus.
I just said, "Good luck."

— Bob Dylan

Monuments in the US are "overwhelmingly white and male," according to a new census by the Mellon Foundation.

Most of the white men depicted in our monuments, moreover, were vicious, according to the census. Columbus, the third-most depicted individual, is an example.

The census identified the Top 50 individuals depicted. 

Only a few of them were women or persons of color, and none were queer folks. Forty percent were born into wealth and fifty percent owned slaves. Omitted from depiction are individuals without wealth—our great artists, writers, nurses, teachers, and reformers.

The census concludes that, when it comes to US history, our monuments represent "monumental erasures and lies."

The Mellon Foundation plans to spend $250 million to correct the situation.

Gossip

He who never says anything cannot keep silent.

― Martin Heidegger

Facebook's outage this week—a form of compulsory digital minimalism—reminded me that the world's religions advise you to avoid gossip, "in the sight of God an awful thing."

Gossip is an awful thing, even if you're not god-fearing.

Philosopher Martin Heidegger explained why in his magnum opus, Being and Time.

Gossip tranquilizes—sparing us the job of discovering our life's purpose. Every minute spent engaged with it is one less minute spent in contemplation of our inevitable death.. And that escape from the thought of our own death Is comforting, even anesthetizing.

In Heidegger's view, gossip delivers us over to prepackaged ways of interpreting life's meaning. 

Like a cranky letter, gossip has already been "deposited" before ever reaching us, denying us the chance to decide for ourselves whether its malignant interpretation of life is really useful. 

Worse yet, gossip conforms us to the role of an average listener in a superficial conversation. Gossip dictates what's worth discussing—what's appropriate and intelligible talk—and what isn't.

By listening to gossip, "we already are listening only to what is said-in-the-talk." We already are allowing that we're unthinking, uncaring and unoriginal people. "Hearing and understanding," Heidegger says, "have attached themselves beforehand to what is said-in-the-talk."

Gossip in that sense is deafening: it doesn't communicate, but merely "passes the word along" ("shares," in Facebook-speak). "What is said-in-the-talk spreads in ever-wider circles and takes on an authoritative character." Things are so because one says so—even when what is said is groundless hearsay.

And gossip is irresponsible twaddle. 

"Gossip is the possibility of understanding everything without previously making the thing one's own," Heidegger says. Gossip is something anyone can rake up; you need not be an "influencer."

Gossip discourages fresh thinking, originality, and genuine attempts to understand the meaning of things, because it so dominates the public forum as to "prescribe one's state-of-mind."

By prescribing your state-of-mind, gossip also makes you rootless—cutting you off from reality, so that you "drift unattached" to life and the world around you.

That from a man who chose to spend most of his time in a secluded mountain hut in Bavaria warning the world of the dangers of technology.

This weekend, take a long, soulful break from Facebook. 

You'll be glad you did.

Above: The Wave by Corran Brownlee. Oil on canvas. 47 x 60 inches.