Tragic Finale

The stupid, crazy, irresponsible bunglers. They've finally done it.

— Bill Maguire in The Day the Earth Caught Fire

If you need a refresher course on Donald Trump's inexhaustible loathsomeness, Nightmare Scenario is the book for you.

Authors Yasmeen Abutaleb and Damian Paletta, both reporters for The Washington Post, present a gripping, 450-page account of Trump's "handling" of the Covid-19 pandemic.

To cut to the chase, Trump handled the virus like Captain Smith handled the Titanic. Never once did he consider Covid-19 to be anything more than an annoying crimp in his reelection plans, the book confirms.  

Villains in the play—Alex Azar, Jared Kushner, Scott Atlas, Peter Navarro, Stephen Moore, Mike Pence and, center stage, Trump—abound. They far outnumber the heroes, so don't expect to be anything but despondent at the end. Samuel Beckett is cheerier.

As I paged through Nightmare Scenario, I felt as if I were reading the script for a never-made Hollywood film, the concept for which was "All the President's Men meets The Day the Earth Caught Fire."

Based on White House emails, documents and 180 interviews, Nightmare Scenario is a study in hidebound leadership and more: fear, fantasy, sycophancy, infighting, betrayal and ineptitude—especially ineptitude.

You learn that, while the villains' roguery meant that their chances of ever stopping the virus were nominal, their contempt for critics and rivals—and America's citizens—was boundless.

You also learn that, by the time Covid-19 reached our shores, staff-wise Trump was down to the very bottom of the barrel. Anyone with skills had long ago abandoned Trump's foundering ship. Anyone with integrity had been thrown overboard.

The publisher's blurb calls the book "the definitive account of the Trump administration’s tragic mismanagement of the Covid-19 pandemic, and the chaos, incompetence, and craven politicization that has led to more than a half million American deaths and counting."

That sums it up well. The whole point of Nightmare Scenario is a tragic one. The actors in the play should be ashamed, as should the minority of voters who put our government in the hands of a failed reality-TV host. They're collectively guilty of the deaths of a half million citizens—and counting.

But is It Scalable?

There are no accidents in life.

— Jean-Paul Sartre

I'm sick of algorithm-writers trying to manipulate me.

They suggest who I should follow (like Tomi Lahren, someone I loathe); what I should say (they autocorrect "You're my honey" to "You're my hiney"); when I should shop ("It's time to add more data"); and where I should go ("Belize awaits you!" So does Hell.).

It seems no matter where I turn, an anonymous algorithm-writer—likely to be wrong about my wants—has his grubby finger on the scale.

Even book-writers—some, anyway—are trying to manipulate me, by "click-farming" their way onto Amazon's best-seller lists.

Book-writers hire Chinese click-farms to fake Kindle downloads of their books, which Amazon counts as "sales."

A couple thousand Kindle downloads, which today would cost about $400, can put a book—even one with no previous real sales—on the top of Amazon's Top 10 charts.

The fake Kindle downloads also feed Amazon's "Books you may like," suggested purchases served by—what else?—algorithms.

Whatever became of scrupulous writers? Writers who trusted to the originality and incisiveness of their books to boost sales?

Writers of books like Being and Nothingness.

Written by philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, 722-page book examines the experiences of individuals from the standpoint of radical subjectivity.

Weighing precisely one kilo when published in Paris in 1943, Being and Nothingness sprang to the top of the best-seller list, to the author's surprise.

Who were all these Parisians in the midst of the Occupation so eager to read a philosophical investigation of human existence?

They were grocers, it turned out. 

Grocers were using the book on their scales to replace the one-kilo lead weights that had been confiscated by the Nazis, to be melted down for bullets.

Food Fight

Seventy-nine years ago today, a gang of female protestors entered a small grocery store in Nazi-occupied Paris and began yelling and snatching the canned sardines on display. Arms loaded, they ran back outside and tossed the cans to the crowd in the street.

It was a sardine riot.

The Nazis had been starving the Parisians during the Occupation, just to show them who was boss. They denied civilians everything from beans to broccolini, potatoes to pasta, sausages to sardines. 

The sardine riot—an organized street protest against the shortages—resulted in the killings of two policemen and, in time, a wave of reprisals by the Nazi puppets who ran the Vichy government.

The obscure event is recounted by French studies professor Paula Schwartz in Today Sardines Are Not for Sale, new from Oxford University Press.

Schwartz describes the food riot as "banal," a "human interest story consigned to oblivion. 

"Even the human toll of the incident was sadly banal," she writes in the introduction. 

An eyewitness called the riot, "a brief scuffle of no importance."

But the story's banality makes it enchanting. 

There's no Hitler, Mussolini, Churchill, FDR or de Gaulle moving history's levers; no great armies storming the beaches or fighting in the forests; just a group of hungry French housewives tossing canned fish.  

"Microhistories" like Schwartz's are among my favorite kind of books. 

Launched in 1983 by Natalie Davis's The Return of Martin Guerre, the microhistory craze goes on unabated. 

The best microhistories I've read have covered a crazy pageant of subjects: rock bands, businesses, hobbies, professions, books, paintings, voyages, meetings, battles, crimes, trials, disasters, animals, cities, and paleontological digs. 

One of my all-time favs, Small Town Talk, examines the history of Woodstock—the town, not the festival; another, Thunderstruck, recounts the invention of the radio. Stephen Jay Gould's Wonderful Life describes the Smithsonian's plunder of a Canadian treasure. 

Microhistories, in William Blake’s words, try to "see the world in a grain of sand." They bring you so close to a subject you feel its breath on your face. Then, they pull back the lens. You get to look at the big questions scientists, psychologists, philosophers and theologians pose. 

Why, for example, do cultural moments always originate in villages? Why do we always credit thieves with history's greatest inventions? Why do we think only the strong survive?

Forty years in the writing, Today Sardines Are Not for Sale examines a 20-minute incident that, in a grain of sand, lets us see how Western Europeans—women, in particular—came to terms with Hitler's invading armies.

Through a 200-page close-up on “the women’s dem­onstration,” you learn what it was like not only to be a Parisian housewife, but a resistance fighter, a collaborator, a grocer, a cop, a spy, a snitch, a jurist, a Commie, a corrupt politician, and a Nazi occupier.

"As a protest action emblematic of its time and of its type, the affair presents an extraordinary opportunity to understand some signal features of everyday life in Paris under German occupation," Schwartz writes in the introduction.

But Schwartz's book, like all microhistories, does more than that.  

Today Sardines Are Not for Sale also asks several big questions. 

Why are most women's contributions throughout history forgotten?

Why is history itself a moving target?

And will Americans have to starve before they stand up to fascism once more?

The book is terrific. 

Try it out.

Pulp Fiction

If these yarns were trash, then they were the best trash. 

They were trash for connoisseurs of trash.

― Don Hutchison

Frank Munsey dreamed big.

A mid-level manager for Western Union, Munsey quit his job and moved to New York in September 1882, with the dream of becoming a publisher. 

In less than two months he launched Golden Argosy, a monthly boys' magazine he conceived as a replacement for the "dime novels" so popular at the time.

But Munsey had to scramble for readers—boys worked long and hard to spare a dime in the 1880s; and many couldn't—and after four years found himself going broke.

Rather than give up his dream, Munsey repackaged Golden Argosy.

His decision gave birth to an industry. 

First, he shortened the name of his faltering magazine and shrank its physical dimensions by 60%. He also replaced its expensive cotton-paper pages with wood-pulp, a move that allowed him to price Argosy at just five cents a copy.

Most importantly, Munsey expanded the magazine's audience to include adult men.

Argosy became a runaway hit, attracting over 500,000 monthly readers. 

To keep his audience coming back, Munsey made sure his "pulp" dished up every sort of story the American male craved—romances, adventures, sex stories, war stories, crime stories, mysteries, Western tales, historical tales, and sci-fi thrillers.

Appearing in droves, copycats soon launched competing pulps—by the hundreds. 

Within a few years, they crowded the racks of drugstores, newsstands, tobacco shops and confectioneries nationwide. 

Their titles included such gems as Black Mask, Marvel, Nick Carter, Clues, Dime Detective, Nickle Western, Fight Stories, Railroad Stories, Pirate Stories, Saucy Stories, Pep Stories, Spicy Adventure, Weird Tales, Wild West Weekly, Dare-Devil Aces and The Mysterious Wu Fang.

Not only did publishers cash in on the pulp-fiction craze, but writers did, too.

About 1,300 of them wrote short stories for two cents a word, in order to feed men's insatiable demand for escape.

While most pulp-fiction writers are forgotten today, some are well remembered—even lionized.

Among the latter are William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, John D. MacDonald, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Earle Stanley Gardner, H.P. Lovecraft, Ray Bradbury, and Arthur C. Clarke.

A paper shortage during World War II, the debut of the 25-cent "pocketbook," and the proliferation of movies, radio programs, and TV shows displaced the pulps.

Bleeding readers, magazines like Dime Detective and Dare-Devil Aces simply shuttered.

Those that didn't abandoned fiction altogether, moving into the category of "men's magazines" and devoting their lurid pages to topics like Nazi sadists, serial killers, Bigfoot, and the Bermuda Triangle. 

I still remember seeing those throwbacks in the confectioner's stores in the early 1960s, on the racks above the comic books and the copies of Mad. 

By then, the age of the pulps was over.

"The age of the pulp magazine was the last in which youngsters were forced to be literate," pulp-fiction writer Isaac Asimov lamented.

Reading and Survival

The man who can read and remember and ponder the big realities is a man keyed to survival of the species.

— John D. MacDonald

Worse than threatening democracy, illiterates threaten our species.

A fictional character aboard a houseboat in Fort Lauderdale concluded that 34 years ago.

In 1985, the National Endowment for the Arts asked the prolific paperback mystery writer John D. MacDonald ("John D" to his millions of fans) to contribute an essay promoting literacy.

John D described the 30-page result, Reading for Survival, as a "bad-tempered mouse of 7,200 words" that portrayed "the terrible isolation of the non-reader, his life without meaning because he cannot comprehend the world in which he lives."

The essay depicts a deskside conversation between John D's two best-known fictional characters, the freelance crimefighter Travis McGee and his brainy sidekick Ludweg Meyer.

Meyer does most of the talking. He theorizes that the human brain evolved into a warehouse of memories, because memories allowed prehistoric man to cope with the environment.

McGee responds, “Man learned and remembered everything he had to know about survival in his world. Then he invented so many tricks and tools, he had to invent writing. More stuff got written down than any man could possibly remember. Or use. Books are artificial memory. And it’s there when you want it. But for just surviving, you don’t need the books. Not any more.”

Meyer counters, no; books are essential. 

"The world is huge and monstrously complicated," he tells McGee. "Like our ancestors of fifty thousand years ago, if we—as a species rather than an individual—are uniformed, or careless, or indifferent to the facts, then survival as a species is in serious doubt.”

McGee doubts anyone could possibly comprehend today's complex environment.

"How do we relate to reality?" Meyer replies. "How do we begin to comprehend it? By using that same marvelous brain our ancestor used. By the exercise of memory. How do we take stock of these memories? By reading, Travis. Reading!"

Non-readers, Meyer continues, threaten the whole human species' survival. They're flat-footed and incompetent and, worse, give birth to more non-readers, who "become a new generation of illiterates, of victims." 

Non-readers' ignorance creates immanent risks, too, Meyer adds, because it makes them gullible. "Their basic lack of education, of reading, of being able to comprehend the great truths of reality has left empty places in their heads, into which great mischief has crept."

"And you have a cure for all this, of course," McGee teases.

Meyer's only solution (true to form) is to drink away their sorrows. "Let us trudge back toward home, and stop at the bar at the Seaview for something tall and cold, with rum in it," he says.

Flash forward three decades and our need to drink rum is only stronger.

The Pew Research Center says the population of non-readers in America is growing. Right now, one in four Americans doesn't read a single book—or even a part of a book— annually. That's up from one in five 10 years ago. No surprise, most of these non-readers are poorly educated and broke.

But not all. 

A lot of educated and well-off Americans have become non-readers, too, says Adam Garfinkle in National Affairs. Thanks to their "always on" digital devices, they are unable to read analytically. They have, for all purposes, given up "deep reading."

"Deep reading has in large part informed our development as humans, in ways both physiological and cultural," Garfinkle says.

"If you do not deep read, you do not cultivate a capacity to think, imagine, and create; you therefore may not realize that anything more satisfying than a video game even exists. Fully immerse yourself in digital 'life,' and timelines will flatten into unconnected dots, rendering a person present-oriented and unable to either remember or plan well. That permanently 'zoned out' person will become easy prey for the next demagogue with an attractive promise and a mesmerizing spectacle."

John D. was right—more than he dreamed. Our nation of one-time readers is going full zombie.

As a species, we may be doomed.

Poison

Fox News' latest conservaturd: the decision by the estate of Dr. Seuss to stop printing six of the author's books represents "cancel culture at silliest."

"A whole bunch of childhood legends are suddenly being put on cultural trial," Fox commentator Howard Kurtz says. 

"Past generations produced artists and politicians who upheld ideas that are utterly unacceptable today. But we have more important things to do than constantly trying to whitewash every book and show produced by our flawed past."

I'm happy to chide the champions of witless wokeness. But Kurtz and his network—as always—are dead wrong.

Dr. Seuss Enterprises made its decision not because it wants to "cancel" its sugar daddy (why would it?) but because, as a spokesperson said, the six discontinued books "portray people in ways that are hurtful and wrong."

But, racist zealots that they are, Kurtz and his network refuse to admit kids are influenced by books—and that some of those books are poison.

As caring parents, we keep poisons out of kids' reach for good reason. And poisonous books, too.

Consider, for example, The Poison Mushroom, a children's picture-book published by Nazi propagandist Julius Streicher. 

Used in German classrooms between 1938 and 1945, The Poison Mushroom enjoyed a vast, captive audience until the Nazi's defeat and the Allies' "denazification" initiative.

The book explains how, just as it's hard to tell a poisonous from an edible mushroom, it's hard to tell a Jew from a Gentile. 

The Poison Mushroom teaches kids to identify Jews through their purported actions: they abuse servants; kidnap, molest and murder children; rape pubescent girls; torture animals; cheat naive customers; and worship money and Karl Marx.

During the Nuremburg Trials, one jurist called The Poison Mushroom "obscene."

Given the strong resemblance between Julius Streicher's and QAnon's beliefs, I wouldn't be surprised to see Kurtz and his network next rail against last year's "cancellation" of The Poison Mushroom by Amazon.

Perhaps it's time to cancel Fox News.

Neologisms

Writers like words, and speculative fiction writers in particular
like to make them up.

― Zara Poghosyan

Children of the '60s will be happy to learn The Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction, published this week, includes the word grok.

   

Grok—meaning "to perceive or understand fully"—was coined by sci-fi novelist Robert A. Heinlein. His Hugo-winning Stranger in a Strange Land was a staple among readers in the '60s—even among those who, like me, didn't much care for science fiction. 

Along with The Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird and Catch-22, the Library of Congress has named Stranger in a Strange Land one of the "Books That Shaped America."

The novel recounts the adventures of Valentine Michael Smith, a super-cool Martian who can't comprehend why Earthlings act so desperately. 

Despite enjoying a psychic's abilities, Smith is a naïf—no match for the cunning creatures he meets during his brief visit to Earth. 

But Smith does manage to leave one lesson behind: he teaches Earthlings to grok, to know and love all beings, the way God does. Literally (in Martian) to "drink in" all creatures great and small.

Sci-fi writers like Heinlein seem gifted in their ability to mint neologisms. 

And while not all sci-fi writers' verbal concoctions come into vogue, plenty do.

Among the latter are these gems—all coined by sci-fi novelists, playwrights and screenwriters, and all in common use today: outer space, deep space, cyberspace, hyperspace, warp speed, zero gravity, blastoff, spacesuit, time machine, scanner, transporter, ray gun, robot, genetic engineer, alien, extraterrestrial, replicant, computer virus, computer worm, fanzine, flash mob, unperson, thought police, Big Brother and Frankenstein.

The Cure

The United States was founded by the brightest people in the country—and we haven't seen them since.

— Gore Vidal

History—and Americans' ignorance thereof—keeps coming up in post-January 6 discussions. For good reason. Research by the American Council of Trustees and Alumni finds Americans know little about the subject. To wit:

• 33% of adult Americans do not know when the American Revolution took place
  
  
• 50% believe the Civil War occurred before the Revolution
  
  
• 78% cannot name the source of the phrase “government of the people, by the people, for the people”
  
  
• 80% cannot describe the effect of the Emancipation Proclamation
  
  
• 71% do not know what the Reconstruction was
  
  
• 33% do not know FDR introduced the New Deal
  
  
• 58% do not know when the Battle of the Bulge took place
  
  
• 41% cannot identify the name Auschwitz
  
  
• 29% do not know the title of the national anthem

"The knowledge of all American history has become a wasteland," the researchers said. "The reason is that we are no longer teaching it."

Ordinarily I complain about society's problems, without offering solutions; but today you're in for a treat. I know the way to restore our national knowledge deficit, and it isn't some billon-dollar program. Teachers merely have to assign their students the seven novels composing Gore Vidal's "Empire Chronicles."

Vidal liked to call our country, aptly, the "United States of Amnesia." We can cure that disease for only $25 per person—the cost of a farting Donald Trump doll. Call it the $25 cure for amnesia.

The novels composing Vidal's series are Burr, Lincoln, 1876, Empire, Hollywood, Washington, D.C. and The Golden Age. 

I've read each one more more than once and would best describe the novels as suspenseful, tapestry-like, and deliciously lurid.

• Burr recounts the life of the roguish Aaron Burr as he's caught up in the struggle between the power-hungry planter Thomas Jefferson and the craven financier Alexander Hamilton.

• Lincoln follows our greatest president through his entire time in the White House as he battles ruthlessly to preserve the Union and curtail the damage wrought by a crazy wife.

• 1876 recounts "America's worst year," when the winner of the popular vote in the presidential election—Democrat Samuel Tilden—loses the presidency to Republican Rutherford B. Hayes.

• Empire takes you through the era of the egomaniacal expansionists William Randolph Hearst and Teddy Roosevelt.

• Hollywood provides a behind-the-scenes look at Woodrow Wilson's time in office, with walk-on appearances by Charlie Chaplin, James Fairbanks, Mary Pickford and Fatty Arbuckle.

• Washington, D.C. portrays real-world politics during the Great Depression and World War II through the eyes of a political family not unlike the novelist's own.

• The Golden Age delves even deeper into the era, providing an inside look at the political machinations of FDR and the dawning of the Cold War.

Should you doubt the importance of my inexpensive cure for amnesia—and many of the nation's other ills—consider the words of JFK:

“There is little that is more important for an American citizen to know than the history and traditions of his country. Without such knowledge, he stands uncertain and defenseless before the world."

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.

Suite Nothings

At the conventions, fella, everything goes.

— John D. MacDonald

I have been whiling away the lockdown reading John D. MacDonald's "standalone" thrillers, paperback potboilers from the late 50's and early 60's. 

It's no wonder Ian Fleming and French mystery readers loved John D. His prose is pungent and punchy, and his take on Americans' habits raises his work to the level of the "literary" writers of his day (think of Norman Mailer, Kurt Vonnegut, Truman Capote and Gore Vidal).

A Key to the Suite, which earned John D the Grand Prix de Litterature Policiere, “examines the ferment of a big-time convention," according to the cover of the original 1962 paperback.

Corporate hatchet man Floyd Hubbard has been sent by the home office to a trade show. His mission: to dig up dirt on a has-been sales manager, Jesse Mulaney. Management wants Mulaney gone and knows his obsolescence is on full display when he attends trade shows.

But Mulaney's ally, Fred Frick, knows Hubbard has it in for his buddy, and plans to turn to the tables.

Frick hires Cory Barlund, a classy prostitute, to woo the family man Hubbard. He instructs Cory to bed Hubbard, then “make some horribly slutty embarrassing scene" in front of his coworkers—a scene guaranteed to send Hubbard running back to headquarters.

The gorgeous Cory rather quickly seduces Hubbard, but then feels sorry for him and tells him about Frick’s scheme. 

And that's when the fireworks start.

As a veteran of the industry, I'm captivated by John D's taut descriptions of trade shows and the goings-on behind the curtain—both the innocent and the vile.

You find yourself so on edge following the fates of the husbands, wives, whores and hoteliers who populate the pages of A Key to the Suite, you can hardly put it down.

It's gritty realism at its best.

Weeds

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower, the people said, a weed.

― Alfred Lord Tennyson

My war against the weeds is going slightly worse than Afghanistan.

Ecologists defend weeds as nature’s way of nourishing the soil and protecting it from erosion. But weeds' spiky proflicacy spooks me―nearly as much as bugs do―and so I engage in an endless ground war against them.

A costly and unwinnable war.

I'm also fighting another unwinnable war: the war against critics. 

While I sow the web with words, hoping like Tennyson they'll flower, my critics see only weeds.

It's easy, of course, to trash an act of creation; much harder to attempt one. I take comfort in the thought. I take comfort, too, in the fact that critics have sometimes been splendidly wrong.

Chicago Tribune critic H.L. Mencken called The Great Gatsby―today considered a literary masterpiece and F. Scott Fitzgerald's definitive work―"no more than a glorified anecdote" when the book appeared in 1925. Mencken thought Gatsby was a "clown," and the other characters worthless and boring. Although Fitzgerald's writing is stylish, Mencken conceded, "this story is obviously unimportant."

Nearly 30 million copies of The Great Gatsby have been sold since 1925.

Critics also sneered at these novels when they first appeared: As I  Lay Dying, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Tropic of Cancer, Lolita, The Handmaid's Tale, To Kill a Mockingbird, On the Road, Slaughterhouse-Five and The Catcher in the Rye.

“I've been all over the world," Leonard Bernstein said, "and I've never seen a statue of a critic.” Nor have I.

Now, back to the weeds.

Forerunner

While the reading public awaits the tell-all book by Donald Trump's niece, another new book provides a portrait of a historical figure whose character resembles the president's in a most uncanny way.

Erik Larson's The Splendid and the Vile: A Saga of Churchill, Family and Defiance during the Blitz includes a sketch of Reich Marshal Herman Göring, every bit of which feels like a description of Trump.

Göring, Larson writes, was "large, buoyant, ruthless, cruel," with an "ebullient and joyously corrupt personality."

With a "passion for extravagant sartorial display," Göring designed his own clothes, often changing his costume several times a day. Besides elaborate uniforms, he often wore gold-embroidered silk shirts, tunics and togas, painting his toenails red, dying his hair yellow, penciling his eyebrows and applying rouge to his cheeks. He also wore oversized diamond and emerald rings on the fingers of both hands.

British intelligence reports said Göring spent much of his time as Reich Marshal riding and hunting on his forested estate outside Berlin, when he should have been directing the Luftwaffe. He also devoted countless hours to running a private network of thugs, whose job was to raid art galleries and wealthy homes, stealing paintings for Göring's vast collection.

Although considered crazy by some, American intelligence reports said Göring was a "great actor and professional liar."

"The public loved him," Larson writes, "forgiving his legendary excesses and coarse personality." The American journalist William Shirer wrote at the time, "Göring is a salty, earthy, lusty man of flesh and blood. The Germans like him because they understand him. He has the faults and virtues of the average man, and the people admire him for both." Rather than resent Göring's "fantastic, medieval—and very expensive—personal life," the Germans admired it. "It is the sort of life they would lead themselves, perhaps, if they had the chance."

In the rare moments he did apply himself to his office, Göring often bungled, disregarding valid intelligence, dismissing unpleasant news, and quickly losing patience with subordinates. 

"He was easily influenced by a small clique of sycophants," one Luftwaffe pilot said at the time. "His court favorites changed frequently, since his favor could only be won and held by means of constant flattery, intrigue and expensive gifts. Göring was a man with almost no technical knowledge and no appreciation of the conditions under which modern fighter aircraft fought."

White Like Me

So long as we condone injustice by a small but powerful group, we condone the destruction of all social stability.

― John Howard Griffin

As the president golfs before his Juneteenth rally in Tulsa, my social media stream is ablaze with denial by his "color blind" followers there's an "elephant in the room," white privilege.

While I was a freshman in high school, the Jesuits had us read Black Like Me, a still-new nonfiction best-seller by a Catholic novelist named John Howard Griffin.

In the book, Griffin described a six-week exploit in the Deep South during which he traveled the byways of Mississippi, Alabama, Arkansas, and Georgia disguised as an indigent black.

Though whites in the South insisted all blacks were "happy," Griffin's adventure from beginning to end proved a “personal nightmare.”

Griffin's travels were peppered with bullying and threats, venomous insults, and continual encounters with what he labeled the omnipresent "hate stare."

Over 10 million Americans read Black Like Me when it first appeared in bookstores in 1961; and millions more saw the 1964 motion picture. 

Griffin's story convinced many of them that blacks indeed were painfully, egregiously disadvantaged.

Sixty years later, blacks are still disadvantaged―though you'd never know it from the conservatives yakking on my social media stream.

From them you'd conclude all blacks are white―like me.

Your Mother Should Know

The comedian George Carlin liked to quip, “Business ethics is an oxymoron.” 

While most people on the receiving end of commerce would likely agree, having spent over forty years inside various businesses, I would rephrase Carlin's gag: Business ethics may not be an oxymoron, but it sure is an oddity.

It's as odd in the workplace as frontal nudity, purple hair and Hitler mustaches. 

Most business executives are decent folks who—to my view, anyway—conveniently "park their ethics at the door" along with their BMWs. Their workweek amorality doesn't make of them monsters or mobsters, but it does lend credence to Balzac's claim, "Behind every great fortune is a crime;" or a misdemeanor, at the least.

You'd think they would have learned right from wrong from their mothers.

Thank heaven there's now a guidebook for the ethically-challenged executive—one perfectly timed for the current global crisis.

Crisis Ahead, by crisis-management expert Edward Segal, provides a 250-page map through the corporate crisis minefield. But Crisis Ahead seeks to do more than that: it seeks to convert business ethics from an oddity to a commodity.

Segal is the author of a previous how-to, Getting Your 15 Minutes of Fame and More!, a cookbook for ambitious executives hungry for glory. Crisis Ahead is, in a way, that earlier book's "evil twin," a checklist for amoral executives eager to avoid the press's attention, a possible pillorying, or—worse—a pink slip.

Whereas the majority of books on business ethics—written by philosophers for b-school professors—are as impractical as they are impenetrable, Crisis Ahead is daringly straightforward, simple and "strictly business."

Segal states in his introduction—which includes a late-breaking essay on the Covid-19 crisis—that Crisis Ahead comprises only "quick, practical advice." The author's tips are aimed not at the academic, but at the business executive who needs to "prepare for, prevent, manage, and recover from a crisis, scandal, disaster, or other emergency." 

In other words, you'll find no theories, models or conundrums here. Crisis Ahead instead offers a bagful of "lessons learned" from illicit schemes, inside deals, sex scandals, errant emails and shoddy products, as well as no fewer than "101 best practices" intended for the beleaguered executive who needs to know "what to do in the moment: what levers to pull and what moves to make in real time when faced with a crisis." 

You also won't find terms like "environmental justice" or "social entrepreneurship" anywhere in the text; nor the names of philosophers, psychologists or theologians in the index.

So why consider Crisis Now a book on ethics? (Amazon—no paragon of the topic—has done just that, listing the book under both public relations and business ethics; but we'll set that aside for now.) 

The reason becomes clear when you read "Edward's Takes," brief sidebars by the author that accompany each case study. While these reflections consider "how well or poorly the company, organization, or individual did in responding to—or in some cases creating—a crisis," the vast majority also shine a light on the myriad misdeeds that led to the crises in the first place.

Time and again, we learn that executives themselves—not some error, accident, or act of God—bring about the catastrophes; that unscrupulous executives are indeed their own worse enemies.

You'd have thought they'd have learned better.

Downtown

Her breasts jiggled fetchingly, but Larry wasn't fetched.

— Stephen King, from The Stand

A recent radio interview with the author has prompted me to re-read Stephen King's 40-year-old doorstop The Stand. 

On Page 101, I encountered the sentence above: perhaps the worst in all of King's novels; perhaps the worst in American literature.

I have relished reading trash ever since high school, where the Jesuits, hoping to instill in us "catholic tastes," encouraged our indulgence in "middlebrow" literature (after all, they said, Shakespeare aimed to please the groundlings as much as the audience in the seats; and Faulkner supported a family of ten writing short stories for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Mademoiselle and The Saturday Evening Post).

And so I've consumed scores of best-sellers by the likes of Upton Sinclair, John O'Hara, James M. Cain, Henry Miller, Jim Thompson, Philip K. Dick, James Michener, Ross Macdonald, John D. MacDonald, Herman Wouk, John leCarre’, Robert B. Parker, Ken Follett, James Lee Burke, Henning Mankell, John Grisham, Dean Koontz and, yes, Stephen King.

My teachers understood: reading middlebrow authors would help us appreciate the skills of highbrow ones (authors like Hardy, Conrad, Maughm, Hemingway, Faulkner and Heller).

I adore all those best-selling writers; and, besides, sometimes you need to go downtown to get uptown.