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.