Money for Jam

I believe in everything until it's disproved.

— John Lennon

French jam-maker Bonne Maman is cashing in on a myth, thanks to a law professor's tweet.

Michael Perino claimed in February Bonne Maman's founders helped Parisian Jews survive the Holocaust by hiding them from the Nazis.

His proof? A remark by a nameless old lady he met in a New Jersey supermarket.

The tweet caused social mentions of Bonne Maman ("Granny's" in English) to surge.

Reporters who've fact-checked Perino have come up dry. 

But Perino has defended the claim, saying, "What possible reason would this woman have to go out of her way to lie?"

The professor should know better. He's making what philosophers call the "appeal to ignorance."

The appeal to ignorance—a logical fallacy—insists a claim must be true because we don't know any facts that would make it false.

Two prime examples of the fallacy are the claims, "Hilary is a secret sex-slave trafficker" and "Santa Claus is coming to town." 

You can insist either claim is true because there are no facts that disprove the claim; but you'd be wrong from the logical point of view. And there are plenty of facts suggesting the two claims are false.

Speaking of facts, as it turns out Bonne Maman's founders (whose descendants have refused to comment) didn't live in Paris during World War II; nor are they considered "righteous gentiles" by Israel’s Holocaust Remembrance Center.

And yet people want to believe. As philosopher William James said, "your belief will help create the fact."

Above: Bonne Maman by Robert Francis James. Oil on canvas board. 8 x 10 inches.

Kick the Bucket

Bucket: an open-topped, roughly cylindrical container.

Gambrel: a frame used by butchers for hanging carcasses.

— Collins Dictionary

When KFC founder Colonel Harlan Sanders died 40 years ago, a pal of mine joked, "He must have kicked the bucket."

Kick the bucket comes not from American chickens, but British pigs.

According to Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, a bucket is 18th-century British slang for a gambrel.

"When pigs are killed," Brewer's says, "they are hung by their hind-legs on a bucket, with their heads downwards. To kick the bucket is to be hung on the bucket by the heels."

Farmers (and city folk) would soon apply the gruesome expression to anyone who died.

The first known appearance of kick the bucket can be found in the August 1775 edition of The London Magazine: Or, Gentleman’s Monthly Intelligencer.

"My old mess-mate, Tom Bowline, met me at the gangway, and with a salute as hearty as honest, damned his eyes, but he was glad that I had not kicked the bucket."

Pictured above: A bucket. A gambrel.

Reform Schools

Vaccination is the medical sacrament corresponding to baptism.

― Samuel Butler

Nearly half the Trumpsters, says CNN, are refusing vaccination. These unbaptized threaten herd immunity.

So I think it's time to quarantine them, for all our sakes.

The most effective quarantine, in my opinion, would be reform schools.

I know I sound like Mao (he made extensive use of reform schools to intern nonbelievers, and his attempts at "cultural cleaning" earned him a shady reputation).

But what choice do we have? We believers simply must stand up to nonbelievers—even if it means they're inconvenienced by a brief getaway to the gulags.

Besides, reform schools can provide terrific classrooms where we can reeducate the Trumpsters. Critical race theorists can teach all the courses. They'll love that.

Trump, after all, is a fascist strongman, and the longer I watch his adherents' antics, the more ready I become to abandon my nice guy attitude.

Think about it: Trumpsters aren't aggrieved; they're evil; and there are only two ways to deal with collective evil.

The first is nonviolence. 

In his 1960 essay "Pilgrimage to Nonviolence," Martin Luther King described how he dealt with Jim Crow injustice through nonviolence (satyagraha). Nonviolence relies on guilt to overwhelm an opponent. It "reaches the opponent and so stirs his conscience that reconciliation becomes a reality," King wrote.

But Trumpsters, like psychopaths, are guiltless; and so we must turn to the second way to deal with collective evil: violence.

Sure, the nice guy in you might object, but recognize violence gets a bum rap. A little surgically applied now and then can work wonders. Just ask Mao.

Unlike my friends—who're preparing to flee to Europe—I'm ready to see the Trumpsters rounded up and packed off to reform schools. The sooner, the better.

You with me?

POSTSCRIPT: Happy Birthing People Day.

Learning to Walk

You don't learn to walk by following rules. 

You learn by doing, and by falling over. 

— Richard Branson

I'm halfway through three months of physical therapy after shattering an ankle. I'm learning to walk again.

The therapists pester me constantly to walk, walk, walk, in order to speed my recovery. Willpower and workouts alone won't cut it, they insist. I have to "learn by doing."

Meantime, I'm tutoring an eighth grader in writing and asking the same of him.

Applying William Faulkner's advice to would-be writers—read, read, read—I've assigned him a small mountain of prose: pieces by Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Friedrich Nietzsche, E.B. White, Hunter S. Thompson, John D. MacDonald, George Plimpton, Martin Luther King, and a pack of lesser-knowns. I've also introduced him to speed reading and have asked him to write chapter summaries of How to Read a Book every week through July.

All this for a boy who, before we met, only read an occasional gaming magazine and hardly wrote anything at all (his public school really let him down). But I want to make the most of our tutoring sessions. If he falls over once in a while, so be it; at least he won't shatter an ankle.

POSTSCRIPT: Want to help a good cause? Go to Mighty Writers to learn more.

Alfredophobia

Don't worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon.

— John Madden

Relatives are forever reminding me my "executive personality" is galling. They don't grasp that I worry about the horse. 

It's an old occupational habit and hazard. But I know I must shed it and expand my "worry-free zone" to 24/7.

The challenge in doing so stems from yet another of my personality disorders, one I'll label Alfredophobia. 

Fear of becoming Alfred E. Neuman. I'd hate to turn so jolly and half-witted.

As told by The Paris Review, Alfred has an unorthodox origin story.

In 1956, MAD's publisher swiped him for the magazine's cover from a 19th-century postcard captioned, “What, Me Worry?”

MAD's editor later that year made Alfred the magazine’s mascot. "I decided I wanted to have this visual logo as the image of MAD, the same way corporations had the Jolly Green Giant," he said 50 years later.

Alfred was drawn by a veteran illustrator of pinups. MAD's editor told him to draw the mascot to look like "someone who can maintain a sense of humor while the world is collapsing around him.”

A decade later, the magazine was sued for stealing a 1914 trade character known as "Me Worry?" But MAD's lawyers verified the character predated the 1914 version and was public domain. They won the suit handily.

Alfred's origin, it turned out, was 19th-century advertising, where he'd graced not only newspaper and magazine ads, but postcards, playbills, signs, menus, calendars, product labels, and matchbook covers. His earliest spotting—so far—dates to 1894; but Alfred is probably older. Some fans believe he originated in political cartoons lampooning Irish immigrants during the 1870s. Given the red hair, that seems right to me.

The motto What, Me Worry? has an unorthodox origin story, too: a turn-of-the-century fad.

In 1913, the songwriting team Lewis & Meyer scored a hit with "Ische ka bibble." The tune introduced a mangled Yiddish phrase purporting to mean "I should worry?" and sparked a national craze.

Much like we say Whatever, Americans soon started saying I should worry? in response to every catastrophe: 

• Unemployed. I should worry?
• Can't pay the rent. I should worry?
• Girlfriend pregnant. I should worry?
• Going bald. I should worry?
• Executive personality. I should worry?

I should worry? so incensed upper class prigs, they wanted it "canceled;" but Broadway actress Billie Burke told Chicago's Day Book that Lewis & Meyer deserved a Nobel Prize.

Listen to Ische ka bibble here.