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.

America's Most Hated Man

We were fighting for an idea, and somebody who realized that had to say it and keep on saying it until it was believed.

— George Creel

Before there was foxification, there was creeling.

Named for adman George Creel, the flack who ran White House communications during World War I, creeling means to repeat a lie incessantly, expecting listeners to buy it—which they usually do. 

Propaganda experts also call Creel's trick the ad nauseam tactic.

Creel made no effort to disguise his creeling, which he defined as "propaganda in the true sense of the word, meaning the propagation of faith.”

Lacking the broadcast technology Fox exploits, Creel relied largely on an early form of brand advocacy to weaponize his palaver.

He dispatched a 75,000-man army of public speakers he called "Four-Minute Men" to "meet customers where they are"—or were, in 1917.

The Four-Minute Men would stand up in the nation's movie theaters between reel-changes—which took four minutes in the day—and mouth the White House's lies.

They lied about German atrocities, the fairness of the draft, the urgency for rationing, and the value of US savings bonds, over and over and over.

Creel supplemented his army of brand advocates by distributing millions of garish posters, booklets and films that demonized the enemy and glorified us, insisting, "America must be thrilled into unity."

To do any less, Creel believed, was to let the Germans win.

"The printed word, the spoken word, motion pictures, the telegraph, the wireless, cables, posters, signboards, and every possible media should be used to drive home the justice of America’s cause," he said. 

"Not to combat disaffection at home was to weaken the firing line.”

Historians haven't been kind to George Creel, calling him, among other things, a "warmonger," "petty tyrant," and "irredeemable villain"—even though his intentions might have been patriotic.

But, well intentioned though he be, Creel perfected the propaganda tool that bears his name—creeling—and handed it to the dybbuks at Fox.

For that, we can hate him.

Wind's Rising

There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks.”

― Raymond Chandler

One of the grimmest recurring images in literature is a hot wind.

A harbinger of mayhem and violence, it blows in summers across cities like Los Angeles, turning the streets pitiless. 

As tempers and the red stuff in thermometers rise, beatings, stabbings and shootings spike.

As cops and criminologists know, a hot wind does things to people.

America's cities are in for a hot wind this summer. 

Last year, the homicide rates in large cities rose, on average, 30%. 

In some cities, the increase was far worse. In Minneapolis, homicides rose 72%; in Portland, 82%.

This summer will be even more violent.

"Unless the American people speak out," the Miami chief of police told CNN this week, "it’s gonna be a long, hot, bloody summer."

Child's Play

A child loves his play not because it’s easy, but because it’s hard.

— Benjamin Spock

The recent rehabilitation of Mr. Potato Head has led me to consider whether one of my favorite childhood games—Cowboys & Indians—can be similarly salvaged, or whether it's so outré it must remain on the ash heap of history.

When I was a kid, we'd exhaust ourselves playing the game. 

We'd dress in partial costumes and chase each other around the parks, playgrounds and backyards for hours, in hopes of catching anyone from the other side off guard.

Cap guns made the game especially thrilling.

Woke being only a preterit in the late 1950s, no one—least of all, the adults—questioned the politics of the pastime. 

It was, after all, the era of TV Westerns like Gunsmoke, Cheyenne, The Lone Ranger, and The Rifleman.

If Cowboys & Indians is to be suitably reformed for today's kids, fundamental changes to the game will have to be made.

First, the name.

Although the word order unjustly prioritizes the colonizers, Cowhands & Indigenous Americans would seem best. But only the full name should ever be used; never the acronym.

Next, the objective.

Cowboys & Indians' goal is simply to eliminate as many of your opponents as possible in an afternoon. The goal of Cowhands & Indigenous Americans should be for both sides to meet and negotiate the restoration of broken treaties (including appropriate reparations). The change will mandate that all players dress as attorneys.

Finally, the rules.

Under the new rules, Cowhands will be required to wear body cameras at all times. Purchase of a cap gun will require training, licensing, an intensive background check, and a two-week wait period (except in Texas). The use of bows and arrows, if certified authentic, is permitted. No player may pad her billing.

  

As Dr. Spock said, child's play isn't easy.

Silver Girl

Sail on Silver Girl,

Sail on by.

— Paul Simon

On this day in 1968, I stood on the mobbed platform of my local Penn Central station to watch "Silver Girl" take Robert F. Kennedy's body to Washington for burial.

My 15-year-old self came to think of RFK's funeral train by that name 18 months later, when Simon and Garfunkel laid the soundtrack of a brand-new song over film footage of it. 

We're now all-too familiar with that mournful song.

Sail on Silver Girl,

Sail on by.

Your time has come to shine,

All your dreams are on their way.

See how they shine.

Although the song became a smash hit, Simon and Garfunkel's televised sermon didn't suit most Americans' tastes in late 1969. A million viewers switched off the duo's TV special after seeing the train.

Camelot was out. Nixon was in.

On History.com, historian Steven M. Gillon recalls why RFK's cortege drew so many people trackside 18 months earlier, on June 8, 1968.

A true humanitarian had been slain. Not a poser, but a rich, once-ruthless Cold Warrior who'd been reborn a hippie; a peacenik, labor leader, friend of the middle class, and civil rights spokesperson—and the only man in America who could fill the shoes of the just-murdered Martin Luther King.

"RFK was the only white politician in America who could walk through the streets of both white and Black working-class neighborhoods and be embraced by both," Gillon writes.

Shot by a Palestinian who opposed his stance on Israel, RFK had died on June 6, at the age of 42. The Kennedy family immediately arranged his funeral at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York on June 8, and his burial the same day at Arlington National Cemetery. 

The family then enlisted the Penn Central to shuttle the body and 700 family friends between the two cities. The railroad cobbled together a train composed of two locomotives and 21 passenger cars. RFK's casket rested in the last one, on top of red velvet chairs.

The idea of using a funeral train seemed right, "because his people live along the tracks,” John Kenneth Galbraith said at the time. 

But none of the family or friends expected what would happen.

"As they emerged from the tunnel under the Hudson River into the bright sunshine of northern New Jersey, the passengers got their first glimpse of the enormous crowds gathered to view the train," Gillon writes. 

"In the marshlands of northern Jersey, hardened workers stood atop trucks with their hands placed over their hearts. One man knelt in prayer by the trackside. In New Brunswick, a lone bugler stood on the station platform sounding taps. In rural areas, girls flocked to the railroad on horseback, and boys looked down from trees. Outside Philadelphia, a junior high school band played 'America the Beautiful.' At the Philadelphia train station, onlookers linked arms and sang the Civil War anthem 'Battle Hymn of the Republic,' one of RFK’s favorite songs.

"Gazing out the window, journalist Jack Newfield witnessed 'tens of thousands of poor Blacks, already bereft from the loss of Martin Luther King, weeping and waving goodbye on one side of the railroad tracks.' And alongside those Black mourners were 'tens of thousands of almost poor whites on the other side of the train, waving American flags, standing at attention, hands over their hearts, tears running down their faces.' 

"'Inside the train, you couldn’t hear anything,' said journalist Art Buchwald. 'But on the platform, you could hear the cheers, and the people crying.'”

Oh, if you need a friend,

I’m sailing right behind.

The trip lasted for eight hours—twice as long as it should have—because more than a million people had massed along the tracks to say goodbye. Journalist Russell Baker noted that "not a single face in the crowd smiled.” It was a million-man catharsis.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will ease your mind.

Like a bridge over troubled water,

I will ease your mind.

"Dave Powers, who had been part of the Kennedy Irish mafia dating back to JFK’s first campaign for Congress in 1946, did not want the train ride to end," historian Gillon writes. 

"'I wish this thing could go through every state, just keep going.'"

Sail on, Silver Girl.

POSTSCRIPT: Find an album of contemporary photos here.