Time to Choose

If we're to avoid a fascistic America, Democrats have to choose.

The letter E or the letter U?

Will we defend or defund the police?

Yesterday, my wife and I drove through a dicey part of Wilmington at dusk.

It was Friday and summery, the sweet twilight air the proverbial "balm for the soul." 

All the neighbors were out of their rowhouses, gathered on the stoops and street corners and in front of the packaged goods stores.

On one empty corner, we saw a lone uniformed cop in a centurion-like pose.

He was keeping the peace as best he could.

He didn't look happy.

I wouldn't have his job for the world.

But I'd readily fund his salary—and the salaries of hundreds of more young centurions.

Armed gangs this week have turned Wilmington into Dodge City.

Yesterday, the mayor met with residents to condemn the killing of a 14-year-old on Tuesday and seek advice for ending gun violence.

Twenty other people have been shot in the past 25 days. 

If three more are shot next week, a new city record will be set for most shootings in a month.

And it's only June.

The mayor wants Delaware to repeal the state's open-carry law and plans to pump $55 million unto new streetlights and surveillance cameras.

Why not more cops?

Shootings across the country have become more lethal and brash.

Shooters no longer care if they're seen by witnesses; snitches are nonexistent; community organizers have taken to crouching in the hallways; and handguns have become as common as sneakers.

Why would we defund the police—worsening the bloodbath while we pave the road for Trump.

Democrats have to choose. Now.

They have to take a chance on a letter.

Up in Arms

Where there is power, there is resistance.

― Michel Foucault

On Easter 1680, Louis XIV visited Saint-Riquier, where he touched 1,600 of his subjects, certain his "royal touch" would protect them from scrofula (the disease we call TB).

The royal touch today is administered not by a king, but an underling; and not in a cathedral, but a convention center.

And it's a tad more likely to work.

But, as French philosopher Michel Foucault said, where there's power, there's resistance.

AP yesterday reported that vaccinated Americans accounted for only 0.1% of the 853,000 Americans hospitalized for Covid-19 last month.

That means 99.9% of the Americans hospitalized were not vaccinated—"a staggering demonstration of how effective the shots have been," AP concludes.

CDC Director Dr. Rochelle Walensky told AP that nearly every case of Covid-19 last month was "entirely preventable” and that the 18,000 deaths due to the virus were "particularly tragic."

But, even though 603,000 Americans have already died from Covid-19, as of today 37% of American adults remain unvaccinated. 

The vaccine-resistance movement comprises the nation's most bone-headed Republicans plus a creepy coalition of comparable nincompoops (including Nazis, New-Agers, New Black Panthers and Nation of Islamists).

Personally speaking, I have no problem with these folks' foolishness.

Thanks to them, the medical device stocks I own are on fire (up nearly 36%). 

If an epidemic breaks out, I'll laugh all the way to the bank.

But the sociologist in me wants to know why these fools resist the royal touch.

The answer, I believe, is obvious.

They think that they're they're victims of government overreach; that they live unrestrained by chemistry, physics, history, and the law; and that their non-compliant gestures should earn them a merit badge.

More to the point, they think they're important.

"The world is full of contention and contentious people," John D. MacDonald said.

"They will not tell you the time of day without their little display of hostility. It is more than a reflex. It is an affirmation of importance."

These self-important fools do not understand biopolitics.

Norms govern us today, not kings. That's biopolitics.

Norms restrict our freedoms for the sake of society.

Norms dictate we don't double dip; spit in the punchbowl; pee in the pool; poop on the sidewalk.

Norms mean we submit to hygiene control.

From the biopolitical point-of-view, the Covid-19 vaccine is merely an element of hygiene control. 

It's merely another norm.

Complying with norms isn't being servile; it's being normal. 

It isn't a surrender of civil rights; it's a surrender to civility. 

And if you consider our six-million-year barbarous past, civility is pretty goddamn non-conformist.

Maybe it's the civil people who deserve the merit badges.

So, if you want to flout the norms of hygiene control, act like an ape, and risk your family's and your Republican neighbors' lives, go ahead. Don't take the shot.

I say more power to you.

I'll use my dividends to buy more stock.

At My Earliest Convenience

I can neither pinpoint the origin nor attribute the first use of the expression "at my earliest convenience." 

But I can say with authority it makes me scream to hear it.

And I hear it all the time.

Sure, common expressions regularly creep into the nonsensical, and no one bats an eyelash.

People once said, "I couldn't care less," to express indifference. 

Now they say, "I could care less."

They say "irregardless," when there's no such word.

They say "my kids' PJs are inflammable," unaware they're upsetting child protective services.

Those slips are innocuous.

But this bastardization of language is different.

It's tactless, malicious, officious and moronic. Obnoxious. Inhospitable. Boorish. Befuddling. And most of all, belligerent.

When did it creep into use? 

And why didn't somebody stop it?

When I hear "at my earliest convenience," I hear "me, me, me—it's all about me."

Screw you.

The blog Grammarly would excuse innocent users of the expression, claiming the phrase "sounds impolite" but hardly amounts to a "grievous business faux pas."

Wrong.

It's a grievous business faux pas. 

Use of the phrase should be punishable by imprisonment.

Recurring use, by hard labor.

 

Customer service in America has already tied for last place with customer service in Stalinist Russia. 

In the present environment, I don't need to hear that you'll get back to me at your earliest convenience. 

That says "never." 

As in, "Get lost. Take a hike. Go, and never darken my towels again."

Grammarly recommends business people who use the phrase "at my earliest convenience" alter it slightly to be more specific. 

"Please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you within 178 hours." 

I recommend they go jump in a lake.

Now. 

When it's convenient to me.

The customer.

POSTSCRIPT FOR EMPLOYERS: Create a document for your employees like the one found here. Threaten them with dismissal for any use of "at my earliest convenience."

Free Lunch

There's no such thing as a free lunch.

— Milton Friedman

Pioneers of the "loss leader," late-19th-century saloonkeepers offered thirsty customers "free lunch."

Economist Milton Friedman popularized the term a century later by propounding that "there's no such thing as a free lunch." (He didn't coin the expression. He swiped it from critics of the New Deal.)

But when it comes to tasty business clichés, Friedman was wrong. 

Below is a free smorgasboard of them.

We use them every day. 

Who'd have thought what these terms originally meant?

Across the board. In the 19th century, racehorses' odds were displayed on "tote boards" (huge calculators) at the track. When a gambler wanted to back a horse to win, place or show, he placed a bet "across the board."'

The Big Cheese himself,
William Howard Taft

Big cheese. In colonial India, Hindus used the word chiz to mean "thing." British soldiers simply added "big" when a thing was important. The term wasn't applied to people until 1911, when President William Howard Taft appeared at the National Dairy Show in Chicago, where he was invited to slice up and sample an enormous wheel of cheese. As a result, the 350-pound Taft became the world's first "big cheese."

Coach. In the 19th century, you took a coach when you wanted to get somewhere fast. Schools began to use the term to denote tutors, who accelerated students' learning.

Dead wood. Shipbuilders in the 16th century often placed loose timber blocks in the keel of a ship as ballast. Sailors called the excess cargo, which slowed the ship down, "dead wood."

Even steven. The first Afrikaners called an English penny a "steven." When they settled a debt, they would say they were "even steven."

Facilitate. In the 13th century, English speakers borrowed the French verb faciliter, which means to "ease," and turned it into a noun. Facility meant "gentleness." If you're gentle, you don't boss people around. You coax them.

Guinea pig. When a Brit volunteered for jury duty in the 18th century, he received the nominal sum of a guinea a day for his time. If he longed for better pay, he'd join the King's Navy, where a "Guinea pig" was a novice sailor.

Hard and fast. An 18th-century ship that was stuck was "hard." A ship in dry dock was "hard and fast."

Irons in the fire. To do the job right, a 14th-century plumber had to keep several hot irons at the ready all the time. How else can you connect lead pipes?

Draco

Kill with kindness. The Ancient Greek lawmaker Draco was beloved by Athenians. To prove their adoration, they showered him with their cloaks—too many cloaks—when he appeared at the Aeginetan theater in 590 BC. Poor Draco was smothered. What a way to go! (I almost said "What a way toga.")

Lame duck. An 18th-century member of the London stock exchange who couldn't meet his obligations on settlement day was said to "waddle" out of Exchange Alley, mortified.

Mentor. Before he left home for the Trojan War, Ulysses chose his friend Mentor as an advisor to his son Telemachus.

The naked truth. An ancient fable holds that Truth and Falsehood went for a swim. Falsehood stole Truth's clothes. Truth refused to take Falsehood's clothes, and so went naked.

Okay. Like President Trump, Andrew Jackson couldn't spell. On day he spelled "all correct" as "oll korrect." The misspelling became an acronym that political enemies seized on, in order to mock Jackson. The gag worked, because "OK" rhymed with the Scottish expression "Och aye," meaning "Oh, yes."

9th-century taxpayer

Pay through the nose. In the 9th century, Ireland was occuoied by Danish invaders. The invaders placed a much-hated real estate tax on the Irish that was known as the "Nose Tax." If you failed to pay the ounce of gold due, the Danes slit your nose.

Take a rain check. Baseball first became popular to watch in America in the late 19th century. You received a voucher, good for future admission, any time a game was called on account of rain.

Skin in the game. Australians called an English pound a "skin" in the early 20th century. Gamblers liked to "put skin in the game." In a so-called "skin game," innocent players were cheated by sharpers.

Tip. In the 17th century, English speakers borrowed the German verb tippen, meaning to "touch," to denote a "gift." Your could make a gift of money (a "tip") or a gift of information (also a "tip"). The story about signs over tip-jars reading "To Insure Promptness" is pure baloney, invented by cartoonist Robert Ripley.

Upper crust. Pies were symbols of society in the Middle Ages. The top crust represented the aristocracy.

Wild Alpine Burdock

Velcro. Swiss engineer George de Mestrel invented Velcro in 1941, after noticing that the burrs of the wild Alpine burdock stuck to his pants. He named his invention after velours crochet, French for "velvet hook."

Worth your salt. Ancient Roman soldiers were paid monthly, sometimes in money and sometimes in salt. Their allowance was called a salarium. Sal is Latin for "salt."

Yahoo. Before the search engine, Yahoo was the name of a race of louts, "the most filthy, noisome, and deformed animals which nature ever produced." The novelist Jonathan Swift dreamed them up when penning Gulliver's Travels in 1726. In 1995, the search engine's inventors borrowed the name, because they thought Swift's description of the Yahoos also described them.

Goodly. "Goodly" combines good with -ly. It was coined by yours truly in 2016 ("Bigly" was already taken). So now you know.

19th-century racetrack "tote board"

Death in the Afternoon

Anxiety is there. It's only sleeping.

— Martin Heidegger

I'm amazed people watch Hallmark Christmas movies in July—or any time of year.

Psychologists agree these sappy romances release dopamine, but that doesn't wash for me as an explanation.

Psychologists also agree our pattern-seeking brains savor the movies' carbon-copy plots. That sounds better, but doesn't go far enough.

Why do people watch Hallmark Christmas movies in July?

To keep death at bay.

As Sigmund Freud observed, death threatens us from three directions all the time: from our own bodies, doomed to dissolution; from the external world, rife with destruction; and from other people, prone to violence. 

On top of those things, we harbor an unconscious "death wish" that compels us to take foolish risks.

In the face of the threats, we're driven to escape, to experience Nirvana or what Freud calls the "oceanic sensation" of eternity.

And that, I believe, explains the appeal of Hallmark Christmas movies.

They all take place in a delusional fairytale land where no one suffers, no one dies, and nothing ever changes (except the casts, and they all look alike).

I recall from childhood devout Catholics who attended mass every day in hope of earning "life everlasting." 

In its unwavering consistency, the Catholic Order of Mass is like a Hallmark Christmas movie. But for the cast, nothing ever varies.

But old-fashioned exuberance for church-going has become quaint. 

In fact, church attendance in all denominations is cratering.

Now to keep death at bay we just turn on the Hallmark Channel. And we do so with urgency.

"If you think it through," Martin Heidegger said, "life can beautifully be called 'urgency.' But you must then agree that life's essence comprises desire, sorrow, and death—all at the same time."

When you acknowledge death is inevitable, your existence is torn in two, Heidegger believed. 

While you enjoy life's little pleasures, you can't help but be aware that time is finite and that your will has limits—even though your desires do not. 

So you waste time in flight from your awareness of death: you dissociate, daydream, drug, drink, overwork, overeat, overpost... or just dial up the Hallmark Channel. 

Then things aren't so dismal.