Ship of Fools

No one is entitled to be ignorant.

— Harlan Ellison

Investigators this week found that a $2 billion warship burned because no one aboard turned on the fire-suppression system, according to US Naval Institute News.

The USS Bonhomme Richard burned last summer because its crew didn't know how to fight a fire, investigators concluded.

The fire-suppression system could have been activated, and the warship saved, by the push of a single button.

"It is surprising that nobody on the scene knew how to activate the system," a defense expert said.

A number of other missteps, including delays in reporting the fire, a disorganized command response, and a failure to seal off the area where the fire began, only worsened the situation.

The Navy blamed 36 individuals, including five admirals, for the ship's loss.

The incident is the second of its kind in eight years.

The USS Miami, a $ 1.6 billion submarine, burned in 2012.

The fatalist in me says catastrophes like the one aboard the Bonhomme Richard are overdetermined—brought about not by one, but by a "cascade of failures."

You could chalk the disaster up to hubris; but I'm more apt to blame sheer ignorance.

Americans have a romance with ignorance. It's at the bottom of most the errors and bad decisions we make, from investing in subprime mortgages to electing Donald Trump.

Our unfathomable ignorance is inexcusable, given how easy it is to become moderately informed about almost any topic. (Google it.)

Our widespread ignorance is willful, woeful, and thoroughly unconscionable.

We get what we deserve.

POSTSCRIPT: I felt a bit crabby when I penned this post. But less than 24 hours later, Maria Shriver wrote "most people don't want the truth," citing Trump's launch of his new social media platform TRUTH. She's right, by gum.   

Becoming Unamerican

Americanism in all its forms seems trashy
and wasteful and crude.

— Christopher Hitchens

Shockwaves coursed through the superhero universe this weekend following the announcement by DC Comics that the slogan of Superman, its 83-year-old Man of Steel, would be revised.

"Truth, Justice and A Better Tomorrow" will replace Superman's former slogan, "Truth, Justice and the American Way."

While Superman was unavailable for comment, Goodly reached seven other superheroes for their reaction to the news.

"Holy defamation!" said Robin, Boy Wonder and sidekick to Batman. "This upsets an 80-year tradition of honoring Superman's adopted country. It feels like Buddy Holly has died all over."

"Trump's chickens have come home"

Wonder Woman expressed no surprise at the announcement, citing various foreign-policy positions taken by former president Donald Trump. 

"All of Trump's chickens have come home to roost," she told Goodly. 

"America's image globally is in the toilet thanks to him. It's like facing Kryptonite to tell someone overseas you're an American. I can't fault DC Comics for its decision to distance Superman from this country."

Referring obscenely to the company's management, the Incredible Hulk asked, "What are they smoking over there? Sure, I support diversity and inclusivity as much as the next guy, but this takes things too far. It's not patriotic. Next, they'll announce Superman's gay."

DC Comics in fact announced that the "new" Superman, Jon Kent, introduced in July as the son of Clark Kent, is gay and will date a gay refugee reporter in a forthcoming issue of the comic book.

Jon Kent and BFF

The announcement of Clark Kent Superman's new slogan particularly offended the ears of Captain America. 

"I guess they'll have to change my name too now," he lamented. "I'll never get used to 'Captain Tomorrow.' Sounds like a brand of laxative. I'd rather just be called 'Steve.'"

But Supergirl was sanguine about her cousin Superman's new slogan.

"Does it really matter?" she asked philosophically. "People got upset when Avis dropped 'We Try Harder.' They're still in business, last time I checked."

Whether a rebranded Superman will remain in business another 80 years is anyone's guess, however.

"'A Better Tomorrow' isn't a slogan, it's an aspiration," said Ironman. "It sets a higher bar for the Man of Steel. All Americans can benefit from a higher bar."

"I think 'A Better Tomorrow' sounds quite timely, given the immanence of climate change," said Conan the Barbarian, adding, "We don't all agree about America's role on the world stage in the future, but we can all agree about one thing—that the day after today will be tomorrow."

UPDATE: Hyperallegic reports that several right-wing media outlets have lashed out at Jon Kent's sexual orientation. No superheroes were available for comment.

Get the Name of the Dog

My task is, by the power of the written word, 

to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, 

before all, to make you see.

— Joseph Conrad

In The Elements of Style, Strunk and White pooh-pooh lazy writers—the majority—because they're so often satisfied with imprecision.

You see their slothfulness on display every day:

• "The Searchers is the greatest Western ever made."
  
  
• "The number of Americans diagnosed with 'broken heart' syndrome has steadily risen in the past 15 years."
  
  
• "Some records from The British Invasion in the mid-'60s can be very valuable."

By saying so little, sentences like these tax readers' minds. They squander readers' energy in guessing what the writer means to say.

Good writing avoids imprecision by drawing word-pictures.

Word-pictures comprise concrete details—specifics—that allow readers easily to imagine the world the writer seeks to depict. 

Anything less is filler. Eyewash. Baloney. Horse hockey.

• "The Searchers is the greatest Western ever made" merely tells you the writer likes this cowboy movie.

• "The number of Americans diagnosed with 'broken heart' syndrome has steadily risen in the past 15 years" merely tells you that incidents of a weird disease have increased.

• "Some records from The British Invasion in the mid-'60s can be very valuable" merely tells you there's demand for vinyl recordings by bands like Peter & Gordon.

Precision, on the other hand, would have told you, among other things, what distinguishes The Searchers from all the other hundreds of Westerns; how fast cases of "broken heart" are accelerating—and whether the disease affects a lot of people, or only a few; and which mop-top bands' records are hot.

Lazy writers favor the generic, as Victorian sociologist Herbert Spencer said in The Philosophy of Style; and, because they do, they always leave readers guessing. They should, instead, aim to produce "vivid impressions" with their words.

Writers should avoid, Spencer said, abstract sentences like "When the manners, customs, and amusements of a nation are cruel and barbarous, the penal code will be severe." They should write instead "When men delight in battles, bullfights, and gladiatorial combat, they will punish by hanging, burning, and the rack."

Spencer calls the use of vivid word-pictures a "thorough maxim of composition."

Writing coach Peter Roy Clark calls Spencer's maxim "Get the name of the dog" (or the "Fido Theorem").

"Such was my affection for this writing strategy," Clark once told an interviewer, "I wanted to use it as a book title. 

"Anticipating the literalism of SEO, my publisher decided the title should reflect what the book was really about. In the end, Get the Name of the Dog became Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer. 

"Get the name of the dog" does appear in Clark's Writing Tools as Tool Number 14. But it's much more important.

"It ranks as Number 1 in my heart," Clark said. "Every strategic move I’ve shared over 30 years derives its existence from the Fido Theorem. 

"'Get the name of the dog' stands, for me, for the whole. In other words, if the writer remembers to get the dog’s name, he or she will be curious enough and attentive enough to gather all the relevant details in their epiphanic particularity."

Got an email to write? A memo? A report? 

Get the name of the dog.

Tom Foolery

The mob has no memory; it can never comprehend when its own interests are at stake.

― Alexandre Koyré

Despite his pivotal role in our nation's founding, slaveholder Thomas Jefferson is about to be cancelled.

Watching the wholesale cancellation of the Confederates, mossbacks like myself knew, in our hearts, the founder's days were numbered.

Being White and powerful, his erasure was inevitable.

Mobs are just as oppressive as governments, and faster acting.

And have no doubt it's a mob that's gunning for Jefferson, a multiracial one comprising angry Blacks, Latinos, and Asians. 

When it comes to condemning Whites' hypocrisy, this mob's unstoppable.

Hypocrisy like Jefferson's no doubt merits condemnation.

But cancellation?

Jefferson deserves better.

Jefferson's cancellation lumps the Founding Fathers with the Confederates "in a way which minimizes the crimes and problems of the Confederacy," Jefferson scholar Annette Gordon-Reed told The New York Times.

I agree with her.

While Jefferson owned slaves, he didn't extol slavery; he called it, in fact, a "moral and political depravity" he'd abolish were abolition "practicable."

For my own part, I've tried for years to plumb the depths of Jefferson's hypocrisy and finally found forgiveness in historian Henry Wiencek's dark biography, Master of the Mountain.

In Master of the Mountain, Wiencek makes clear that Jefferson, our celebrant of liberty and equality, kept slaves because he could not bear to lose Monticello to his creditors, nor see his daughter and grandchildren plunged into poverty. 

Had he been frugal (he spent a fortune he didn't have on books, groceries, and fine wines) and smart about business (farming and manufacturing), Jefferson well might have freed his slaves. But he was neither, and he didn't.

Instead, Jefferson ran up enormous debt and remained, his whole life, a slave to his slaves, earning a four percent profit from breeding and selling them—a "bonanza," according to Wiencek.

Jefferson, a failure at farming and a klutz at commerce, sold out his ideals for a soft life.

And for his sin—monetizing people—the mob has moved to cancel the author of our Declaration of Independence, decrying all statues of Jefferson as symbols of "the disgusting and racist basis on which America was founded."

But that's the way of mobs. 

Forgiveness demands acceptance, something mobs suck at.

Mobs are really only good at vengeance.

So here's my prediction of who's next on the block.

Jesus Christ, founder of the most oppressive institution in the history of the world.

It's inevitable.

Welcome the twilight of the idols.

Reunion

Vive memor leti, fugit hora.

— Persius Flaccus

William Shatner has nothing on me.

He rocketed into space last week; but I rocketed back in time.

I attended my prep-school class's 50th reunion this weekend.

My impressions of the event are ajumble, because so many long-forgotten faces swam into view all at once and in so brief a time. 

Until Friday afternoon, I had not stepped foot once in Jersey City for all the 50 intervening years, nor spoken to more than four or five of my 200+ classmates from Saint Peter's Prep.

That's one hell of a long gap.

But a score of hours just aren't enough to bridge five decades' distance. 

And so I found, throughout the weekend, that behind the façade of reminiscent smiles, nods, handshakes and chatter, an ocean of memories boiled—memories that at some moments threatened to swamp me. 

(The feeling of being swamped was quite appropriate to the locale, given that that neighborhood of Jersey City, Paulus Hook, is barely above sea level and catastrophically floods during big storms like Hurricane Sandy.)

I'm convinced nostalgia, in tiny doses, is good for you. 

Most psychologists would agree.

But it can be a little unnerving in large spoonfuls.

A 50-year class reunion is a megadose of memories.  

Nonetheless, when I left Jersey City on Sunday afternoon, I felt fine: relatively young and healthy; sane, solvent and sociable; and grateful—exceedingly grateful.

I left grateful to the fates and to my folks, who'd given me a wonderful gift: the chance to pal with a bunch of overachievers during my four most-formative teenage years. 

What a powerful preparation for adulthood. 

And what sweet memories.

Sweeter still was the realization that I was able to attend the reunion at all.

So many of my classmates and dear friends—the solemn list was read aloud during our "reunion mass"—are dead and buried.

They missed a great party.

Vive memor leti, fugit hora.

Live mindful of death, the hour flees.

HAT TIP: Thanks go to classmate Mike Healy. Absent his urging, I would not have attended my class reunion.