This.
You Want to Laugh, do you?
I rarely find myself reading something and laughing out loud, LOL! I don’t think I’ve ever ROTFLMFAO, but on rare occasions something in print tickles the old funny bone and makes me roar in my chair. This bit did zee trick, LOL!
The author, always funny, was a good friend in high school who I lost touch with (or, ‘with whom I lost touch’, if you prefer the stick up the ass). I stayed friends with her ex-husband and, through an on-line magazine he writes for that pays a few bucks for 1,000 word pieces, I discovered more than a dozen written testaments to Helene’s wicked wit yesterday. There are a few tragic ones among them, although even those are leavened with her distinctive irony, but scroll down the list, every one is worth reading, and none more than 1,000 words or so.
The list of Helene’s stuff which she just reported bears the editorial mark, here and there, of that lovable “scamp” who improves good work with a deft, sometimes daft, touch (hey, Larry, where are you when the reader needs you?) is here. Czech ’em, but only if you want a larf.
historical footnote
Footnote 7 from
A Short History of Blacks As The Special Favorites of the Law: (Revisiting the Failure of Reconstruction and America’s Persistent Race Problem)
7] The legal foundations of the “Peculiar Institution” are buried in three discreet clauses in the Constitution. The words “slavery” and “African” are understood.
The first reference was in regard to the valuation of slave men as three-fifths of a man for purposes of apportioning representatives to Congress. See U.S. Const. art. I, § 2, cl. 3
The second authorized the unimpeded continuation of the slave trade until 1808– “migration or importation of such persons as any of the States now existing shall think proper to admit”
See U.S. Const. art. I, § 9, cl. 1
The third provided the constitutional basis for the Fugitive Slave Acts,
“No Person held to Service or Labour in one State, under the Laws thereof, escaping into another, shall, in Consequence of any Law or Regulation therein, be discharged from such Service or Labour, but shall be delivered up on Claim of the Party to whom such Service or Labour may be due.”
U.S. Const. art. IV, § 2, cl. 3.
Excellent short piece on one of three discreet mentions of the peculiar institution in the Constitution
Not being at home, where I have a short paper I once wrote about the three slimy and well-camouflaged Constitutional foundations for American slavery, the “Peculiar Institution”, I hit the internets to find the three discreet, coded, legally binding devil-in-the fucking-detail phrases.
I found this one first, the timeless reference to “the Migration or Importation of such Persons as any of the States now existing shall think proper to admit”; lucked on to this excellent one page discussion of the slave trade clause, well worth a read:
http://abolition.nypl.org/essays/us_constitution/3/
Glad to see there are some excellent teaching materials on-line. My niece teaches American History in High School and I’m glad to see high quality discussions like these are easily accessible, with teaching notes. Here’s another excellent short discussion (citing all three clauses) of one of the three legal foundations for the Peculiar Institution (I’ll leave the fucking 3/5 compromise — which apportioned representatives to Congress based on total population, including 3/5 of each slave, slaves comprising 40% of the population in the South — out of this post):
Fugitive Slave Clause — Article IV, Section 2, Clause 3
Essay by Matthew Spalding (pp. 275–276)
A model of circumlocution, the Fugitive Slave Clause comes the closest of the so called Slave Clauses (Article I, Section 2, Clause 3; Article I, Section 9, Clause 1; and Article V) to recognizing slavery as a protected institution. The Fugitive Slave Clause was one of the most controversial clauses in the Constitution because it provided that escaped slaves would be returned to those who claimed ownership.
The Framers carefully drafted the clause to ensure that the Constitution did not give moral sanction to slavery. The final revision emphasized that slaves were held according to the laws of individual states and that slavery was not based on natural or common law. The language also implies that a slave owner’s property did not extend to federal territories if Congress chose to prohibit slavery there. Indeed, according to the legal requirements of the clause, an escaped slave was no longer a slave upon entering a state that did not recognize slavery under its law.
Unlike other clauses in Article IV, which vest power either in Congress directly or in the United States, this clause is written in the passive voice…
Matthew Spalding, author of the above, does an excellent job breaking down this “carefully drafted” clause, showing in very few words the complexities of political compromise I generally leave out of my morally indignant posts. I frequently take a less nuanced route:
A “model of circumlocution”, “written in the passive voice”– this is how the fucking devil speaks and writes. Just goes to show, once again, if showing again were needed (not to say it’s not): one needn’t be Hitler’s legal counsel to do excellent work, as a result of which, many millions are humiliated, maimed and killed.
467
150 years since slavery was abolished
Slavery, at one time enshrined, in coded language, in our Constitution, was abolished by the 13th Amendment, apparently passed 150 years ago today. The justice and mercy of Law, what can one say? I am about to go on a bike ride before tackling other things, but thought I’d tackle this old chestnut briefly first.
l always love the racist complaint that when it comes to slavery American Blacks should “just get over it”. It was 150 years ago! they will heatedly remind you today. A brief survey of those 150 years may be in order. American states seceded from the Union, took up arms to defend their rights, including the Constitutional right to hold humans as property, to do with such property as they saw fit. Although today most people consider slavery inexcusably evil, it was Constitutionally protected, more vigorously protected than many rights enjoyed by American citizens.
Treatment of American citizens was, and remains, largely a States Rights matter. Advocates of States Rights seem brazen about the fact that the states most loudly demanding their rights are the same ones who took up arms against the government they felt, with mixed justice, was interfering with their Constitutional rights. Demanding unthinkable things like the end of our genteel way of life, sir! Damn you, sir, I say, damn you!
After a monstrously bloody war slavery was abolished by a Constitutional Amendment, the thirteenth. The defeated rebel states had to endorse this amendment or forfeit the right to Federal funds to rebuild their war torn infrastructure (most of the fighting was in the Confederacy). “Reconstruction” was a short-lived project, it lasted about as long as Prohibition and, though it began with great promise, did about the same amount of lasting good before it was abandoned. When federal troops were removed from the South, and the Supreme Court severely limited the scope of the other Amendments designed to insure rights to the freed slaves, it was time for States Rights again.
We had states ruled in many cases by outfits like the Ku Klux Klan. Can’t be sheriff, son, nor mayor, nor governor, neither, unless you move up in the Klan. Black Codes in these states made it a crime for a black man to be unemployed and walking the streets without a certain amount of money in his pocket Wealthy white men with fields to plow could bail out imprisoned Negroes and have them work to pay off their bail money. The repayment was structured to last a lifetime. The arrangement lasted less than a century, but surely seemed longer to those freed slaves who, on paper, had the same rights as anyone else.
A war was waged steadily throughout the 1930s, 40s, 50s and 60s and the Civil Rights legislation of the 1960s finally restored much of the 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments, passed a century earlier. Then it was only a matter of 50 years or so after that until the question of widespread poverty among the descendants of American slaves, and hopelessness, violence, racial profiling, killing by police and so forth would be back in the news.
Malcolm X questioned why such barbarous conditions were considered a matter of Civil Rights when, more properly, they should be regarded as violations of Human Rights. Let the U.N. decide whether America is still denying basic Human Rights to millions of its citizens, he demanded. The ballot or the bullet, you know. They chose, as they so often do, the bullet. February 21, 1965. Another big anniversary, less than a year ago, sir.
Projects
There may be individuals, I suppose there must be, who can continue uphill, pushing a worthy long-shot project, undaunted by the continual climb, the lack of landmarks, fellow-travelers, encouragement, the barren landscape. Could be part of the myth of the rugged individual, of course, the invigorating but pernicious idea that one person, alone, can create a community to play a small role in changing horror into hope. There are the usual outliers, guys like Don Trump, who start with nothing and wind up– or who start with relatively little, a few million, say… and…. ah, fuck Trump and the Trump he rode in on.
There is, it is written, a time to reap and a time to sow. There are other worthy projects I’ve been neglecting as I neglect the larger one, an ambitious undertaking that has already showed its potential to do what it purports to do. Few alive today are aware of its great potential, true, but, anyway, it seems a good time to list and try to advance the other worthy projects I must also put my back into. Progress in one thing helps in another.
Among the 901 posts I have put on this blagh since August of 2012 there are a dozen or more that can be raked into the approximate bones of the Book of Irv, the tragic and illuminating story of my difficult father. There are posts on my mother, an equally compelling character, probably another dozen. One of each of these story types was published, in abbreviated form, for a small but decent payday. You can see them here and here. Although each bears the mark of sometimes arbitrary editing, the small violence done to my prose, the random insertion of a cliche here and there– a very small price to pay for the nice cash money I received for them.
There are several posts about animals, my ongoing vigilance against doing harm, musings on friendship, etc. Each should be raked into a little pile, organized, submitted somewhere for money.
Of course, when I write of raking into little piles and organizing, the chaos in here strikes an ironic pose, winks at me saucily. “You want to rake some piles and do some organizing, my friend? Really? Heh.” I should take these sprawling dunes of paper, drawing books, boxes, cords, rulers, cutting boards, sunscreen, dropper bottles, rubber stamps, dead electronic devices, hats, zipper bags, music books and many other odd items and tame them, one by one. Would make everything else much easier, no question. One small triumph inspires the next.
There is also the memory of the excellent advice an adjunct professor in law school gave us at the end of that last semester. When you study for the bar exam, he said, treat it like you are in training for a grueling fight. Set a daily schedule of study, keep to it, but also eat well, work out, get enough sleep every night. You need to be in the best shape of your life, he told us, mentally and physically. Sitting for hours studying means you’ll need to schedule daily time for exercise. The exercise will also help you unwind from your studies and improve your sleep. I took him at his word and rode the bike for an hour every night. It helped a lot as I passed two bar exams in three days.
After long days at the computer, mostly distracting myself, I rode my bike, briefly, each of the last two nights. It was good to be rolling again, if also a little sobering to be reminded– when you get back on the bike it takes a while to build up to where you want to be. Those hills you conquered on nightly rides in the past will kick your ass until you build back up to being able to kick their asses. I’ve been there before, needing to get back into shape, getting back into better shape. It is a pleasure when you do, a struggle to get back there, a longer struggle the longer you neglect to begin.
Like so many other things in life, my friend.
RIP Tawny
My sister loved her dog, a pit bull named Tawny. My memory of Tawny is as an ageless lioness, limber, strong and perfectly formed. Sekhnet recalls her as a giant lioness. She was not small. She had boundless nervous energy, if you threw her saliva soaked white sock for her once you’d be obliged to do it a hundred more times.
The wet sock would be on your lap, at your feet, or next to you on the couch, Tawny, head cocked, staring longingly at you, at the sock, at you, making sure you saw her, knew the sock was there. Whatever else might have been going on, she had one concern, her paw up on you now, to focus your attention to the matter: throw, run after that sock and bring it back, drop it for throwing, repeat.
She was beautiful. She was gentle, too. She wouldn’t bite a hamburger, as the phrase goes. She was not cuddly, had too much energy for that, and her coat was not smooth and silky for petting, she wanted to move, to bring back the sock, a ball, whatever.
You could picture her on the savanna, with no fear of any creature, sitting under a tree gnawing a bone. My sister said that is how she died today, at the ripe old pit bull age of more than 13, deaf, unable to use her hind legs any more. Chewing on a bone, peaceful, as her loved ones sat around her and the vet administered the stuff to knock her out. Very gentle and very sad. My sister and her family are all crying tonight.
To those who have never loved a dog or a cat or other animal, I have to say, I am a little bit sorry for you. There is no love greater than that shared with a familiar, loyal animal whose life and warmth connect with yours. We are lucky who have experienced that kind of love with another human.
This love between humans and animals is not a new thing, either. The bonds between human and animal go back to earliest prehistory. The first friendly wolves who ran with humanoids, becoming the first dogs, defending the group, being rewarded with food and affection, a warm place to sleep by the fire. The pack was as familiar to dogs as to humans. Cats and other animals long ago joined into this most excellent arrangement.
398
Freedom (and the Unthinkable)
Born free and in chains at the same time, it is written. We are free to choose, within our choices, chained to things beyond our control.
“Good fortune, I have found, comes most often as the result of hard work.” This was written by an industrious young man who’d inherited a thousand acres of fertile farm land and almost a hundred slaves. History remembers him as one of our greatest geniuses.
Bad fortune, I suppose, to have been born one of this humanist philosopher’s slaves. Hard work would not likely fix this egregious pre-birth planning mistake. Your options are fewer than the boy landowner: you can complain, look for justice, or vengeange , you can seek to be the illuminating exception — but those don’t usually make for a felicitous pursuit of happiness.
Once a prince left an opulent, pampered life in the palace, he renounced his wealth, the life of desire, searched for enlightenment, became the living embodiment of enlightenment. Simpler, ironically, for the son of a king than for the son of a field laborer.
We are free and we are in chains. Your government. The policies and laws by which some live as philosopher kings while others lead lives of fear, violence and want. Fairness and the world? A grimly humorous idea. Good social media skills in 2015? Inspire a worldwide band of psychologically delicate people looking for a cause to rally to, convince them to create terror for that cause. Stand back and wait for the internet to blow up.
251
The Lifespan of Friendship
Having time, that most precious of resources, I sometimes brood, that most useless of uses for time. I don’t brood at random, mind you. I brood about specific vexing details of this life here, the life we try to celebrate, and wring every bit of joy, gratefulness and amazement from. We try to appreciate the good things in our lives to the cadence of a constantly banging drum, and not only one drum, a million drums.
The beat is constant, purposeful, and often drowns out everything else. It is amplified and throbs over the wall to wall speakers of mass media. Recently it was Paris, the murderous motherfuckers who slaughtered some innocent people there. That was the only story. Everywhere. Oh, yes, and the accompanying footnote story of a similar slaughter in Beirut where less people were killed that same day in a part of the world where many are killed daily. Then the only story was about some insane American motherfucker with a gun killing people he believed were killers because they worked in a clinic that sometimes performed abortions. Trump. The idiocy or atrocity of the day. The kid who was killed by an enraged policeman in Chicago, the city paid the family $5,000,000 for the kid’s “wrongful death”. The eventual release of the videotape, after a year of government stone-walling, showing there was probable cause to believe the policeman murdered the kid in the first degree. Friday was Black Friday, run to stand on line for amazing deals. Today is Cyber Monday, big savings on line, go go go!
But I am not thinking of any of these things today. I am thinking about the death of friendship, how it happens, why. As a kid I watched my father toss old friends over the side, not even look back as they disappeared without a trace in the wake of his mighty ship. I thought this was horrible. Over time I’d learn it is even more horrible to have vengeful people scowling and skulking on deck, spewing hatred, jealousy, anger, poison, insisting they are your best friends and that you don’t deserve any fucking better, asshole. If you ask them nicely and they don’t play nice, don’t play with them. If they won’t leave, it is kind of a moral duty to throw them over the side.
It is a matter of luck and sensitivity, and valuing the rare thing that true friendship is, to find and keep good friends. A certain amount of work is involved in keeping a friendship alive and healthy. I believe there are many people who do not have the luck and sensitivity to others to find and keep good friends. It is much more important to them to be right, and feel superior, and justified in their anger, and not take any shit from anyone, ever. I have been there, prepared to take no shit from anyone, ever. But taking a little shit once in a rare while, from someone who sometimes needs to give it, as all of us do, well, OK, the price to be a good a friend, to have a good friend. A little shit can be overlooked, within reason.
But then there is the line drawn in the sand: all shit all the time! I didn’t sign on for this, you will think to yourself, protest to the friend who declares this drastic new policy. Doesn’t matter, your friend will say, you’re the only one I can throw this on, need to get it out of my large intestine, can’t leave it on the floor. The color goes nicely with your eyes. Makes kind of a warm hat and scarf for you, my friend. At first, anyway.
This is really disgusting. Is this really the best I can do at the moment?
I like to think not. I like to think I can do better. It is not always possible. Time is money. Tick tick tick.
If you want your friend to listen to you, not cut you off, consider the things you say: listen to your friend, do not cut them off, consider the things they say. The Golden Rule, from the mouth of Jesus, was Love your neighbor as yourself. This may be possible for the son of God, or a saint, but does not seem possible for the average human. The Golden Rule, from the mouth of Hillel: What is hateful to you do not unto another. This gives us a handle on a better way to act, seems more practical. Everyone knows what they hate. If you hate it, don’t do it to someone else. What are you, a sadist?
Many are sadists, sad to say, and sadism, it seems to me, comes from being victimized by another sadist. What is hateful to you do to anyone who is weaker than you– the credo of the sadist. Some victims are made more sensitive by what they have been forced to undergo, become protectors of others. Many, sadly, become fucking sadists. Is it possible to be friends with a sadist? If you are a masochist, I suppose. The old one: the masochist says ‘hurt me, hurt me!’ and the sadist says ‘no…’
This is most muddled, my friend. Is there some lesson to be drawn from this? I do not see it. Are you saying your friends will treat you no better than you treat them? Are you once more taking a bold stand for the obvious, that it is better to be a mensch than an asshole? Those things are kind of subjective, no? Don’t most of us consider ourselves justified in our actions, on the high road, compromisers taken advantage of when things go south?
I think of the line between mensch and asshole like that Supreme Court justice wrote of obscenity: we know it when we see it. In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man, as it is written in the Book of Proverbs. Or maybe it was in Pirkey Avot. I’m sure every religion and culture has some variation on this. Our’s in the west is: go someplace where there is something of material value, claim it, stand tall and use your quick drawn gun to kill anyone who contests your claim to it.
Madness creeps down like a curtain, like the darkening sky at dusk, like a thumb on to an ant. I don’t know what to make of this. Hopefully the next page will be a little more edifying and entertaining.
NY Times on Federal Judge Jay Bybee
Not that I am a huge fan of the Grey Skank, but I did have to applaud this editorial bit on the Torture Memos and their author, life-tenured Judge Jay Bybee (the article I read it in, linked below, is also worth a read):
Their language is the precise bureaucratese favored by dungeon masters throughout history. They detail how to fashion a collar for slamming a prisoner against a wall, exactly how many days he can be kept without sleep (11), and what, specifically, he should be told before being locked in a box with an insect — all to stop just short of having a jury decide that these acts violate the laws against torture and abusive treatment of prisoners.
In one of the more nauseating passages, Jay Bybee, then an assistant attorney general and now a federal judge, wrote admiringly about a contraption for waterboarding that would lurch a prisoner upright if he stopped breathing while water was poured over his face. He praised the Central Intelligence Agency for having doctors ready to perform an emergency tracheotomy if necessary.
These memos are not an honest attempt to set the legal limits on interrogations, which was the authors’ statutory obligation. They were written to provide legal immunity for acts that are clearly illegal, immoral and a violation of this country’s most basic values.
