Death of a Verb

Put aside all the political and social damage that he continues to wreak (which is, of course, impossible), and he is still guilty of destroying one of the most useful, forceful, unambiguous verbs in the English language.

Trump has trumped “trump.”

If we could imagine a deck of cards representing the 52 most glaring debasements of the English language over the past, say, twenty years, “trump” would be the highest trump in whatever game you choose.

Maybe I’m fortunate that the only card game I continue to play is cribbage, a game that has no trump, although getting skunked is reminiscent.

Other cards might come close. Those who answer cellphones in classrooms, in meetings, in theaters, and many other public places have turned “emergency” into the biggest one-word joke in the history of any language.

In Newburyport, another ace would be “accountability,” rendered absolutely meaningless in last year’s election as he who most often proclaimed it openly and successfully avoided it.

Ever taking tricks is one dating back at least to the early-80s when I first heard it o’er and o’er again in the halls of academe. That’s when we went from The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius to The Yawning of the Age of Appropriate.

Before long, “appropriate” clouded the language of business and politics as well, like an invasive species that kills off useful plants while having no use of its own other than to presume agreement. It’s the adult version of the adolescent “cool,” making conformity with our peers seem like discerning individuality.

Once upon an attention span, we readily described subjects as necessary, relevant, ethical, practical, effective, durable, flexible, reliable, useful, pleasing, timely, sufficient, and on and on. Now, we lazily rely on this all-purpose “appropriate.” Test it for yourself: Whenever you hear the word “appropriate,” stop the speaker and ask what it means. Chances are the speaker will need just a moment to give you a clear, precise, honest word.

Be prepared, however, for the question to draw a blank, suggesting that speakers are either inflating the language or do not know what they are talking about. I’m not saying that there is anything necessarily nefarious here, just that “appropriate” is dead from overuse, and has been for 40 years.

As American economist Thomas Sowell told us, “If it means everything, it means nothing.”

Just last year, we heard the debasement of a word that has always seemed harmless, at least as far as this Truman baby can recall. In fact, the man with the most undeserved name claimed to have invented it: “grocery.” Can’t recall the Truman years, but I can tell you that, in the Eisenhower years, supermarkets were still on the horizon of what we called “grocery stores.”

He also boasted that he would “make America affordable again” in his 2024 campaign, although he now calls “affordability” a made-up word, a Democratic hoax. But that’s nothing compared to his 2016 campaign when his stump speeches included pro-longed ridicule of the word “emoluments.” He also called that a hoax, having heard it repeatedly invoked during his two impeachments.

Apparently he never saw it in print. That includes the US Constitution where “emoluments” appears several times because the founders were determined to prevent future presidents from accepting riches that might influence them. The emphasis they put on emoluments is so great that, to say you read the Constitution and then not recognize it, is akin to claiming you’ve been to Yellowstone but can’t recall any geyser.

Those passages drew loud laughter from the MAGA crowds, as Trump trumped the founders with a series of weird and exaggerated pronunciations made with twisting facial expressions–“eeee-MULL-ew-mints,” “eh-mole-U-mince.” All those folks who for years dared that we liberals “Read the Constitution!” themselves do not recognize it.

It’s as if the novel 1984 has been taken and employed as a blueprint rather than as a cautionary tale. George Orwell’s “Newspeak” serves as a precursor for today’s debased English, not just in the limited vocabulary of “Doubleplusgoodspeak,” but in naming and renaming of anything in sight. “Victory Cigarettes” and “Victory Chocolate” may very well be the models for “Big Beautiful Bill” and “Gulf of America.” The brand name, “Trump,” now being stamped on public buildings follows the lead of the ubiquitous posters of Big Brother in Orwell’s “Oceania.”

Orwell’s most quoted line sums it up: “(I)f thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.” We need heed the line that follows: 

A bad usage can spread by tradition and imitation even among people who should and do know better.

And so it is that Americans left and right, educated or not, have allowed our language to be debased. How bad is it? Walmart now claims to be “investing in American jobs” on signs that it places directly above self-checkout counters manufactured in China, and few notice. The fewer who object are dismissed as malcontents.

Could say that we were trumped before Trump hit the scene. But that does not mean that the game is lost. We still have the language and the ability to use it with honesty, precision, and clarity. In effect, we still have cards. And we have turns to bid.

Those turns are called elections where the highest bid calls trump. Might call it “the art of the deal” if only that phrase were not already debased.

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https://www.fox5ny.com/news/trump-selling-99-virtual-trading-cards

Jiggle the Handle

Sorry if I’m flying off the handle here, but Donald Trump has turned America into a toilet that will not flush.

In it, MAGA is a bowel movement the size of Texas. At times it is Texas.

Santa Rosa reminds me of her prediction before last year’s election that, if Trump won, he would turn the country into “a two-story outhouse.” The ultra-rich upstairs and the rest of us down below–with a few holes in the floor in between. What can I say? Great minds sink alike.

Some 30 years ago, I laughed out loud while reading a student paper about a trip he took with his family through Central America. In it, he mentioned “peons” and explained they were called that because “the rich people pee on them.” Today, I’m tempted to plagiarize him.

Are these analogies too crude for you? Sorry, but we’ve just had a week in which the president of the United States referred to a woman reporter as “piggy” and called at least three others “stupid;” to members of Congress as “garbage”; to a state governor as “retarded”; and to military veterans as “traitors” while tacking on calls for their execution.

We can’t keep pretending that this is a difference between left and right or between liberal and conservative. No, it is the imposition of the crude and stupid on American day to day life.

Would you find an analogy made by, say, George Will, the “Dean of Conservative Columnists,” more “respectful” of “those on the other side”? An ardent supporter of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, Will this week called Team Trump “this sickening moral slum of an administration.”  Sounds like a two-story outhouse to me.

Trump himself has made the excremental comparison with AI generated videos that show him in an airplane throwing feces down on those who dare rally against him. That video now seems like a coming attraction that he and his ridiculous Fox Noise-Maker choice to head the Dept. of Defense made for the videos they show as often as they can of boats being bombed off the coast of Venezuela.

As Lawrence O’Donnell of MS NOW suggests, they want us to view their bombing operation as a video game. They are counting on the popularity of video games with their MAGA base, the bloodier the better. The more explosive, better yet. Deadly? That’s best of all. The one showing two helpless guys in the water clinging to a floating wreck? Uh, let’s leave that one out…

Says Will, “Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth seems to be a war criminal. Without a war. An interesting achievement.” Now that’s jiggling the handle.

With the term “moral slum,” Will captures an entire cabinet of head-nodders, there only to say yes while wearing fraudulent crosses and flags around their necks and on their lapels and heaping lavish praise on an autocrat posing as a president. Hans Christian Andersen’s Emperor Has No Clothes was closer to literal truth than Sec. of Homeland Security Kristi Noem’s characteristically clumsy worship:

Thank you for letting us get up every day and have a purpose.

How is this not arrant bullshit?

I know full well I’m not winning friends by comparing America’s political world to an unflushed toilet–and the whole MAGA movement to what fills it. But this is not the time for ingratiation, much less popularity contests. My first and foremost goal when writing political or social commentary is to say what needs to be said. Things like this:

A country that bills itself as “land of the free” and “home of the brave” cannot live on the knees of “go with the flow.”

As for my student and his “peons,” I’ll take the blame for having taught him that sometimes you can deduce the meaning of a word simply by sound and/or context. But I’ll also take credit for coaching him to jiggle the handle which powers-that-be have on those who simply want to be.

As Bob Dylan might have quipped, we shouldn’t need a plumber to tell us which way the water flows.

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Two for the Holiday Show

If you’re considering films to see this holiday season, there are two I’m tempted to recommend with just one word each: WOW! and WOW!

Neither Sentimental Value nor Hamnet will ever be called celebrations or described as feel-good, but they leave audiences feeling good and celebrating those who persevere. What recommends both for the season can be stated in one word: Redemption.

Stories–the settings and the time as much as the plot–are so different that it’s hard to believe they have so much in common. You may, for example, wonder if they share the same screenwriter and editors. I’ll refrain from hinting at anything else for fear of spoilers, but I can name similarities that have nothing to do with plot:

Both lead actresses, Norwegian Renata Reinsve (Worst Person in the World 2021) and Irish Jessie Buckley (Wicked Little Letters 2023) deliver performances as convincing and with as much range of emotion as any I’ve ever seen on a screen.

Worth noting here that Sentimental Value Director Joachim Trier earned two Oscar nominations for Worst Person, and that Hamnet Director Chloe Zhao won the Oscar for Best Picture in 2020 for Nomadland.

Also in common: Screening Room audiences have been very slow to get out of their seats when Sentimental Value and Hamnet are over, and they let us know why on their way out. Their words, their tones, and their facial expressions are very much the same.

It is the sound and the look of redemption.

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Renata Reinsve in Sentimental Value: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt27714581/
Jessie Buckley in the center of the Globe Theater in Hamnet: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt14905854/

Baby, You Can Take Your Pick

It was sixty years ago this week the Beatles released Rubber Soul, “a classic,” as an old college friend puts it, “no matter which version – the British EMI original or the U.S. Capitol release – you love.”

Reminding us of the anniversary on social media, he declared it his “all time favorite Beatles album.” Many of my friends who came of age in the Sixties say the same. Within minutes, a friend of his agreed that, yes, it is a fave, but it takes second place to Revolver.

Starting as far back as 1970 when the Beatles disbanded, this has been the debate: Rubber Soul in 1965 or Revolver in 1966?

Seems everyone I know our age picks those as their numbers one and two Beatles albums, and it’s about a 50/50 split as to which order. I recall hearing that debate in the Dakotas in the late-70s. And I recall a guitarist telling me in the late and lamented Caffe di Siena in Newburyport some 20 years ago that it is always the debate–with an occasional mention of Sgt. Pepper.

I’d put them second and third because Help! tops my list. A film soundtrack released several months before Rubber Soul, Help! layered songs such as “The Night Before” and “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” with orchestral arrangements of earlier Beatles songs such as “From Me To You” and “You Can’t Do That.” The new Beatles’ songs were the richer for it, like paintings in well-crafted frames. Even the musically pugilistic “Ticket to Ride” did right by me. I was mesmerized at first listen, and my ears were open to a world of music, and of musical possibilities, I may have previously heard but to which I never listened.

Perhaps my third-party vote should make me recuse myself from the Rubber Soul or Revolver debate. Instead, I’ll concede that, as a soundtrack, Help! can’t be strictly categorized as a Beatles’ album. The Fab Four put just seven new tracks on it; Ken Thorne and His Orchestra have five. Compare that to 14 songs, all Beatles, each on Rubber Soul and Revolver.

Anyone who recalls the Beatles in real time–they first appeared on American television a month before I turned 13–need only look at the titles on both albums to make a very strong case for either one. (And, yes, I do realize that these include a few added tracks on new issues remastered in the last 20 years.)

On Rubber Soul:

  • Drive My Car
  • Norwegian Wood
  • You Won’t See Me
  • Nowhere Man
  • Think For Yourself
  • The Word
  • Michelle
  • What Goes On
  • Girl
  • I’m Looking Through You
  • In My Life
  • Wait
  • If I Needed Someone
  • Run For Your Life

On Revolver:

  • Taxman
  • Eleanor Rigby
  • I’m Only Sleeping
  • Love You To
  • Here, There and Everywhere
  • Yellow Submarine
  • She Said She Said
  • Good Day Sunshine
  • And Your Bird Can Sing
  • For No One
  • Doctor Robert
  • I Want To Tell You
  • Got To Get You Into My Life
  • Tomorrow Never Knows

Most striking is the range of both. A baseball fan may notice how much the sequence of each has in common with a batting order. Is it possible that the same band that gave us “Drive My Car” and “Taxman” also gave us “Norwegian Wood” and “Eleanor Rigby”? Well, there they are, leading off both albums–the first hard-driving to get on base, the second more deliberate to advance the runner and take a base of its own.

We could say that “You Won’t See Me,” “Nowhere Man,” and “I’m Looking Through You” make Rubber Soul more appealing to those who most value personal awareness and relationships, while “Here, There, and Everywhere,” “Yellow Submarine,” and “Tomorrow Never Knows” favor Revolver for those more prone toward cosmic awareness and speculation.

None of that matters much to those of us more inclined to hear an album song by song and picking favorite songs on them. That includes me, and with two of my top dozen Beatles songs on each–“Wait” and “In My Life” on Rubber Soul; “And Your Bird Can Sing” and “Got to Get You into My Life” on Revolver–I’m hard pressed to choose between them.

All I can say is: Help!

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On Help! the recent remastered version includes 14 Beatles songs and no orchestral tracks. Here’s the lineup on the 1965 album:

The BeatlesHelp!2:35
The BeatlesThe Night Before2:33
Ken Thorne And His OrchestraFrom Me To You Fantasy2:03
The BeatlesYou’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away2:08
The BeatlesI Need You2:28
Ken Thorne And His OrchestraIn The Tyrol2:21
The BeatlesAnother Girl2:02
Ken Thorne And His OrchestraAnother Hard Day’s Night2:28
The BeatlesTicket To Ride3:03
Ken Thorne And His OrchestraThe Bitter End / You Can’t Do That(2:20)
The Bitter End
You Can’t Do That
The BeatlesYou’re Gonna Lose That Girl2:18
Ken Thorne And His OrchestraThe Chase2:24
Genre:RockStage & Screen
Style:SoundtrackRock & Roll
Year:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tF6uliA6hk

Why History Repeats Itself

When I submitted a commentary on the film, Nuremberg, and the PBS series, American Revolution, to a newspaper editor as a guest column, I was careful not to include any explicit comparison of the Trump Administration to the Third Reich.

From an early draft, I deleted a line that read, “More than anything, those who still insist that ‘Nothing can be compared to Hitler and the Nazis’ need to see Nuremberg.”

After all this time of ICE acting as a Gestapo in our streets and a Dept. of Justice devoted to harassing a president’s political opponents, it’s hard to believe that anyone still thinks that, but some people live within a straitjacket of absolutes no matter how drastically times change, no matter how glaring the evidence to the contrary.

Back in the late-Sixties, I think all editors held to that standard, and in the Seventies I became one of them. In the Eighties, Nineties, and Aughts, I was a college English teacher who always steered students away from the hyperbolic–and frankly lazy–comparisons.

Godwin’s Law became the first Internet meme for good reason.

Must admit that I laughed at more than one. The comparison of dress codes in one student’s high school to “Nazi persecution” appeared in a paper I was reading in U-Mass Lowell’s cafeteria. My reaction stopped conversations five tables away as students looked up.

For me the change began in 2010 when then-Rep., now-Sen. Ed Markey (D-Mass.) called Citizens United the worst Supreme Court decision since Dred Scott in 1857. Civil Rights groups pounced, insisting, “Nothing can be compared to slavery!”

No one noticed that lawyers for the plaintiff, Citizens United, based their case on the 13th Amendment which was prompted by Dred Scott.* Nor did anyone note that all this transpired in the first week of February, designated as “Black History Month” by the very people who failed to recognize an incomparable teaching moment and, instead, suppressed it.

If that began my distrust of the “nothing can be compared” stance, 2016 completed it with the Trump campaign’s immersion in slurs, ridicule, and implied threats of violence. Much of it was straight out of the Nazi playbook. “Lying press” was mere translation of Hitler’s Lugenpress and spat out as often. Today I wonder if all those years of being drilled to believe that “nothing can be compared” greased the skids for those who took advantage of it. It’s as if they were granted immunity before committing all their crimes.

But some among us still adhere to the standard.

If you want to see just what I submitted, simply click back to “Windows Turned Mirrors,” posted on this site last week. In it, I describe a few scenes in and quote a few lines from Nuremberg. As far as I’m concerned, it needs no added comparison, as the similarities are impossible to miss.

But the editor felt “uncomfortable running any column or letter that compares Trump to Hitler even in the slightest.”

I appealed by asking that he consider a few points:

  • 1)  Nuremberg is currently playing in cinemas across the country, and will be for some time and is likely to gain several Oscar nominations.
  • 2)  I describe two scenes in the film, which is based largely on the writings of the psychiatrist played by Malek Rami, without mention of any current events.
  • 3)  I mention the reaction of Screening Room patrons without mentioning what any said while leaving, thereby avoiding any mention of current events.
  • 4)  I mention the archival footage showing headlines from German publications in the 1930s, and juxtapose them with prominent statements made by public officials in the USA this year and in 2010.  Juxtaposition is not a comparison but an invitation to allow the reader to compare.
  • 5) Nuremberg is topical. It’s the juxtaposition of it to the present that makes it so.

In signing off, I also mentioned that a comparison is not an equation. The reply came, not from any thinking person, but from AI:

Hi John – You spent a lot of timing (sic) typing a response which i (sic) appreciate. I will not run a column which compares the current administration to the Nazi party in any shape or form.

To be fair, “John” is my formal first name, and it does appear on my email account, but I’ve been writing for that paper for about as long as that editor has been alive under the byline “Jack.”

As for the attention to the time–or the “timing”–I spent typing, it might as well be AI. There’s no more thought in it than there is in the stance that “nothing can be compared to…”

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*Two years later, in his presidential bid, Republican Mitt Romney turned the same connection into a campaign slogan: “Corporations are people!”

https://unicornriot.ninja/2025/elon-musk-gives-nazi-salute-during-his-trump-inauguration-speech/

Holidays That Try Our Souls

And now we here in New England are treated to the news of a Babson College freshman at Logan Airport awaiting a flight to Texas to surprise her family on Thanksgiving.

Sounds like a story for the holidays featuring a 19-year-old Lucia Lopez Belloza who was brought to America at the age of seven from her native Honduras. A “Dreamer” as we call children of refugees in the pursuit of happiness, this one with a stellar high school record that gained her admission to the prestigious business school–a step to turning her father’s freelance tailoring into a family enterprise.

But these are holidays that try our souls if we care at all about anyone beyond our own circles of friends and family.

Lopez Belloza was intercepted by ICE agents, detained, and then deported to Honduras. No matter that an immigration lawyer was able to secure a court order to stop the deportation. And even less matter that she was being sent to a place she hasn’t seen since she was seven.

Months ago, a Boston Globe headline declared that “Agents in Trump’s anti-immigrant campaign seem to be reveling in brutality.” By that time, “seem to be” seemed to be an attempt at a very bad joke–or yet another attempt at balance where balance no longer exists.

Of all the Trump Administration’s betrayals of democracy, ICE is the most glaring. The campaign claim was that “criminals” would be round up and deported. But most of the people who have been nabbed in cities and towns all across the country have clean records, have jobs, pay taxes, and are raising families or going to school. That so many neighborhoods, churches, civic groups, sports teams, places of employment, and classmates rally around them testifies to this.

Quite a trick it is that all ICE does is visible, and yet they all wear masks. For everyone except those who still cling to the lobotomy of a belief that “nothing can be compared to the Nazis,” ICE is the American Gestapo. What happens to those they capture and detain may never be the same, but the effect that ICE raids have on people of a targeted race who remain in our cities and towns is that of intimidation auf Deutsch circa 1932 that gradually became terror by the end of that decade.

My last attempt to tip the scales back into balance was, according to my own headline, a “Portrait of a Rodeo Clown,” posted just days ago. That would be Trump’s Secretary of Homeland Security, Kristy Noem, who has turned brutality and cruelty into America’s new spectator sport. All while “inspecting” her barbed-wire-surrounded and chain-link-cage-filled detention centers in clothes tight enough to give her the name “ICE Barbie.”

The heavily Botoxed and lightly brained MAGA champion was on the front end of the MAGA movement that splashed into America soon after the Golden Calf descended the escalator in his Tower of Babel and began bleating Make America Great Again in June of 2015. To this day, she has been among Trump’s most fawning worshipers, praising him soon after his bombing of civilian boats off the coast of Venezuela with words as lavish as her numbers are preposterous:

You have saved hundreds of millions of lives with the cocaine you’ve blown up in the Caribbean.

Following my “Rodeo Clown” post, I soon had emails pointing out that I forgot her numerous flights to Mar-a-Lago in 2024 auditioning for selection as Trump’s running mate, and another for cosmetic dental work in Texas. All were at the expense of South Dakota taxpayers while she was still their governor.

Worse, I forgot that each of South Dakota’s tribes banned her from entering all nine reservations in the state. In a previous life, I visited a few of those reservations, including a week-long field trip on Pine Ridge in 1977, and I recall a rich sense of humor, from dry to slapstick to gallows, on each. Native Americans love those who make them laugh.

Therefore, I now apologize to rodeo clowns for the implied comparison I made of them to a woman who in a cabinet meeting just yesterday, addressing a man in an orange wig who appeared to be falling asleep, said this:

Sir, you made it through the hurricane season without a hurricane — you kept the hurricanes away. We appreciate that.

Sounds like a backdrop for a holiday story. But holidays are worthy of their diverse names only if the dialogue is honest and those who speak it care about anyone beyond their own circles of friends and family.

As long as Americans allow college students to be dragged out of airports–or construction workers off sites, nurses from hospitals, teachers from schools, waiters and cooks from restaurants, factory workers from their plants and their homes–our holidays are as fraudulent as the crosses Trump’s Barbies often wear around their necks.

Holiday celebration? Can’t speak of other religions, but my Catholic upbringing tells me that our holiday this year will be better observed as a call to action.

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So Tired, Tired of Waiting

Hard to believe, but the most frequently asked question put to me before the election was not who I thought would win the mayor’s race, but how the city council’s once most progressive member devolved into a rubberstamp for Mayor Reardon:

What happened to Ed Cameron?

Pronouncing it with several exclamation points rather than as a question, readers assume that, since I write about City Hall, I am privy to secrets kept behind the closed doors of 60 Pleasant Street.

Over and again I heard it, no doubt because of my employment at the downtown cinema, as much a crossroads as any in Newburyport.  With all the documentary, independent, and foreign films, it stands to reason that our demographic tends to be politically progressive, and many of them tell me they once voted for Cameron as soon as they ask the question.

Followed by an adamant “Never again!”

Perhaps they saw my favorable 2023 review of his rock-and-roll band, The Pathological Outliars, and assumed that I’m a fan boy.  Here’s a taste of it, opening with a reference to one his bandmates:

Sunny Douglas and Ed Cameron alternate vocal leads, both pitch perfect for their individual selections. Cameron may not be able to find matching socks, but he harmonizes well with Douglas whether they are belting out Bowie’s defiant “Suffragette” or lifting the weight of the Kinks’ “Tired of Waiting.”

Ironically, as city council president, all Cameron knows how to do is wait, and he is not at all tired of it–even though he yawns in the face of all else.  That’s why the library investigation took two full years, and why Mayor Reardon was able to retain a head-nodding city solicitor that the council had voted against.  Rip Van Cameron slept through the deadline to certify the council vote.

Worth mentioning here that Cameron was one of just three votes in favor of Reardon’s choice.  I’m old enough to recall an America where this was not just mere coincidence skirted by an apology, but a conflict of interest demanding a resignation.

Oh, to make America attentive again!

The activist enthusiasm of the old Ed Cameron may have made him council president, but for two years now, the new Ed Cameron is mostly concerned with having the council “stay in our lane” and treating matters only “within our purview.”

When he started doing this during a discussion of the library scandal in 2023, one councilor countered Cameron’s sleep-inducing directive with a breath-of-fresh-air blast that insisted there is no “lane.”  This was Councilor Jim McCauley, insisting that what happened to the library volunteers was a city-wide issue that needed the attention of each councilor. Councilors Connie Preston and Heath Granas soon chimed in, as they would in meetings that followed.

Even Cameron opened his eyes slightly, but he still delayed the investigation, allowing half a year to pass from the council’s approval to the hiring of an investigator–and, oh by the way, allowing the mayor’s chief-of-staff, found most culpable in the investigator’s report, to find another job in western Mass.

Last November, a state agency ruled that Cameron’s lethargic neglect of timely public notices “violated” Massachusetts’ open meeting law and ordered him to attend a webinar training session.  Two other councilors were also so ordered, but Cameron, in addition to being council president, chairs the General Government Committee for which those notices were not made, and bears most responsibility.

If Cameron’s band played the way he legislates, their entire setlist would be funeral dirges.  Their encore would be “Taps.”

All he has going for him is all that Mayor Reardon has going: the appearance of rock-and-roll vitality which makes for great photo ops.  One we keep seeing on social media has Cameron wearing all the pads of a catcher for his team in the city softball league.

As ironic as his rock-and-roll, catcher is the most demanding position in that sport–some jocks say in all of sports.  If Cameron caught the way he legislates, every pitch would be a passed ball, and the opposing team would be running conga lines around the bases.

But it is a mistake to link him to Reardon in any ideological sense. This new Ed Cameron seeks nothing more than a path of least resistance.

Sorry to admit this, but why such a promising civic leader has devolved into a bureaucratic wallflower is as much a mystery to me as it is to those who voted for him only to be frustrated by all he does not do.

Only consolation here is that the council elects its president at the start of every new session.  His fellow rubber stampers may want to keep him in place, but six new members should be free of obligation if they want, as they claim, to actually accomplish anything.

If they do replace him, I’d be amazed if Cameron even noticed the difference.

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Unlike his Hudson Valley ancestor (shown above), the president of the Newburyport city council is bald with a goatee he keeps well-trimmed.

Portrait of a Rodeo Clown

As I mention in these rambling musings from time to time, I lived most of eight years in the Dakotas. So long ago, Gerald Ford was president when I arrived; Ronald Reagan when I departed.

Five of those years were in South Dakota, home state of our current Secretary of Homeland Security, Kristi Noem, governor of the state for eight years long after I left.

In these 43 years since my Prodigal Son return to Massachusetts, I find myself living among people who have never been to Dakota Territory, which makes me a curiosity object if it comes up in conversation.

Anyone can picture the Great Lake states, the West Coast, the South and Southwest, the Rocky Mountains and the High country on their eastern slopes, Alaska and Hawai’i, and they can imagine all these places even if they’ve never been. But the Prairies take far fewer turns on television and in films, and most people draw a blank. I might as well be an astronaut who walked on the Moon or orbited Mars. What’s it like?

Not an easy question to answer, but it’s a breeze compared to the question that has replaced it over this past year: How do I explain Kristi Noem?

Seems that the one person who never asks is Cousin Janice who has such contempt for the Trump lackey that she always refers to her as “Kristi Noem and her tits.” That’s a word I’d rather avoid, but Janice does have a point, or perhaps two. Noem does have a penchant for showing up at events, including tours of her beloved internment camps, wearing noticeably tight clothes as she parades before men locked in cages.

Moreover, she seems to have turned her face into a storage facility for dermal fillers, especially her lips. Or is it a barn-load of Botox? Or plastic surgery when there was absolutely no need for it?

She has gained the nickname “ICE Barbie” for a reason. And God only knows how the photographers keep a straight face.

You think I’m being a bit harsh? Here’s her response to a reporter asking what she thought of the NFL selecting Bad Bunny for the Superbowl’s halftime show:

Well, they suck and we’ll win, and God will bless us and we’ll stand and be proud of ourselves at the end of the day, and they won’t be able to sleep at night because they don’t know what they believe. And they’re so weak, we’ll fix it.

Admittedly, I don’t know how someone so null and void of rational thought could win a statewide election by convincing anyone of anything, However, I have a hunch that she was able to model herself after the Disaster from Alaska, Sarah Palin, who became governor and the Republican VP nominee in 2008 by crafting an image of herself as a folksy, gun-totin’ hunter, waving a flag and wearing a cross while calling for a return to white picket fence America.

Just seven years younger, and bearing some resemblance, Noem crafted her image to be much the same. Palin’s hunter became Noem’s rancher, but a firearm is still there, and instead of a helicopter over the tundra loaded for bear, Noem rides a horse at a rodeo ready to lasso a calf.

Referring to Noem’s autobiography, Not My First Rodeo (2022), Helen, a South Dakota friend writes:

She likes to play the rodeo card. Probably has five of them in her deck. I wonder who actually wrote that book. It is her Art of the Deal, eh?

It will help to know that South Dakotans refer to two halves of the state: East River and West River, referring to the Missouri–too thin to plow, too thick to drink–which also bisects North Dakota. East River is farmland with endless fields of corn, alfalfa, sunflower, and amber waves of grain. West River is ranches and range where the deer and the antelope play.

Crossing the Missouri is “where The West begins,” according to John Steinbeck in his Travels with Charley (1962). Yes, he crossed the river in North Dakota, but the topography is the same. And Charley was his dog who today might be grateful for a ride through North Dakota rather than through the state that produced puppy shooting Noem.

With that in mind, let’s return to Helen who refers to towns far closer to the Minnesota border than to the Missouri River when she writes:

One of my gripes with Noem is her claim that she ‘grew up on a ranch.’ She was born in Watertown. Her family’s farm is/was near Hazel, between Watertown and De Smet. She attended high school in Hamlin. You have to go more than 50 miles west to get near ranch country.

When I told her that I wanted to turn her message into a blog, Helen suggested I run that last line by Leon, a mutual friend from Hamlin County, So. Dakota. Leon confirmed it, adding:

(Noem) tells many fibs about her history. She has no moral compass. If she is talking, she is lying.

Back to Helen’s conclusion:

The difference between a farm and a ranch may be mere semantics outside the prairies, but in East River SD, no one would call a farm a ranch, unless they had a motive, like trying to be a cowgirl instead of a farm girl. Sounds scrappier. Tougher. More Republican.

Cowgirls do get far more air time on those rugged commercials for beer and pick-up trucks, after all. And what is ICE Barbie but a serial photo-op for an administration in which shooting a pet dog looks good on your resume?

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If anyone told her about handling a firearm when standing next to someone, it went in one ear and out the other, uninterrupted by anything in between. Really, how did the photographer keep a straight face?
https://www.yahoo.com/news/ice-barbie-kristi-noem-mocked-004230140.html

Windows Turned Mirrors

We think of history as a window to the past, but at times find ourselves looking into a mirror of the present.

This month, as if to prove that point, cinemas are showing the riveting two-and-one-half hour Nuremberg and PBS offers The American Revolution, a six-episode series equally compelling. Both offer details never hinted at, much less mentioned in school texts, and which would imperil teachers in many states if they assigned them for classroom viewing.

Whoa, you may say, what does an international tribunal 80 years ago, or a war for independence 250 years ago have to do with America today?

See for yourself. Watch Hermann Göring (Russell Crowe) explain the appeal of Adolph Hitler by saying, “He made us proud to be German again,” or listen to the psychiatrist (Rami Malek) dissect him as a narcissist who “cares only about himself.” See what runs through your mind. In the Screening Room, the collective recognition was palpable for each scene.

If that’s not enough, notice the archival footage of newspapers, with sub-heads quoting Nazi leaders claiming, among other warped things, that all liberal concerns for humanity are a weakness. Compare that to Elon Musk’s “The fundamental weakness of Western civilization is empathy.” Musk was a fluke, you say, now he’s gone. Well, then compare it to several Republican senators who opposed the nomination of Elena Kagan to the Supreme Court in 2010 for her crime of being “empathetic.” Many of those senators are still in office.

Rather than its echoes in the present, The American Revolution is more notable for what it reveals about the past. The late and controversial historian Howard Zinn–he of A People’s History of the United States–told us that the distortions of history in our schools is done not so much with lies as with emphasis and omission. Ken Burns’ latest documentary for PBS fills in omissions, often with surprise and shock.

This is especially true of the last two episodes which cover the complicated and nuanced reasons why many Native tribes sided with the loyalists and as many sided with the patriots. To some extent this was also true of both enslaved and free African-Americans, but the kaleidoscopic alliances of tribes from New England and the Carolinas all the way to the Mississippi reveal a war–or two theaters of war, the Great Lakes and the South–that most of us never hear of. And who knew that Spain joined our cause?

Most sobering was hearing of tribes across New York State that had villages of two story homes with hearths and glass windows, and with well-tended orchards and gardens. Weren’t they supposed to be nomadic, living in tents? Wasn’t their lack of settlements and unwillingness to “develop” land the justification for Manifest Destiny?

The documentary doesn’t waste time with the rhetorical question and the obvious point it makes. Instead, it just tells us that George Washington ordered it all destroyed on suspicion of those tribes’ alliance with the British. Even when it was over, while the historians concur that the terms of The Treaty of Paris in 1783 were agreeable for both the USA & England, one lets us know: “Biggest loser was the Indian tribes.”

For all of its revelations of the past, the present is not to be denied, most of it delivered in the last episode. That’s when the historians analyze what went into the Constitution with reverential praise for what the founders anticipated, especially internal attempts to undermine a federal government for individual gain.

We hear of Hamilton’s “man unprincipled in private life… known to have scoffed in private at the principles of liberty” who will

… mount the hobby horse of popularity—to join in the cry of danger to liberty—to take every opportunity of embarrassing the General Government & bringing it under suspicion—to flatter and fall in with all the nonsense of the zealots of the day—… to throw things into confusion that he may ‘ride the storm and direct the whirlwind.’

More than windows that show the past, Nuremberg and The American Revolution mirror the present. Give such mirrors an honest look, and we may start finding doors to the future.

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Ask What We Can Do

As an eighth-grader in a Catholic elementary school–we did not classify “junior high” back in 1963–I gained the assignment to spend homeroom delivering crates of milk to the lower grades. This began with a trip down into the basement where the janitor, with ever a cheerful greeting, had them ready, all counted out, for me to haul off.

One day I found the crates all set to go, but the janitor hunched over a static radio, one hand over his mouth. He put his other hand up to silence me as soon as I said hello, and I listened. Before long I could make out the words shot, Kennedy, and pronounced dead.

The janitor, a middle-aged man of average height and build and a dark complexion under a lot of black hair, sensed my oncoming panic and held both my shoulders as he stood and looked down at me:

“You need to tell the nuns.”

I nodded.

“Can you do that?”

I nodded again.

He shook me: “You’ll be okay. Tell them I went to the rectory to tell the priests.”

Off I went with the cart to the rooms of each grade where I was greeted by a nun at each door whom I would soon bring to tears. The tears were fought back as soon as they appeared by young women, as most were, as they soon realized they needed to explain this to a class of six-year-olds or 12-year-olds and each age in between. In the younger grades, I recall looking in to see all of them with their heads down on their desks. It was nap time.

Looked as well at the walls and blackboards of classrooms where I had taken my turn a year at a time. Same maps, same grammar and arithmetic charts, same musical scale, same crucifix, same American flag with two stars added along the way, and a different calendar but with similar Biblical pictures. Only noticeable addition was the portrait of the young, handsome John F. Kennedy, the first Catholic president. From Massachusetts and Irish to boot! Ours in more ways than one.

I waited for each nun to give me instructions–ask what I can do for her–but they had none, and I continued my daily delivery route until I was back in my own classroom. By that time, word had already reached my teacher.

I can’t recall what happened next. Did the priests make the rounds to console us? Were we assembled in the auditorium? Were we sent home early? I have two friends on social media who might see this and be able to–and are most welcome to–fill the gap.

My memory skips to later in the afternoon where I sat at the corner of Ames and Haverhill streets, the two main drags on Lawrence’s Tower Hill, awaiting a pile of Eagle-Tribunes I would deliver on well-to-do streets with names like Yale and Dartmouth. Neither of my parents were at home, so I just changed clothes and went early, even though the assassination, as I figured, delayed the press. But a busy street corner was a good place for a 12-year-old, this one anyway, to figure out his own thoughts. Turning cars suggesting order for twisted assumptions and a crashed ideal. The sky grew overcast and, before the truck finally arrived, menacing.

The front page looking up at me combined dark headline with bright smile. The incongruity gave me pause before I packed my oversized bag and started my route, delivering the news to people who already knew it:

Years later, I would start joking that Nov. 22, 1963, was the beginning of my life on the fringes of journalism, bringing bad news to people in hopes that they could overcome it. Years after that, I wondered if the same day was also the beginning of the life that has subsidized my writing–that of making deliveries with the satisfaction of bringing people what they want. Perhaps that offsets the necessity of saying things most people would rather not hear.

What more can I do for my country?

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With the paper I delivered the next day.