An open letter to Candys Exporters

>> Wednesday, October 01, 2014

Job Vacancy‏
CANDYS EXPORTERS (v.mosini@lse.ac.uk)

To: Recipients
From:     CANDYS EXPORTERS (v.mosini@lse.ac.uk) Your junk email filter is set to exclusive.
Sent:    Wed 10/01/14 4:30 AM
To:    Recipients (v.mosini@lse.ac.uk)
  


Good day, Our company base in UK, USA, Canada and other part of the world. We need representatives that can help us pay our Workers, if you are interested get back to us.

Please access the attached hyperlink for an important electronic communications disclaimer: http:█████.██.██/███████████████




Dear Candy (Candys?) or Whomever It May Concern,

Wow.  Okay.  Where to begin?

So, first off, I'm really unclear as to whether you are someone named Candy who doesn't understand possessives, someone who exports candy and doesn't understand plurals, or someone named Candys in which case carry on.

If, however, you're the first of those, you probably need to know that in English we put an apostrophe before a possessive, like so:

Candy's

...indicating that you, Candy, possess something; presumably an export firm in this case.

On the other hand, if you're someone who exports sweets, you probably would want to call yourself

Candies Exporters

...or perhaps even:

Candies Exporter

...which would get rid of an unpleasant sense of having too many sibilants.  Though it would not get rid of having a really generic name for your firm.

I do my best to be charitable about matters grammatical.  For one thing, I do all sorts of eccentric and even improper things with English grammar, some of them deliberately because I think things ought to be done that way and some of them inadvertently because I'm an idiot.  As a native speaker of Standard American English, of course, I can get away with a certain casual attitude towards my tongue, the kind of contempt bred by familiarity.  I also try to be charitable about grammar because I tend to prefer descriptivism to prescriptivism, meaning that I see language as a constantly evolving and flexible thing across time and space; so I prefer discussions of how grammar is actually used by speakers and writers, and how usage has changed over the years, and the interesting things you learn by comparing regional dialects, to pedantry and dogmatism about "correct" usage (especially since at least half the time you find out that the "correct" usage is wrong--e.g. everyone who ever said "ain't" ain't a word--or is some arbitrary preference someone imposed upon everyone else because he could--e.g. Noah Webster just deciding one day to remove the letter "u" from a bunch of words where it was paired with an "o" because, by God, it was his dictionary with his name on the title page and he could do whatever the hell he wanted to).  Finally, I also try to be charitable to grammar online because the wonderful thing about the Internet is how international it is, and a certain humility is in order when you realize that some French or German writer's terrible English grammar is much better than your nonexistent French or German.

Still, with that latter bit, one might humbly point out to a non-native writer that a properly-placed apostrophe would bring the boring name of their firm into consistency with commonly accepted usage.  And if you are a native writer, well... I'm sorry, but shame on you: I know that apostrophe placement is a rule that people mess up so frequently it's almost more-honored in the breach, but it's an easy enough rule.  I don't want to betray my gut-level sympathies with descriptivism by suddenly turning into a grammar scold, but the way I would describe the possessive usage in English would be, "We typically put an apostrophe in front of the 's', except in the case of 'its', which is messed up."

There are other grammatical issues in the body of your request.  "Our company base in...," seems like it's missing a verb somewhere.  Your capitalization is eccentric, though not unprecedented.  "Good day," is most often written as its own clause with a period at the end of it, even though that technically makes it a sentence fragment (I think you could also use a semicolon, although semicolon usage is to English grammar what the Rule Against Perpetuities is to law: nobody actually understands it and anyone who claims to is most likely lying).

Grammar is an easy place to start, but it's probably the least of your problems, frankly.  We need to talk about your business practices.

Specifically, you seem to be confused about how a business operates.  Generally speaking, when you have an employee, you pay that person.  You don't seek out representatives to pay your employees for you.  Or, even, to help pay your workers.  There may be exceptions: you might pay a fee to an employment agency that covers the pay of temporary workers, and then the employment agency cuts the paycheck to the temp, but that doesn't seem to be what you're after.  Or, if it is, you're doing it wrong.  What you should be doing is, you should be looking up "Employment Agencies" or "Temp Agencies" online or in the Yellow Pages of your phone book.  Not hitting up strangers for money.

I understand the appeal of the idea, of course.  If you could get someone else to pay your workers for you, that would probably take a big chunk out of your expenses, thereby raising your profitability.  It's just that no one is going to take you up on that offer.  I don't even know what your employees would think: "Soooo... I put in forty hours exporting candy this week and now I need to hit up some guy I never heard of for my check?"  And how on Earth does your benefits package work?  Are you expecting random people you e-mailed to pay for insurance or contribute to a retirement fund?

No, I'm pretty sure this clever plan of yours suffers from the tragic flaw of so many clever plans: it's completely unworkable.

Really, what you need to do is, you need to pay your workers yourself.

Now, it may be that I've misunderstood what you're looking for, but if so, I don't see the point.  It may well be that you plan to pay your workers yourself, but you need help for the act of paying: that is, you give me the money you're paying the worker and then I give the money to your worker.  Why?  I don't understand.  Don't you see these employees more often than I'm likely to?  Wouldn't it be easier to just hand them their checks?  If you're going to mail them, why mail them to me instead of simply mailing them directly to the worker?

It just seems easier if you cut out the extra step.  Unless it's some kind of tax thing--taxes are very confusing, I admit--but then I'm even more certain I'd rather not get involved.

Finally, I am curious about the nature of your business--not that I want to get involved (the whole thing sounds like a pain in the ass, honestly), but because one always wonders about "exporters".  For instance, do you actually export candy, or do you export other things?  Do you import anything?  If you have an office in the United States that sends something to a sister-office in the United Kingdom, does that still count as an "export" because it crosses international borders (I would think that it would), or does the in-company transfer mean it's some sort of lateral pass?

There's an old Seinfeld running gag, I think, where George pretends he has a company that only and exclusively imports but doesn't export, or maybe it's the other way around, but then at some point when he's pressed he expands the lie to say he imports and exports; the gag works, I think, because we all wonder about this, and because there's something exotic about being involved in the import and/or export business.  Those of us who aren't in the biz imagine it involves traveling halfway across the world to a warehouse in Senegal just to pick out the best-of-the-best whatsits before traipsing off to Bali to argue with bazaar merchants about the wholesale costs of somethingorothers.  When probably the business only involves lots and lots of ledgers and poorly-connected phone calls to vicious and unintelligible sweatshop overseers, and arguments with customs officials over the fact there are only two copies of the dot-slash-number-slash-letter-dot-number so-and-so forms attached to the file and there ought to be three even though no one ever even looks at the third and it in fact gets thrown away as a matter of protocol.

James Bond's cover was that he worked for a firm called "Universal Exports".  I'm sure he was asked these questions all the time: "James, have you ever suggested to your boss that you could double your business if you also imported things?"  "You don't import universes, do you?  Ha-ha!"  "So does the company name mean there's anything you won't export?"  Et cetera.  Of course, "Universal Exports" didn't really export anything, it was just a reason for Bond to pretend he was traveling to one of those Senegalese warehouses or Bali bazaars to pick whatsits and argue somethingorothers when he was really going to Jamaica to murder a bunch of guys and their squid and to screw a woman who may have been mentally handicapped, her claim to having read half a  encyclopedia set notwithstanding.  Presumably, there were a lot of dreary poolside conversations where Bond had to stand around and field awful questions about exporting (and maybe importing), but Ian Fleming understandably spared us:

Bond stood by the barbecue and regretted wearing the sandals instead of dockers with socks, because the mosquitoes were utterly ferocious this afternoon.  His martini was warm and had been made with a bargain-shelf gin instead of his preferred vodka, and his host had been unclear about the amount of dry vermouth to be used, preferring for some reason an unpalatable one-to-one ratio that he erroneously and apologetically claimed would make up for having run out of ice twenty minutes ago.

An overweight securities broker who needed to put his shirt back on, both to avoid a nasty sunburn and to spare the gathering the sight of a bosom more ample than that of most of the wives in attendance, bombarded Bond with a barrage of questions about the export business.  What did the future of exports look like?  Had Bond ever considered imports?  Was it possible to get Brazilian lawn furniture through Customs without paying fees if it were bundled with, just say hypothetically, gravel?  Had Bond ever met so-and-so, who wasn't in the export trade per se, but worked for a rail freight company, which was basically the same thing, wasn't it?  This, Bond reflected, was why he was an alcoholic sex addict.  He wondered, not for the first time, if his double-0 license to kill would cover pushing a half-naked overweight securities broker into a scum-covered swimming pool and holding his head underwater until their host learned how to make a cocktail, which, by the taste of it, might take years.

Anyway, I was just wondering.  Cheers.  And good luck with your future sentence composition and business endeavors.


Sincerely,
R. Eric VanNewkirk



Read more...

The Mountain Goats, "Lovecraft In Brooklyn"

>> Wednesday, September 10, 2014

An old song, but I heard it for the first time today, driving home:


H.P. Lovecraft was, in his way, a kind of brilliant writer.  I mean, his prose was absurdly florid, and he didn't seem to realize the 19th Century had ended, and there were other problems with his work; but he was just brilliant at structure and atmosphere.  There's possibly no better writer to learn from when it comes to structuring a story so it peels apart as the reader gets to the core of it.  His best stories are like onions in the way a dense object is formed from layer after layer after layer of paperthin wisp.  And in some respects his imagination was vast; his greatest contribution to modern pulp and genre fiction may have been the Lovecraftian existentialism that embraces "cosmic horror"; much of horror fiction boils down to God is good and Satan is evil and Man is in the middle, but Lovecraft pioneered (if he didn't invent) a form of horror fiction in which there's neither God as such nor Satan per se, and what Man is in the middle of is an indifferent and vast universe full of things that just don't care about the human species any more than a human might care about termites--something to be overlooked and ignored when they aren't bothering anything, or to be exterminated if they're a nuisance.

He was also a horrible racist, even in terms of the early 20th Century.  And it affected his writing in nasty ways: the great menace imperiling the world in "The Horror at Red Hook" is immigration, for instance, and he ghost-wrote a story for Zealia Bishop, "Medusa's Coil", in which the dramatic, horrifying reveal--gasp!--is miscegenation.  This makes him a problem writer, and a lot of people these days are understandably eager to toss him from the pantheon.  Personally, I think the qualities of his writing and significance of his role in modern genre fiction are important enough that this would be a terrible mistake, though it couldn't happen to a more deserving jerk.  But I also can't stress enough that apologists who overlook or try to excuse his bigotries and their effect upon and presence in his fiction are really, really, wrong, more wrong than those who'd cast him aside altogether: one can at least sympathize with the urge to reject a creep, even if doing so would toss away some useful and even enjoyable pastimes with him.  There's no excuse for excusing him, though.

Better, I think, to acknowledge that enjoyment of Lovecraft is an imperfect pleasure, that his contributions to the pop culture canon are vital, inescapable, and flawed, and that we have to understand his work in context and can celebrate this while disapproving of that.

The Mountain Goats song, in an interesting way, is celebratory opprobrium or condemnatory commemoration, or something like: Lovecraft indeed went to Brooklyn and lived there for about a year, and was completely miserable at least partly because the neighborhood was, shall we say, not particularly WASPy in those days.  "The Horror at Red Hook", indeed is set in the neighborhood in which HPL lived and the vitriol directed at the immigrants there stems from his own disquietude in having to live amongst people he loathed.  The Mountain Goats transfer that feeling to a metaphor for a more generalized misanthropy, drawing a character who feels like "Lovecraft in Brooklyn" and finds himself so afraid of everyone and everything he's "Headed for the pawnshop / To buy myself a switchblade".  It's not really, I don't think, meant to be a terribly sympathetic portrait of a paranoid neurotic: to know that your feelings are akin to Lovecraft's, that your misanthropy is deeply rooted in prejudice, is to feel a certain degree of self-loathing.  When John Darnielle says this is "another song about people who hate everybody," the "everybody" means everybody, not just everybody else.
 
Nicely done, that.
 
 
 

Read more...

When animals attack

>> Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Janiece Murphy points us to this Washington Post editorial by Sunil Dutta, "I’m a cop. If you don’t want to get hurt, don’t challenge me," and to commentary by James Joyner and Ken White.  You're fully and completely linked up in this paragraph, but I'm not sure you actually need to read Dutta's piece, for which the Post's editors deserve full credit for producing the most complete and accurate headline I've ever seen in the history of anything.  As for Joyner's and White's comments, suffice it to say they don't like what Dutta has to say.

Nor do I, but I also have to point out that as an assistant public defender, I've given the exact same spiel Dutta does to clients, friends, family members, concerned citizens, random people I've just encountered, and possibly to Elvis.  Not that I've enjoyed agreeing with Professor Dutta, my personal feelings being much in line with Messrs. Joyner and White on the subject.

It's just that Dutta is, of course, right, though it verges on astonishing that he's so blasé about why he's right.  There's no doubt that challenging a cop is a good way to get hurt, or killed, or just arrested and charged with some routine horseshit like Disorderly Conduct, Obstructing Justice, Resisting an Officer, or whatever else your local jurisdiction and the officer want to call it.  Police officers in the United States carry guns.  And handcuffs.  And Tasers.  And pepper spray.  And nightsticks.  And those little ninjalike mini-nightsticks they've been trained to jam into your pressure points in especially painful ways.  They can kill you or seriously hurt you with any of these things, and then they have paperwork on hand that they can use to have your hardship, suffering and/or death written up as being Officially Your Own Goddamn Fault.

In short, the average police officer is fully capable of seriously injuring you and then having you arrested for having to have been fully injured, and then you can go to jail or possibly even prison for having been injured, or possibly just pay a fine for having been injured, and/or you might be required to make regular visits to a probation or parole officer and do probationary things like pee in jars and undergo psychiatric evaluation for having been injured.

And even if you're lucky, and you're somehow vindicated, or at least let off the hook by a prosecutor who thinks the cop overdid it, you might still sit in jail for a bit awaiting bail or trial, you'll most likely have to spend lots and lots of time visiting the courthouse, you're out of pocket on attorney's fees if you hired a lawyer, you perhaps made the local paper's arrests-and-bookings page, and anyone doing a criminal record check sees you were charged with something (which they may hold against you even if your record clearly states that you were acquitted or your charges dismissed).  All of which is still insult on top of injury, even if it's not as grave an insult or further injury as having a conviction and all its attendant consequences inflicted upon you.

It's easier, if you can pull it off, to just avoid eye contact and say "Yessir" a lot and do a jive and shuffle for the nice policeman.  I say "if you can pull it off" because frankly if you're black there's some chance you'll be charged or arrested anyway, because that's just the state of the union circa 2014.  It's getting better, Ferguson, MO notwithstanding, but we aren't there yet and I don't know how long it's going to take to get the rest of the way.  Sorry.

But the best way to avoid getting your ass kicked and then you get charged or arrested if you weren't killed, is to treat cops like they're very dangerous animals.  Not because cops are animals, not because all cops are very dangerous ones, but because you just have no way of knowing who you're dealing with, and any probability greater than zero is bad odds when the end scenario involves you being shot up to hell and then accused of charging the officer because you may or may not have been involved in some kind of robbery or larceny at a local convenience store that the officer may or may not have known about when he began pulling the trigger over and over again.


She says "on these streets, Charles
You've got to understand the rules
If an officer stops you
Promise you'll always be polite,
that you'll never ever run away
Promise Mama you'll keep your hands in sight"

The rub is that my advice for dealing with law enforcement officers is about the same as my advice for dealing with rattlesnakes, or feral dogs, or a really mean looking bear.  Assume the creature is dangerous and not very bright, and prone to interpreting anything you do as a threat.  Do not make expressive gestures.  Back away slowly unless the creature starts making noises that indicate the movement is disturbing to it.  Terminate the contact as quickly as possible.  None of which is the advice I'd like to give anyone about dealing with police: what I'd like to tell people is that they can treat police officers the way they'd treat Andy Taylor--this one, the one from Mayberry, not this one, from Duran Duran.  Though I don't think you need to worry about the one from Double-D too much.  I'd like to be able to advise people that you can shoot the shit with the police, talk about guitar playing and whether the fish are biting, and the finer points of being a single father and how the folks are doing and the secret of Aunt Bee's fried chicken, but instead I have to advise people that wild animals may bite or maul and they can cause lingering illnesses even when their attacks aren't immediately fatal.

I think this sucks.

Not just because it offends the civil libertarian in my soul, or because somewhere in my decayed, cynical, bitter and disappointed heart there's still the kid who admired Woody Guthrie's fascist-killing machine and The Clash.  It does, it offends me to pieces that you might have to kiss the ass of a cryptofascist making demands on behalf of his auth-or-i-tai.  But, you know, it's also a situation that just sucks, that's just toxic and corrosive for everyone.  It can't be good for civil order or even for common decency that you need to fear cops (yes, even if you're white: bullets don't discriminate), and hell, it's bloody unfair that those guys who join law enforcement and remain decent and try to do the right thing have to be treated like brute beasts because they have brothers on the force who would bite someone right to the bone as soon as look at them if given opportunity and a poor excuse.  

Wouldn't we all agree that The Andy Griffith Show,, if extrapolated for greater racial diversity than a '50s TV show about the American South was willing or able to portray, offers a kind of Platonic ideal of law enforcement practice?  It's fantasy, of course: I don't think policing was ever like that.  But fantasies guide our aspirations and offer our cautionary tales, and certainly the idea that unarmed community policing by nice guys with a lot of common sense is something we might navigate by even if its as impracticable an actual destination as The Shire, or Narnia.  I.e. we're not making the case that the Andy Taylor Policing System is a viable model for law enforcement, with it's unarmed Sheriff and one-bullet deputy in a town with a single stoplight and probable conflict-of-interest issues arising from the consolidation of the Sheriff's and Magistrate's office, merely suggesting we all might benefit if more police officers looked to Sheriff Taylor as a role model in much the same way so many young lawyers, say for instance, fancy they're going to be Atticus Finches.

In any event, it's sort of unfathomable that Professor Dutta evidently wants to embrace a model of the world suggested by weary defense lawyers who think citizens' encounters with police ought to proceed in much the same way as a hiker's encounter with a mountain lion: with distance and deference due to a hostile and powerful predator.  Dutta writes, "For you, this might be a 'simple' traffic stop, for me each traffic stop is a potentially dangerous encounter"; well, indeed, I view a 'simple' traffic stop as a potentially dangerous encounter, too.  But the respect I show a grizzly bear--or a traffic cop--isn't the kind of respect any mentally healthy adult human being ought to be seeking.  It's the respect you give to things that can kill you on a whim, and however heady an empowerment it might seem to a shallow and narcissistic personality type, it's mostly dehumanizing.




Read more...

Alas, we've already screwed up--sorry, Alabama, we should have left well enough alone

>> Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Two members of the Alabama Public Service Commission, a member-elect and an Alabama representative to the Republican National Committee said proposed EPA regulations that aim to reduce power plant carbon emissions by 30 percent represent "an assault on our way of life" and are a purposeful attempt by the Obama administration to kill coal-related jobs.

...

At their news conference today Cavanaugh and PSC commissioner-elect Chip Beeker invoked the name of God in stating their opposition to the EPA proposal. Beeker, a Republican who is running unopposed for a PSC seat, said coal was created in Alabama by God, and the federal government should not enact policy that runs counter to God's plan.

"Who has the right to take what God's given a state?" he said.
AL.com, July 28th, 2014.

The federal government drove out malaria from the American South in the early part of the 20th century. And the lessons learned from that successful campaign could help control the disease in developing countries, says Daniel Sledge, a political scientist at the University of Texas, Arlington.

"It's almost impossible for us to imagine," Sledge says. "But in the rural South, as late as the 1930s, the extent of malaria was in many ways comparable to what it is today in sub-Saharan Africa."

Sledge and his colleague recently analyzed archived public records to try to determine what factors helped to eliminate malaria in Alabama.

The findings were surprising. It wasn't getting people to sleep under insecticide-treated bed nets, or getting better medications to people who do get infected — two major tactics used to control malaria today in sub-Saharan Africa and Southeast Asia.

Instead, the parasite left the U.S., in large part, because the government destroyed mosquito breeding grounds.

"The primary factor leading to the demise of malaria was large-scale drainage projects, which were backed up by the creation of local public health infrastructure," he says. Sledge and his colleague described their findings this September in the American Journal of Public Health.
NPR, January 3rd, 2014.

As an American citizen, I would like to apologize on behalf of my country to the citizens of the great state of Alabama.  I am so, so, so very sorry right now we took away all your God-given mosquito breeding grounds and your God-given amoebic parasites.

Sometimes, when you're dealing with a problem that affects the public well-being all across the nation (and even the world), you lose sight of God's plans.  And I just want all y'all to know, Alabama: if it were in my power to give God's malaria back to you, why, right now, I would, I would, I would in a heartbeat, even if I regretted it a few weeks or months or years later.

Because, seriously, I had no idea it meant that much to you.

(H/t Salon.)







Read more...

Two executions

>> Friday, July 25, 2014

I read about an execution this week. 

The New Yorker has a lot of their content exposed and free-to-read this summer, part of a transition to what sounds like it will be a New York Times-style buffet paywall: read up to however-many articles a month for free and then if you want to go back through the line for another serving you have to have a subscription.  It's a good chance to glut while it's a free-for-all.

So I was reading an article about William Alexander Morgan, who I'd never heard of before, which is a bit embarrassing because some student of history I must be, to have not heard of one of the three non-Cubans who rose to the rank of Comandante in the Cuban Revolution, another being that guy from the t-shirts hipsters used to wear in college when I was a kid.  The New Yorker article is a pretty thorough bio by David Grann, "The Yankee Comandante", from back in 2012, and it's worth a read, because Grann's a solid writer, and he seems to have done his footwork, talking to Morgan's widow and others who knew him, and because William Alexander Morgan was a character.  That last bit, especially--Grann's piece is the kind of story where you start trying to cast the movie version while you're reading it, wondering who would direct, how you'd structure the story in the language of film, that kind of thing.

Morgan started his life by making a bit of a hash of it, getting into a bit of legal trouble as a teen, going into the Army after WWII (he apparently tried going during the War, but was too young) and getting himself dishonorably discharged for running off to visit his girlfriend, and ending up with Mob ties in the 1950s.  Seems he ended up as a gunrunner, and he was in Cuba in 1957 when, for reasons that may not have even been true, he decided to go up into the mountains where he joined the anti-Batista forces and reinvented himself as an action hero.  Convinced the guerrillas he wasn't a pro-Batista CIA agent provocateur, which is exactly what he looked like, taught them whatever fighting skills he learned in the Army, put his ass on the front line for them and suffered in the woods with them.

He wasn't a socialist, but neither were the anti-Batistas he hooked up with, nor were all the anti-Batistas communists or socialists; you may or may not realize it, but there's even some debate to this day as to whether Fidel Castro, who was commanding another revolutionary force on the island, was a communist or socialist at that point: his brother, Raul, was, and his main man Che was, but Fidel himself remained coy about ideology until after the Bay of Pigs invasion (my own hypothesis is that Castro was, at least up until that point, a pragmatist and opportunist, who probably would have been happy to be whatever brought in foreign aid, kept Fulgencio Batista in the Dominican Republic and the U.S. at arm's length, and shored up his primacy amongst the revolutionaries).

Morgan was a national hero in Cuba, a pariah in his homeland (his citizenship got revoked after the Batista regime, which the U.S. was in bed with, collapsed), but he ended up on Fidel's shitlist.  Possibly because he was an American, and some Cubans suspected Morgan was a double or triple agent even after he foiled an American/Dominican Republican/Batista counterrevolutionary plot in 1959; some people, here, there and everywhere, evidently still think Morgan might have been in cahoots with American intelligence, even though documents released through the Freedom of Information Act suggest the CIA and FBI independently decided Morgan was radioactive.  Possibly because Morgan was explicitly not a leftist, and whether or not Castro was, Castro's closest advisors and supporters were, and the Soviet Union was increasingly Cuba's meal ticket as the United States went a bit nuts over Batista's exile (even knowing that Batista was a total bastard and that Batista's Cuba was practically a fiefdom of American organized crime).  Possibly because Castro recognized Morgan as a viable rival; indeed, as Morgan slowly gave up on the hope that Castro was a non-ideologue or moderate, he started caching supplies in the mountains with an eye towards another possible revolt (I'm not sure you'd call it a counterrevolution, though Castro did, since Morgan sure as hell wasn't going to be inviting Batista back in).

Anyway, Castro had Morgan arrested.  And Morgan went to prison.  And then he had the obligatory show trial.  And then he went back to prison.  And then they hauled him out and stood him against a wall, and they shot him.  Grann writes:
According to a prisoner’s account, a voice in the distance shouted, "Kneel and beg for your life."

It was the last thing that Morgan could control. "I kneel for no man," he said.

One of the executioners shot him in the right knee. The Yankee comandante tried to stay on his feet, blood spilling around him. Then he was shot in the left knee. Finally, he collapsed, and was repeatedly shot in the torso and head. His face, a witness said, was "blown off."

"Many of the men in the patio were crying," the prisoner who had provided medicine recalled. "The rumbling, that almost rose to the pitch of a riot, was a tribute to William Morgan's popularity." [Morgan's wife, Olga] Rodríguez, sequestered in the safe house, did not yet know of her husband's death, but she felt a presence in her room. "I saw William," she says. “I felt him give me a kiss. No sound. Just the warmth of a kiss."

I have no idea how much of that account is true.  I don't mean that Grann invented it; I mean, for all I know this is what the prisoners told Olga Rodríguez when Castro's police finally caught up with her, the story she held onto for the years she was imprisoned in Cuba until she was (barely) allowed to flee to the United States in the Mariel Boatlift in 1980.  It may not even be a story that was made for her, it might well be the story the political prisoners told each other, embellished, cherished, clung to for their own sakes and not just for the sake of the martyred widow.

Hell, it may be exactly what happened.

I'm pretty sure, though, that whether or not it's what happened, it's how Morgan would have wanted to die.  It's epic, so epic I'm not sure how much credence to give it.  I don't know how much credence to give any stories about Morgan in Cuba, really, because he seems to have been revered by the non-Castro revolutionaries, and maybe the myth outgrew the man; but it also seems like Morgan aspired to be that myth.  And if he didn't say, "I kneel for no man," if he didn't try to keep on his feet even after he was shot in the leg, well: I'm pretty sure that's what he meant to do (and, again, for all I know, he did do exactly what he meant to, maybe the whole thing is surprisingly true; obviously, I wasn't there).

Just suppose you could go back in time, and visit William Alexander Morgan in his cell at La Cabaña (it's a crappy form of time travel, I know, that doesn't allow you to travel to a point in time where you could be actually useful, but that's just the kind of time travel you get in thought experiments like this one).  And you could say to him, "Comandante, I'm afraid your ultimate execution for crimes against the state is a done deal, but you get a choice.  Option number one is, we take you to a nicer cell for quite a long stretch of months or even years until just about everyone except a few government officials forgets you're here, and then what we'll do is, what we'll do is we'll take you to a room where we'll tie you down to something like a dentist's chair.  And we'll have a doctor swab your arm and put a needle in.  There may be a couple of guys there to watch.  And at a predetermined hour--we'll have told you in advance what time--some anonymous guy will press a button, and you'll be sedated.  You'll just go to sleep, and maybe you'll have a nice dream about your wife.  And then after you're asleep, you'll get two more injections, one that will paralyze your muscles, and a third that will stop your heart.  You'll go to sleep, you'll maybe have a nice dream (if that), and then you won't wake up, and we'll bury you somewhere.

"Or--

"Or, option number two.  We take you out in the yard.  Not immediately, but soon.  We'll line you up in front of a wall riddled with bullet holes, and we'll tell you to kneel.  Which you may, or may not: if you don't, you may get to say something cool, something that states the code you lived your life by, and we'll shoot you in the leg.  And that's going to hurt, it's going to hurt terribly, but you're a pretty tough guy and you suffered some serious pain fighting beside your brothers-in-arms in the mountains, and maybe you've even been hurt that bad before.  So maybe you'll keep your feet, sort of, until we shoot you in the other leg.  And if you haven't passed out from shock, if you're still upright, or as upright as a man can be after his legs have been gunned out from under him, you can glare at us defiantly as we shoot the hell out of you, which is going to hurt, it's going to be the worst agony you've ever felt.  But maybe the last thing you're going to hear is the wailing of your brothers for the Yankee Comandante, as he's martyred to the vain hope of a free Cuba.

"Your call, Morgan."

C'mon, what do you think he's going to say?  Did you go and read the New Yorker story before you came back here?  Did you at least look at the Wikipedia entry I linked to?  Did you pay attention to my summary of his life, which was longer than I wanted but still far too short?

You think Morgan would have wanted to go out taking a final nap?




I read about an execution this week.

Not much, because I just couldn't handle it anymore.  And because, contrary to what some people will tell you and what you may think, it doesn't matter any more than any of the other executions that go on in this country, even the ones that don't take two hours.  That is, I don't want to disparage a man's death, which is an awful and terrible thing--but a man's death is always an awful and terrible thing.  Even when his last words are that he kneels for no man.

Arizona killed a guy named Joseph R. Wood III, and he wasn't a Cuban war hero who boldly fought to bring down a corrupt and repressive torturer and executioner named Fulgencio Batista and began laying plans to fight Fidel Castro when it started becoming clear that Castro was merely going to be a different kind of totalitarian nightmare; Wood was a guy convicted of murdering his ex-girlfriend and her dad, all the way back in 1991, and for all I know he really did it, and for all I know it was horrible, and for all I know he didn't deserve to live (which isn't exactly the same thing as deserving to die, you know).  But apparently Arizona decided to try out some relatively novel procedure for killing guys--I don't know if they were able to get a real doctor to perform it, but I'm guessing they weren't, seeing as how medical boards have lately decided that killing patients might be a violation of the Hippocratic Oath.  And so it took two hours for Wood to die, and apparently it was noisy, and it may have been painful.  If any of that matters.

Because I kind of don't think it does, is the thing.

I mean, I can say this about the Wood execution: it's probably clarified to me that I've been mostly citing the wrong Constitutional amendment for all the years I've opposed the death penalty.  I'm sure that executing prisoners is barbaric, don't get me wrong.  But state violence is inherently barbaric, isn't it, even if you feel some kind of pragmatic obligation to engage in it.

You'd like to think that civilization is pacitropic, if you'll let me coin (I think) a word: that we grow away from violence and into becoming, increasingly, a creature that is clever enough to solve problems through application of reason.  And if state violence is required, if it just can't be avoided, you hope it'll be humane.  Maybe I'm presuming a bit here, thinking we're not barbarians or we don't want to be: I'm assuming that if we could unerringly kill terrorist cell leaders by pressing a button that causes them to magically die in their sleep, we'd do that instead of sending in heavily-armed drones that occasionally blow up weddings and funerals, because we want to take the terrorist cell leader out of circulation, the goal isn't to make the guy suffer and occasionally maim and kill civilians while we're at it; that the weddings and funerals are collateral damage, accidents, and not the goal.  And that if we could get a terrorist cell leader (let's assume he hasn't hurt anyone yet, he's just starting out and there aren't other justice issues at stake yet) to just quit by, say, talking to him, we'd do that, right, instead of just blowing him to bits and possibly taking out his neighborhood while we're doing it; because the objective is we don't want him to be a terrorist, not that we like the blood in the streets.

I hope I'm right about that.  (And if I'm not, what's it to you that Joseph Wood took two hours to die and may have hurt some while he was doing it?)

But, like I said, I've probably been quoting the wrong amendment.  What I probably meant to say, and maybe have said by accident now and then, was that I'm pretty sure that whether or not the state executes you has more to do with what color your skin is, and what color your alleged victim's skin is, and where you live, and how good your lawyer was, than it has to do with the nature and quality of the acts you supposedly committed that the state might be killing you over.  Which is basically a Due Process and Equal Protection issue.  If we could magically guarantee that every person sentenced to die really and truly deserved it... well, how do you finish that sentence?

I mean, if someone deserves to die, does it matter how they die?  And if there's inevitably doubt about whether or not they deserve it--I don't just mean doubt about whether they did it, which is already a huge problem, but also doubt about what's just and fair and merciful--does it matter whether the death is humane?  "Well, we don't know with utter certainty if this guy really killed anyone, but a jury thought he did, and then the jury decided he should die for it even though this other guy over here did something that sounds a whole helluva lot worse, and he only got life in prison for whatever reason--but at least he died in his sleep and didn't feel anything."

That probably makes sense to somebody.  I guess.  I'll be honest, I sure don't see it.

But, anyway, if you were already against the death penalty, I don't see how the execution of Joseph R. Wood makes you more against it.  It was already bad enough that Arizona was going to kill him.  They were going to kill him worse than?  I wasn't going to feel better about the execution if he went fast.

Meanwhile, if you're in favor of the death penalty, maybe you're glad Wood might have suffered.  He deserved it, right?  Was convicted of a brutal double homicide, had it coming to him?  You probably would have watched.  Probably should have been forced to watch all of it, then, without piss breaks.  But I'm sure it would have gladdened your heart.  Birds sing, sun breaks through the clouds, another miserable bastard bites the dust, I guess.  An eye for an eye, maybe it was too good for him.

It didn't matter, anyway, how he died.  It mattered that he did, whether you're for or against, and how he did is really just a detail.

But maybe there's a grey area in between those poles.  You're for the death penalty, if it's fair and merciful.  You're only against it because you're not sure it can be, otherwise you have few scruples about state violence.

William Alexander Morgan.

What I mean is, what would have been any better about the Yankee Comandante dying with a needle in a vein?  He got the death, I think, he would have wanted.  It was barbaric and bloody and cruel, if the account is going to be believed, with taunting executioners, a vicious maiming and unsuccessful attempt at a final humiliation, and then a fusillade of bullets that, more than likely, caused anything but an instantaneous death.  Maybe a bullet pierced the brain or the heart--we're told his face was shot off--but it's pretty likely he lay there on the ground--unconscious, I'd expect, but maybe not--bleeding out.  Killing a man is pretty hard.  Sometimes it takes as long as two hours, I hear.

And maybe you're thinking this is a cheap shot: a public trial in American courtroom is a lot different from a show trial in Castro's Cuba, right?  Well, I hope so.  Emphasis on hope.  Because I'm not sure some American capital trials are that much different; longer, maybe.  With more plausible pretenses.  But.  You know.  There's racial bias, and some prosecutors like hiding evidence, and some defense attorneys are morons, and some judges don't know the law, and sometimes juries get a little crazy, and even under the best of circumstances there are mistakes; memory is fallible, "scientific" tests aren't always reliable and accurate (especially under field conditions, where crime scenes are often exposed to weather and public traffic)--sometimes they turn out in retrospect to not even be all that scientific, hence the quotation marks.  But you're probably right.  Most of the time.  Well.  A lot of the time, anyway.

Hopefully more often than not.

But gosh, what if Morgan had had a fair trial, instead of a show trial?  Well, maybe crimes against the state shouldn't be capital offenses.  He was kinda sorta plotting what might be called treason, sure, and treason is historically a capital offense in many countries, even modern ones.  Maybe merciful and civilized states ought to be lenient, though, and not use lethal force unless they absolutely have to.

Or did I say that already?

But Morgan probably wanted to go out like that.  Not that he wanted to die, which I imagine he didn't.  But if he had to, he probably wanted the violent, hideous, gory death.  Did anyone ask Wood what he wanted?  Probably not.  I guess it doesn't matter.  I guess we don't let convicted criminals, however they're convicted, make those kinds of choices.  But it does make any kind of debate over whether Wood should have had a "cleaner" death seem a little, I don't know, silly, maybe?  Maybe he would have preferred the two hour death.  Or to be shot in the legs and then into little pieces.

I don't know, to die as he lived?

I guess the point is that the fact an execution may have been botched or otherwise cruel seems to me a little beside the point.  I have no idea whether it's more cruel to make someone sit in a cell for twenty-three years until they're eventually tied down in a lonely room and put to sleep like an elderly housecat, or more cruel to allow someone to strut out in front of a firing squad, give them a chance to tell you to go fuck yourself in so many words, and have them die on their feet.

There's worse things that could happen.  You could be sentenced to death in the first place.





Read more...

The Speaker started a joke which started the whole world crying, but didn't see that the joke was on him

>> Monday, July 21, 2014

We're not going to sit idly by while this president chips away at the very foundation of our democracy, which is why the House is now initiating legal action to compel the president to follow his oath of office and faithfully execute the laws of our country.

While the president would like you to believe that this is some kind of Republican stunt, let me be clear – this isn't about Republicans versus Democrats; it's about protecting the Constitution.

And when I heard the president respond to our plan with a lighthearted, "So sue me," – I was extremely disappointed.

This is no joke, Mr. President.
Cincinnati Enquirer, July 15th, 2014.



Yes, it is.  It's totally a joke.  Which is why I've been wondering if I should even publicly react to it.  And, yeah, it is some kind of Republican stunt; it's just that it's a little hard to grapple with what kind of Republican stunt, because it's such a stunning bit of dumbness.

Because, see, first of all: if you're in the House of Representatives and you sincerely believe the President is failing to "follow the oath of his office and faithfully execute the laws of our country," then it's probably time to have a long, hard and serious look at whether that doesn't constitute the commission of "high crimes and misdemeanors" under Article II, Section 4 of the Constitution.  I mean, it's admittedly not cut and dried, because one of the many, many deficiencies of the Constitution is that the Founders were intentionally vague about the impeachment clause, and "high crimes and misdemeanors" is an expression they calculatedly chose for its vagueness.  Does it mean actual high crimes, and actual misdemeanors under the law, like assault or larceny, or is it a term of art referring to things like accepting bribes, or does it mean nothing and everything like Gerald Ford once said?  You can argue about it all day, if you really want to.

Although, as a practical matter, the fact it's vague and you can argue all day is exactly why the Boehner can do it if he really wants to.  The argument's there, right there in the open for anyone to see it, that dereliction of duty and abuse of authority count as "high crimes and misdemeanors," and it's really left to the person who says they don't count--assuming, you know, there really is dereliction and abuse--to make the Constitutional or historical case that they aren't.

Of course, Boehner doesn't actually want to impeach the President, see?  This is the thing.  He knows damn well that the trial would happen in the Senate, where the Democratic majority would toss the Bill of Impeachment.  Assuming he could get the Bill of Impeachment, which isn't even a certain thing with the Republican majority in the House.  He knows he'd be setting an ugly precedent for the next time Congress and the President weren't getting along.  He knows that even with the President's plunging ratings, the President is popular enough for an impeachment sideshow to generate really bad optics for the GOP, that it would look exactly like a partisan hackjob (which is exactly what it would be, of course).  He knows it would be a sideshow, and that even some Republicans would consider it nothing more than a distraction, quixotic at best and irresponsible at worse.

Indeed, this is why I, myself, am getting to where I'd welcome impeachment proceedings.  Because we ought to just get all this ugly shit out in the open where we can see what we've been smelling the past several years.  Because if the House Republicans are going to steam and screech and pop rivets on the edge of supercriticality, let's just get the blinking meltdown over with, already, or whatever it is that needs to happen so we can shut the reactor down and send in a hazmat crew to spray out D.C..  I'm tired of the sound and fury of these idiots, signifying nothing, and I'm ready to just have all these crazy uncles in Congress committed where we can ignore them between obligatory Christmas season visits and the occasional sending of cards.  That's three metaphors in as many sentences, do you get the picture?  I'm all for impeaching Obama, not because I think he's actually committed any impeachable offenses I'm aware of, but because it would pretty much blow up the most useless Congress of my lifetime so we could start over, it would get these sad fucks to shoot their wads and shut up, it would clear the air and maybe (just maybe) we could all get on with our lives.

(Probably not, but I'm trying to be sunny.)

The second thing would be that the House certainly has plenty of things they can do short of impeachment, while they're at it.  This gets a little baroque, I imagine, because you can have a situation in which the House is passing legislation to force the President to implement certain policies, only to have it stopped in the Senate or vetoed by the President himself, which makes the whole business a bit quixotic on the part of the House, but it's the way our government was designed.  Also, the silliness here is actually even more baroque and absurd than that, since some of the laws the President supposedly isn't implementing are schedules connected to the Affordable Care Act, which the House has been trying unsuccessfully to roll back or revoke: so, where the situation I described a sentence ago is kind of the abstract political scenario, the real and pragmatic scenario is that if John Boehner were serious about forcing the White House to implement the ACA on schedule, they could (for instance) author legislation giving the President more resources to do it, which I'm sure the Democrats in the Senate would pass and the President would sign off on.

Which gets to the third and fourth reasons this whole lawsuit thing is a lousy joke, which is that the House doesn't have standing to file a suit like this to start with, seeing as how they can't really claim any recognizable injury the courts have the power to address, and even if they could get their suit past a motion to dismiss for lack of standing, they'd lose on the motion to dismiss because the case involves a political question that American courts traditionally leave to the other branches of government.  It's a separation-of-powers issue: courts do what courts do, and expect legislatures and executives to do what legislatures and executives do.

This isn't a law blog, and I'm quite sure you can find other commentators who will explain this better and at greater length.  The quick-and-dirty, if you don't want to follow the Wikipedia links in the previous paragraph, is that you can't just file a lawsuit in an American courthouse for any old thing; and among other things that you may need before you can file your lawsuit, one is that you have to be an injured party (or at least be extremely likely to come to some foreseeable harm as a consequence of what someone else did), and another is that your issue needs to be a legal one, that is to say it has to be something a court is qualified to hear.  A legislative body passing a law and then getting upset (or pretending to get upset) because it wasn't implemented as it was supposed to be can't cut it as grounds for a suit, because (1) the injured parties are the people actually affected by the law, and (2) a legislative body has remedies through the political process--they can repeal the law, or amend it, or repeal it and pass a "better" one, etc..

In sum, "sitting idly by" is exactly what Boehner is doing with this whole silly thing.  Or almost idly: it's that form of goldbricking where you try to look very busy while you're doing nothing and you know damn well you're doing nothing, and anybody who knows the least thing about what you're supposed to be doing knows damn well you're doing nothing.  And while Boehner doesn't strike one as the brightest bulb on the Xmas Tree, I'm reasonably certain he knows enough about his job to know what he's doing is stunt politicking, and even if he somehow doesn't, any lawyers he's talked to surely remember standing and political questions and justicability from their 1L years of law school well enough to scratch their heads and say, "Mr. Speaker, I'm pretty sure you can't do that."  (It's such a no-brainer, I find myself wondering if a lawyer who files this suit is exposing himself to sanctions, honestly.  It's been twenty years--twenty years!!--since I took a CivPro class, and I still remember Rule 11, Ken Broun beat it so deeply into my thick skull.  Thou shalt not fucketh around with Rule 11, lest Rule 11 fucketh around with thee.)

It's a joke, it's a stunt, if you expected anything more of them it'd be a pity.




Read more...

The Moon Yaps "Lisbeth"

>> Monday, July 14, 2014

 (This one's for The Handsome Camel himself.  Sorry.  I am so, so sorry.)

"I want you to know, I'm not like other girls," Professor Van Niekerk said.

"I--I didn't think you were, sir," Lisbeth replied.  "I--I have to admit I, um, I never thought of you as a girl at all."

He admired her.  He couldn't help himself.  She was an admirable woman, a lush body that was curved in all the right places.  That is, she wasn't a hunchback, for example.  She had an ample bosom and wide hips, and an ass that just would not quit (not even if it had an offer that included pretty good benefits).

"Right," he replied.  "I'm glad you noticed that I'm not a woman.  You, of course, are a woman.  And I am a man.  A more elemental relationship than the one between a professor and his star pupil.  A primal relationship, the most basic and fundamental relationship there is.  The one between woman and man, I mean.  Universities weren't invented until, what, the Middle Ages, so obviously the relationship between a woman and man predates that.  You know what I'm saying, don't you?"

Lisbeth put a finger to her red, full lips, and chewed on the tip.  She inhaled, filling out her ample breast, and exhaled, flattening her stomach so that the curves of her hips, breast and buttocks were exaggerated.  Also, she had nice thighs, which seems worth mentioning just so we can be clear that she was extremely attractive and the good kind of curvy (if you're a woman).

But she wasn't just putting her finger to her lips in a seductive, sexy pose so that her curvaceous body could be described; she also had a line of dialogue.  "I don't understand," she said.  "What are you trying to say?"

Professor Van Niekerk stood.  He was a man of low-average height, rotund and bearded, with grey in his full, mussed hair and in his beard.  He looked a lot like a somewhat short, fat lawyer but was, in fact, the foremost English professor in his field in the world, and had never been to law school nor taken the Bar.  His really intense, emerald eyes blazed.  "You, my darling, my sweet, my love!" he exclaimed.  "Haven't you seen the signs?"

"The signs?"

"The way I look at you in class!"

"I'm sorry, I was taking notes."

"The way I hold doors for you!"

"Oh.  I guess I thought you were doing that for the other one hundred and seventeen students in ENG 102."

"The way my heart beats when you pass near!"

"My... hearing's not that good... most of the time."

"The notes I've sent you!"

"I did notice the comment you wrote on my midterm essay on John Dryden.  But I thought you meant 'Fuck me' in the sense of 'This is terrible,' not in the 'Fuck me' sense."

"But I gave that paper an A-triple-plus!  Even when you left out the 'y' in his name!"

"Yes sir, that confused me, so I thought it better not to ask."

"I wrote you a sonnet on the back of one of your exams!"

"No you didn't."

"Alas!  That must be why David Hammond who sits to your left has been giving me such dreamy looks since I returned your class' papers to you on Wednesday!"

"David Hammond sits to my right."

"I meant your left facing you!  Oh, please, I cannot take more of this!  You're a young woman, and everything is new, and I am an old man, and have done so much!  I can teach you more outside of the classroom than any student learns of life within!  By which I mean I'd like to bed you and criticize your technique!  Let me criticize your technique, Lisbeth!  Let me critique you between the sheets!"

Lisbeth appeared startled.  "But I can't!  I can't sir!"

"Don't worry about the ethics board, I have tenure!"

"It's not that, sir.  It's just that I'm not like other women!"

"I know, Lisbeth!  I know!  It's why I want to take you!  Your curves!"

"No, you don't understand!  What time is it?  I have to go!"

She turned, then, but Professor Van Niekerk grabbed her by the wrist.

"Don't go!" he shouted.  "I can't bear it if you go!  I might have to bring down your average if you break my heart!  Let me teach you!  In bed!"

"No!  No!  No!" she cried.  "It isn't that!  It isn't just that!  It's mostly that, but it's something else, too!  I must be home before it happens!  Before--"

"Before what?" the Professor yelled.  "Before this passion overwhelms us, you voluptuous vixen, you!"

"I am cursed!  Let go of me!  I am cursed!"

"Cursed with beauty!  Cursed with youth!  And passion!  And tits!"

"Yes!  No!  Cursed with--no, it's happengrrrrrrrrrr!"

The room was suddenly flooded with light as the full moon rose over the tall buildings outside the window.  Professor Van Niekerk felt Lisbeth's wrist pop and twist in his hand.  Her fair, smooth skin suddenly bristled with soft fur and her long, sexy fingers shrank into tiny paws studded with short, sharp nails.  She was shrinking before his eyes, contorting and twisting as she shriveled.  Her beautiful, round face sprouted fur and jutted out, her nose becoming small, black and moist.  Lisbeth's arms and legs contracted into her body, which lost its feminine splendor and became barrel shaped.

Professor Van Niekerk let go of her foreleg and she dropped to the ground.  Although well-mannered and known for their desire to please, Lisbeth came from a vocal breed and she began to bark and jump at the Professor, but not very high because of her squat legs and low ground clearance.  He backed away, and Lisbeth's herding instincts came to the forefront: she began to nip at his heels, and he backed into a chair and fell over.

It was suddenly too much: the moon-madness was upon Lisbeth now, and she charged forward as fast as her stout little legs would take her, burying her brown-and-white muzzle in his throat.  Professor Van Niekerk wanted to laugh at the way her adorable, fuzzy little face tickled his chin, but then her tiny canines tore into his skin.  Shouting, he threw the small dog off of him and rolled over, but she was energetic and resilient, and hopped on him and pressed the attack, biting and barking until the old man's heart weakened and faltered.

"This is ironic," he thought with his last thoughts.  "Had I brought forth my clan's ancient enchanted Lucerne hammer, Clonngenhommer, from its resting place in the Hallowed Isle of Mirrorlake, I could have fought off this vile lycan-" and then he died before he could think "-thrope."

Lisbeth stood over his body, sort of half on and half off, her short rear legs scrabbling for purchase whenever she put her forepaws on the dead man's large belly.  She began to yap at the full moon, visible through the window beyond the vast urban nightscape of the great city.  She felt a primal urge that the old man could never have fulfilled, and she wondered where she could satisfy the need trembling through her body.  Possibly in a dumpster, if she could reach the doors, or in a trash can if she knocked one over and the lid wasn't tightly secured.  It would be nice to roll in something.  Yes.  Yes it would.


Read more...

Another proud member of the UCF...

Another proud member of the UCF...
UCF logo ©2008 Michelle Klishis

...an international gang of...

...an international gang of...
смерть шпионам!

...Frank Gorshin-obsessed bikers.

...Frank Gorshin-obsessed bikers.
GorshOn! ©2009 Jeff Hentosz

  © Blogger template Werd by Ourblogtemplates.com 2009

Back to TOP