Allen Dulles

My friend and most trusted political adviser, Budd, hates Allen Dulles. This may surprise those who have not woken up with Mr. Dulles on their mind since before the break-up of the Beatles, but he seems needed fuel for those who believes that those who do not remember history are condemned and wish to remind themselves and others what evil the USA can do.

Budd has been reading a biography of Dulles by David Talbot, a journalist of impeccable… Well, a journalist impeccably ideologically straight-jacketed. Budd is clear on Talbot’s bent, but he still led off our last get-together by fingering Dulles for offing Patrice Lumumba, another figure long absent from “Jeopardy”‘s big board.

Sure, Dulles was probably evil, but Henry Kissinger, whom Budd admires and who is still with us, probably has more blood on his hands. And granted Lumumba’s execution, without due process of semblance of trial, was an abominable act; and while the Congolese and Belgians were more directly implicated, Dulles could easily have gone down as a co-conspirator. But bigger-picture (and sardonic humor)-wise, given went on in the next 50 years in the various states the British, French, and Belgians left behind them, how confident can we be that the Congo citizenry would have been better off if Lumumba had been left in place than if Joseph Mobutu hadn’t been maneuvered to replace him?

I can’t tell from Wikipedia what total body-count Mobutu rolled up while at his nation’s helm, but he did seem to have gutted the country financially, while, in good capitalist fashion, enriching himself unduly. On the other hand, Julius Nyere, who seems to have shared Lumumba’s more socialist inclination, left Tanzania “one of the poorest, least developed, and most foreign aid dependent countries in the world.”

I mean, I think the world can regularly be counted on to throw up evil men, like landslides or earthquakes or famines, to destroy hundreds or thousands or millions. I’ve said this before but maybe, given that, you’ve just got to step back and take the long view. Like President Obama said in the NYT today (in the Styles section, of all places), “(T)he fact is the world is wealthier, healthier, better educated, less violent, more tolerant, more morally conscious, and more attentive to the vulnerable than it has ever been.”

It may be good to get as angry as Budd does, but keep that in mind too.

Confessions of Media Baronhood (cont.)

Word has received me that the shipping of “Cheesesteak,” the maiden effort of my publishing empire, has been delayed due to the malfunction of my printer’s binder. It, hopefully, will arrive by the end of next week.

Once I have a copy in had, I can take it to Staple’s and see what is the least expensive mailer in which it will fit and stock up on those. Then once I have one inside the mailer, I can take it to the post office and learn the least expensive way to mail it. (Keep that overhead down.)

Meanwhile, I have invested in a rubber stamp for addressing the envelopes: $4.99, plus $5.00 for postage. (Keep those man hours down too.)

update

I received an apologetic and explanatory e-mail from the fellow who requested my article. He seems the victim of others’ machinations and betrayals. I withdraw all snarky remarks I made.
(Didn’t say anything about my payment though.)

This Writing Life (con.)

Constant readers with unimpaired memories will recall my invitation a year and a half or so ago to contribute an essay to a book/catalog which would accompany a (at least) two-museum tour of original EC Comic art. My topic was to be EC’s horror comics, with concentration on the genre’s master, Graham “Ghastly” Ingles. The topic appealed; the promised check (by my standards) good; and I jumped on the offer.

I got into it. I reviewed all of EC’s horror books. I checked numerous secondary sources for information, quotes, and color. I found people to interview, who no one in the comic world and ever interviewed. And — kick of all kicks — I discovered what had happened to Ingles, who, comic world legend had it, had seemingly disappeared, reclusive, bitter, after the imposition of the Code in 1954 had wiped horror from the four-color universe.

The first bad news I received from the curator of the exhibit was that he couldn’t pay me right away, after all. The second bad news was, not only had the tour not expanded, one of the museums on board had cancelled. The third was… Well, there was no more news.

Last week I sent him an e-mail. He excitedly reported that the exhibition would open in two weeks. If I cared to come to Oregon — on my own dime — he would comp me to the event. (I declined.) And, oh yeah, there would be no book/catalogue. “Maybe… in a year or two” he would release an anthology. No mention was made of my money (and I was too polite to press him).

I said I did not care to wait. The Comics Journal will be posting my piece on line any day now.

Stay tuned.

The Death of Prince

Place: The Health Club
Time: A few days ago

“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“So did Pearl Washington,” I said.
“Who’s she?”
I did not mention Chyna.

Robert Reich Walks Into A Cafe

“Orange juice to go. And a bagel with cream cheese and tomato to go.”
“What kind of bagel?” Jose says
“I always get confused. What are these?” Robert Reich points.
“Raisin.”
“Raisin.”
“$4.55.”
“$4.55?”
“Is more in Washington?” Jose says.
“You in Washington on business?” Angel says.
“Business.”
“Pleasure?”
Robert Reich shakes head, smiles. “Never pleasure.”
“Do you know Mr. Obama, yourself?”
“He’s very good. Not on everything. But he’s a good man.”

Two Poems

I. Political Science

Fuck national polls.
I want to know about states.
And fuck most states.
Only half-a-dozen matter.
The rest don’t care if you run Bob’s uncle.

II. Locker Room

The poet said he’d lunched with
Our mutual friend
Who’d had a stroke.
They’d discussed
Their mutual friend
Who had ALS.
Which reminded the poet
to tell me of his friend alone
In hospice.

There’s a lot of this
Going around.

Notes on Media Baronhood: Report to Stockholders

So here is where things stand.

Having overcome the debacles at that photocopy place and with those idiots at Lulu and the loss of my PDFs when Windows 10 destroyed my computer (Thank you Michael, my pal and formatter, for keeping your copies), I signed up with a commercial printer for “Cheesesteak.” True, the proofs it sent me did overlook my six pre-pages (title page, copyright, dedication, TOC, Author’s Intro), but that’s all cool now, and all should be ready inside a month. “Schiz,” my black comedy novel is awaiting a cover and an illustration from a late-added cartoonist, and then its presses will be ready to roll. Adele and I have finished a second draft of “Heart,” and I’m setting a date to sit down with Dr. M for her input. My collection of comic-related pieces is, I think, still awaiting a decision from an indie publisher. I say “think,” because he didn’t reply to my last inquiry, but, fuck him, I have enough to do. Like publish “Lollipop,” my VISTA book (and “Cheesesteak” sequel) and “Industrial Injury” my workers’ comp book (and sequel to the other two) and…

But wait a minute. Could this be my newly-increased Lexapro talking? What is the point of self-publishing three or four or five books in three or four or six months unless you are carrying out some semi-crazed art project?

Just the other day, in the “Times,” John Prine discussed an alternate business model. After he became sick of record companies, he decided to issue his own sides. But he waited until the first one covered its costs before he did a second.

That makes sense to me.

I just finished…

…Ari Shavrit’s “My Promised Land.”

The last couple years, I’ve been reading books abut Israel. Half I trade back in at Moe’s or Pegasus, but this one’s a keeper. It’s informative and beautifully written. My brother-in-law, Gordie, who teaches on the subject, calls it “Brilliant.” It’s a history, presented via jumps over decades and throwing focus on individuals who represent different aspects of — and possess differing views about — Israel.

My readings, as I’ve said previously to notable lack of acclaim, have led me to conclude that geo-politics is essentially tribes squabbling over dirt, and that nations no longer seem such a good idea. Nothing in MPL causes me to modify these beliefs, nor the opinion that, if you are going to have nations, Israel has as much right to being one as anybody. The land its got is its until someone takes it away through force or barter. Which, within a century or two, if we are still here, I expect someone will.

Shavrit augments Israel’s right to remain Israel by emphasizing the special nature of its people and their achievement. (Not “chosen,” “special.”) But I did have one new thought while reading his book. The need for a homeland for Jews seemed to have arisen from two threats to their extinction. One, in Europe, was extermination. The other, in America, was assimilation.
The danger of extermination is clear, but I wonder about assimilation. Gene-wise, where’s the cost to mankind in that? If the quality of the planet’s Jews is diminished, isn’t the quality of its Gentiles raised to an equivalent degree?

Well, no one ever said genetics was my strong point. I never got, in fact, beyond pea plants,

Stress Test

“Good news,” Dr. M said.

Part of my heart was gone. (“Dead meat,” De. M called it.) That was no surprise. We knew I’d had a heart attack. But the rest had performed with excellence. There was no blockage. There was not even narrowing. “It couldn’t be better,” she said.

She brought a picture onto her computer screen. “”Myocardial Profusion Deficits.” A circle was centered within a larger circle. The ring between the two circles was segmented. Some segments were black. (“Persistent”) (This was the dead meat.) The larger portions were pure white (“Normal”). They could have been darkened by diagonal lines (“Reversible”) or a checkerboard (“Mixed”), delineating degrees of concern.

The medication had worked. My diet had worked. My exercise had worked. I could stop my blood thinner, cold turkey. It and my good habits had given my heart the chance for this result. The techs had amped the stress test up to such a level it had revealed this solid footing to set out upon.

Dr. M printed out a copy of the circles. When I got “nervy,” which I would, I was to look at them for reassurance.

“And if I get chest pain, got to the ER?”

“If you get chest pain, go exercise. If it gets worse go to the ER. It is unlikely anything will go , but if it does, we will fix it. Something may kill you, but it won’t be this.”

For further reassurance, she scheduled a stress test in four months, to insure that everything remained clean.