Extra! Extra! Then NYT actually acts like a newspaper!

The New York Times has surprised me lately by acting like a newspaper. This is so unusual that I didn’t know, at first, what was going on. The investigation of drinking water (one of the great triumphs of the state in the 19th century, now being retracted in the American Imperium as it goes into its tailspin) was the first clue. The story was not really a surprise – in the zona, one expects that the majority of the people will be screwed to the max, through their bones, in their calcium and phosphate ions, by the morally bankrupt demons that reign on Wall Street and in D.C. This is the old news that hasn’t even figured in the newspapers for years. In my lifetime, I’m seeing something vast. The America of my childhood was still, visibly, the slaveowning, Indian killing country of our forefathers. But that America was changed, and even, briefly, became a democracy. Then, of course, it became first an oligarchy, and now it is a joke on a Soviet scale. Beyond the fact that the inhabitants of one of the capitals of one of the states, Charleston West Virginia, couldn’t safely trust themselves to the water in the shower without being burned by the acids and mineral salts in it (from coal companies that no longer have to obey the rules, as they now make them in that thuggish merger of the corporocracy and DC characteristic of the Bush-Obama era), this story was also told as an old fashioned newspaper story. That is, it was not half p.r., half spin, and wholly a lukewarm mélange of viewpoints that crept into a hole of conformity. Rather, it strove to be, my God, truthful. This was a surprise.

This is the NYT. The all purpose driver of the getaway vehicle for the great bank robbery heist of TARP, the invasion of Iraq, the all too numerous schemes of peculation and fraud that have roamed the country in the name of free enterprise, ripping off the mass of the population to gorge the upper 1 percent with blood for the last decade. I had long ago ceased to regard the Times as a newspaper.

And then came the hamburger article, about another catastrophic regression from the civilized norms of the late nineteenth century – which is when the state got into the business of inspecting meat. This was excellent muckraking. It showed the power of the combination of business and government, the gross neglect of the safety of the consumer, and the way in which information, with the full collusion of the state, has been closed off, so that it is difficult to find out anything about the testing of hamburger meat for e. coli. As a bonus, it include a quote from an official in the Obama administration that was wonderful, a description of Obama-ism in action:

“Dr. Kenneth Petersen, an assistant administrator with the department’s Food Safety and Inspection Service, said that the department could mandate testing, but that it needed to consider the impact on companies as well as consumers. “I have to look at the entire industry, not just what is best for public health,” Dr. Petersen said.”

Today the business section –the section for which freshwater economist Casey Mulligan and various George Mason libertarians regularly float their hilarious version of country club mythology, as for instance Mulligan’s idea that the unemployment figures show the sloth of American workers, who are quitting big time to enjoy more leisure, those lucky duckies – had a real story in it today. It was a story about the predators known as Private Equity firms. It describes how they descended upon and destroyed Simmons Mattress company. Yves Smith, the great analyst who runs the Naked Capitalism site, had one criticism: they didn’t call the fucks by their name. The NYT politely avoided the word looting:

“PE firms in risk-blind environment preceding the credit crunch got into the habit of producing good to stellar returns by modifying their usual formula. The traditional model was to buy companies with a ton of debt, then improving their bottom line by a combination of partial asset stripping (selling off ancillary operations), cost cutting, and once a blue moon, actually doing something to improve operational performance. Then the company would be sold, either privately, usually to a corporation, or taken public.

But the PE firms found a much easier approach: just pile on more and more debt, and pay themselves a special dividend. No need to do any work, just keep borrowing until you had recouped your investment and then some. And that way you did not need to care how the company fared. If you destroyed the business, it was of no mind to you and your investors. Other saps were left holding the carcass.

George Akerlof and Paul Romer called that activity looting in a famous 1993 paper and depicted it as criminal:

Our theoretical analysis shows that an economic underground can come to life if firms have an incentive to go broke for profit at society’s expense (to loot) instead of to go for broke (to gamble on success). Bankruptcy for profit will occur if poor accounting, lax regulation, or low penalties for abuse give owners an incentive to pay themselves more than their firms are worth and then default on their debt obligations.”

Although I am not going to celebrate this newfound interest in what is actually happening in America just yet. The New Yorker, who I love like a family member, saddened me by publishing a Lizza profile of Larry Summers that majorly kissed Summers ass. The elite that rule us are crooked beyond belief, and Summers is a typical product of that venal group. Lizza even omits in his profile Summers amazing luck, after he was canned at Harvard, when instead of having to go into the unemployment line, he received an offer to consult for D.E. Shaw, a wall street firm that was so grateful for his one week of work that they gave him 5 million dollars. How sweet! A fact very kindly remembered by Felix Salmon, although Felix is convinced by that article that Summers did the right thing with the banks – a call I think he will regret.

Never a theseus

Quelle singulière destinée que celle de ces pauvres petites filles, frêles créatures offertes en sacrifice au Minotaure parisien, ce monstre bien autrement redoutable que le Minotaure antique et qui dévore chaque année les vierges par centaines sans que jamais aucun Thésée vienne à leur secours. – Gautier on le rat

In Raynar Heppenstall’s fascinating essay, Balzac’s policeman, he alludes to the fact that the man who reorganized the French secret police, Fouché, and the man who famously represented the new figure of the detective, in the first half of the 19th century, Vidocq, both had places in La comedie humain.

Heppenstall’s name does not light up anybody’s neural pathway nowadays – the shock of recognition has gone on the junkheap, and we, who hoped that the British novel would pull itself out of its realism by the skin of its teeth, sit by the waters of Babylon and weep. Heppenstall was crazy avant garde novelist in a Britain that despised avant garde novelists (Cixous accredited himm with the first nouveau roman), and he was too early to get picked up as an oddity, like Ballard.

Heppenstall was never more English than in his taste for murder. Dickens, it is said, would put such energy into his reading of the murder of Montague Tigg in Martin Chuzzlewit that it shortened his life – the tourette’s syndrome buried deep in his psyche would come out. English novelists make a fetish of excellent murders, and Henry James is not the only high art potentate to adore William Roughead. But the native murder wasn’t good enough for Heppenstall. No, he had to fetishize the French one.

As startling as a murder in Dickens is Heppenstall’s allusion to a scene that I must look up and know more about. There was, a couple of years ago, a vogue for pop philosophy history that took some central confrontation – Hume and Rousseau, Wittgenstein and Popper – and beat the stuffings out of it over a hundred and fifty some pages. This insta-coffee way with the history of philosophy makes me all snobbish inside: this is definitely not what Hegel was talking about. But the scene in Heppenstall’s essay cries out for a fiction of about one hundred fifty pages:

“Within a year or so of the publication of Les Chouans, he must inevitably have heard a fair amount about Vidocq, the four volumes of whose ghosted memoirs enjoyed a great vogue, though it appears that Balzac himself did not buy them until early I830.4 During the revolution of that year and the riots of two years later, he wrote a very great deal but none of it about police matters. In I833, we meet his first escaped convict in Ferragus, a short novel to which, the following year, were added two others, La Duchesse de Langeais and La Fille aux Yeux d'Or, making up Histoire des Treize. In Ferragus, Vidocq 'and his sleuth-hounds' (limiers) are mentioned briefly and supply useful information by way of 'le chef de la police particuliere', an expression to which I can give no real-life meaning. On Saturday, 26 April i834, Balzac dined with Vidocq at the house of the rich philanthropist, Benjamin Appert, in Neuilly. This dinner party must have been one of the most remarkable occasions in literary or perhaps any other history. Among the other guests were Alexandre Dumas, the public executioner, Sanson the younger, and the English radical Lord Durham, who was greatly interested in the guillotine and in French prisons.”

Such a répas seems faintly unreal, as though, while Balzac was writing his novels, his novels were writing his life.

women happiness demonology

We all know how to recognize demons. The demonic voice has one overriding characteristic: he will always use the logic of the system against its structure. Thus, when a voice demands that women play their traditional role in the home, while manipulating the economy so that the median household, just in order to stay still, must throw into the pot 350 more working hours per year – which is the difference between the median household of 1970 and the median household of today – you know you have caught a demon.

Demons have traditionally loved to harrie women, so I was not surprised that the latest happiness survey (with all its iffy premises and methodology) unleashed a lot of demonic voices – from their corners in the press. Of course, since my work in progress is a critique of all these assumptions about happiness, I cast my eyes on the newspaper accounts and was rather happy to see them conform so exactly to my expectations about the total social fact of happiness. The failure to be happy, in the press, was greeted as a great moral default that could be laid at the feet of those whose answers were not satisfactory – who were not happy. And they were, in particular, women.

In the happiness culture, happiness is not only an emotional norm on the personal level, but a collective norm. It is what connects the subject to the total social project. And thus to be unhappy is not only a personal failure but a minor treachery. The pack of demons who go under the traditional values banner and the pack of demons who go under the neo-liberal banner could both, then, agree to hunt the women together. And they do enjoy hunting women, they always have.

Maureen Dowd, whose ears are pricked up whenever the demonic crowd howls, wrote a column about it in which, underneath the usual music about the grave failing of women, liberated women, in this here New World, there was a hint, a shadow of a dissent – as if the real question was not why are women so unhappy, but why are men not. Indeed, a closer examination of the norms around the happiness question should alert us to the connotation of success that hovers over it. If happiness is success, than to say one is unhappy is to say that one is unsuccessful. In fact, at the same time the polls consistently show wild degrees of success among men, especially white middle class men, who are the avatars of these men? They are an increasingly angry bunch of tv celebrities. Newspapers, with their casual, schizo flaneur’s juxtapositon of contradictions, will jump from how happy men are to how angry they are without blinking. But those who think happiness signifies a certain feeling, has a certain emotional valence, are going to have a tough time figuring out this combination of anger and happiness.

There's a nice post on this topic by a medievalist named girlscholar, entitled “House always wins”. I thought that it was of interest because girlscholar seems to accept the idea that happiness is a norm that one should strive for. That we should strive to have a happy life.

Her idea is that the opening of the public sphere to women, the feminist revolution, raised expectations that were disappointed:

“Now, imagine that women's** expectations of the limitless possibilities for their lives are thrown into contrast (a contrast that gets sharper as women age) with the realization that, in spite of (or perhaps because of?) all this, we're still expected to spend enormous amounts of our energy trying to be something we’re not: pretty, thin, young, compliant, non-swearing, perfectly-groomed, dependent, dumb, nurturing, self-sacrificing, quiet-voiced, unconditionally adoring, nonthreatening, patient, or simply never, ever angry. In other words: “feminine.” And the older we get, the more we realize that the house always wins in the end.”

This pretty succinctly expresses a thought I’ve seen expressed, especially by highly educated women in America, before. On the one hand, this has to be right. On the other hand, it has to be a half truth. It is at this point that a further, radical betrayal of the culture is required. I think the experience of women, in the public sphere in the developed economies, has given them every reason to doubt the very foundation of the house - that the house manufactured happiness is really an adequate norm for us on a personal and collectie level. That it gives us the scope and perspective with which to view - to judge -- a “life”.

Of course, the survey is superficial and from a certain point of view stupid. But it is superficial in a telling way. It is my thesis in my work in progress that the goal of living a happy life has given way to the norm that happiness is a form of success, or maybe is success period. One way of thinking about the question of happiness is to think of terms that are close to happiness that would separate it more from the total social fact that it has become. For instance, fun. Imagine a poll in which you asked people if their life was fun. I would imagine you would get a much more baffled, and diversely patterned response. Or pleasurable. Or delightful. The more you gnaw at the semantic cluster around happiness, the more you lay bare the normative presuppositions it hides.

I, of course, have been advocating the view that those presuppositions have a history in which alternatives to happiness were marginalized in the civic order over which happiness presides, conjoining the governors and the governed. In the process of that marginalization, happiness has grown into a monstrous thing that poses a very real threat to human life on earth. This doesn't mean that it was always a monstrous thing, or that we can tell a total history of it. Historically, one of the great liberating dynamics of the happiness culture was that it laid the foundation for destroying the system of dependency, that feudal remnant (to use feudal in the sense given it by the French revolutionaries) under which women were forced to live. But just as the capitalist system and the industrial system that grew up under the form of that culture are now rubbing against the limits of that form, so, too, is the liberated “feminine”.

Women have a special place in the history of happiness because, historically, they were at once marginal and central. Unlike race or class, women were distributed over the whole of the social sphere – and yet of course whatever position they were in, however they were defined elsewise, as women they were the object of the same gaze and judgments – which were, collectively, marginalizing judgments. This is, of course, patriarchy. And all that means is that women were peculiarly sensitive to the demonic voice – to the hunt that has for its object not only the humiliation and destruction of certain subordinate objects within the social sphere, but to make the victim's own actions the basis of her destruction. Happiness seemed to hold the demons at bay, seemed to provide the marginals, the natives, with a weapon taken from Behemoth himself, which is the necessity that happiness be collective. But, in these ill times, happiness has turned against the happy life, emptying it out of all depth and emotion, leaving anger and success as the man’s lot, and as the woman’s, a sense that something has gone terribly wrong with the future.

ps - I was going to do a whole post about this, but I think instead I'll just link. The first link is to the THE essay that Infinite Thought made fun of, here. And then there is Belle Waring's piece on this insanely stupid column, here. I thought of several cutting and clever things to say myself, but it is hopeless in the face of the moronic inferno, represented, especially, by the Mary Beard defense that this is satire - which is a defense that makes me think, oh Mary Beard. You have gone down in my opinion of your ability to judge a text - especially if you feel that to say what you really think would get your in trouble with the establishment. Sad, all the way around.

the paranoid method for gnostic historians

Paranoia is not, of course, the delusion that you have enemies; it is the delusion that your enemies have developed a vast and hostile system in which to trap you. It is this notion of the systematicity of entrapment which makes paranoia the methodology of choice for the Gnostic historian.

I am reminded of our current lack of paranoia by a post I read at voyou desoeuvre about the tv series, Mad Men. As my television is a dead little monad as far as tv waves are concerned, I haven’t seen that show – although it sounds like I should rent the dvds. The sixties advertising culture fascinated the tv sitcom writers at the time – I believe the husband in Bewitched, for instance, is an adman; and if he wasn’t, I know there were other admen on other long cancelled tv shows that continue to broadcast carcinogenically deep in my brain cells – and it is surprising, thinking about it, that this high concept hasn’t been mined for nostalgia before.

My paranoia about our present lack of paranoia targetted this graf:

“The crucial scene comes when Don Draper drops in on his bohemian mistress and argues with her beatnik friends, who tell him that the adverts he creates are merely lies. Don’s response, that “there is no big lie, there is no system,” is quite correct. Advertising doesn’t simply lie about the world, on the contrary, as Don’s practice throughout the show makes clear, it tells, or rather constructs, a particular sort of truth, a kind of dream image of capitalism.”

Voyou Dee goes on to put this into the vernacular of Zizek:

“Žižek argues that contemporary capitalism is not based around demanding that subjects conform to a specific identity, but rather demanding that they answer the question, “what do you want?”

All of this is rather shocking, although I guess it shouldn’t be. The beatniks were of course right on the money. Zizek’s argument reproduces the neo-classical one made against Galbraith’s analysis of advertising in The Affluent Society – want, in this view, is a concept about nature, and we proceed from there to our options. This is why, for the neo-classicals, advertisements don’t skew the efficient markets. Galbraith, on the other hand, claimed that did, and that advertisements were part of a system of planned obsolescence – that there wasn’t a true ontological distance between the ad, the system of production, and the consumer side.

However, the issue is deeper than that. Gnostic history is Sunday history – you can’t turn to any one tome for it. You fossick it out of your idle reading matter. But let’s go through a few big lies – systematic lies – produced by the father of lies during the Cold War.

The first, of course, was the configuration of the forces of nuclear destruction themselves. Eisenhower has long ago become a grandfatherly figure, or a moderate Republican, one of the great presidents, etc. We know, though, since James Bamford’s Body of Secrets he revealed that even before the U-2s, Eisenhower had often had SAC penetrate Soviet air space in formations that were designed to look like an attack – in order to sample the Soviet defense response. When the U-2 crashed in 1960, the tip of the iceberg of what the U.S. had been doing over Soviet airspace was revealed, but just the tip. This is Bamford:

“On March 21, 1956, a group of RB-47 reconnaissance bombers took off for target locations within Russia. Almost daily over the next seven weeks, between eight and ten bombers launched, refueled over the North Pole, and continued south across the Russian border to their assigned locations.

They flew in teams of two. One RB-47H ferret would pinpoint and eavesdrop on radar, air bases, and missile installations. Nearby, an RB-47E photoreconnaissance plane would gather imagery. Their assignments included overflying such sensitive locations as Novaya Zemlya, the banana-shaped island where Russia carried out its most secret atomic tests. From moment of takeoff to moment of landing, absolute radio silence was required, even during the occasional chase by a MiG. "One word on the radio, and all missions for the day had to abort," said Brigadier General William Meng, one of the officers who ran the penetration operation. "But that never happened; not one mission was ever recalled."

As in a Fourth of July fireworks display, the most spectacular mission was saved for the end. On May 6, they began the single most daring air operation of the Cold War, a "massed overflight" of Soviet territory. The point was to cover a great deal of territory, quickly. Six armed RB-47E aircraft, flying abreast, crossed the North Pole and penetrated Russian airspace in broad daylight, as if on a nuclear bombing run. They entered above Ambarchik in western Siberia, then turned eastward, collecting valuable intelligence as they passed over key Russian air bases and launch sites on their way toward Anadyr on the Bering Strait. Nearly a dozen hours after it began, the massed overflight ended when the spy planes touched down at Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska.”

This hairtrigger behavior was exactly the kind of thing that could easily have launched a nuclear war. Mad men aptly names the people who designed it – the President and the chiefs of staff. It wasn't revealed until 2002.

All the President's men were further involved in our second big lie, the above ground testing of atom bombs (and, it is believed by some, the occasional thermonuclear device). This did not only poison the ground in Nevada – rather, it poisoned our belief in establishment science. The AEC, for thirty years, maintained that the fallout from these tests was small, manageable, and harmless. We now know that it was worldwide, out of control, and, fatal. Here’s your map of cesium levels for those of you into the whole mutation thing. From the study of just one of the thousands of isotopes contained in the fallout, iodine 131. The NCI’s Congressionally ordered survey concluded this:

“… we evaluated the risks of thyroid cancer from that exposure and estimated that about 49,000 fallout-related cases might occur in the United States, almost all of them among persons who were under age 20 at some time during the period 1951-57, with 95-percent uncertainty limits of 11,300 and 212,000. The estimated risk may be compared with some 400,000 lifetime thyroid cancers expected in the same population in the absence of any fallout exposure.”

The Gnostic historian, avoiding the Zizek, would be well advised to consult a whole other literature. Start with the fantastic photo book plus interviews, America Ground Zero, by Carole Gallagher, who dug up my favorite government description of the citizenry of this country of ours: “the low use segment of the population.” Then dig up the Plutonium Files, about the 4,000 people who, unbeknownst to themselves, were the low use lucky duckies used in experiments financed by the Gov back in the days when capitalism, ever dreamy, was asking – “what do you want?” That capitalism! Quite a joker.

You can follow the path of cancer – which is the secret sharer of advertising in the 20th century – through many a merry big lie in the Cold War days. While the AEC was assuring everyone that an atom blast was just a big cherrybomb, deep in the bowels of the establishment there was a freakout in the late 50s, when the Van Allen belt was discovered – because some speculated that between the U.S. and Russia, we might have fucked the pooch. We might just have released a poison in the population we couldn’t even deal with. To find out how widespread were the effects, as Patrick Tierney shows in Darkness in Eldorado, many a grant was made to anthropologists and health care researchers to take blood samples of isolated populations, which is how Napoleon Chagnon first found himself sampling Yamomami blood in the sixties – which then went into work showing the natural violence of the tribe, thus fitting nicely into the Manichean code of the Cold War – which was a war against “perfectionism” as well as a war against communism. I prefer to follow the cancer trail to Bill Brandt’s brilliant book, The Cigarette Century, which is about much more than cigarettes. There was a bleak war to be fought and won in the fifties against the Public Health/Socialist science of Richard Doll, whose epidemiological study showed the link between lung cancer and cigarettes. Notice, here, how “big” functions – it goes from the atmosphere to the individual lung. Brandt’s account is the account of the merger of science, advertising, commerce, and media. The cigarette companies devised the way the politics in America, and increasingly elsewhere, are fought out – with pseudo-issues and outrage, in a press that is oriented to the false equivalence of fairness and truth. The cigarette companies bought enough big names in cancer research who, for one reason or another, were invested in cancer not having an environmental cause. And by pumping the “doubts” about cigarettes, and making a cig souroundsound out of tv, the companies managed an amazing feat – the number of people smoking cigs after the discovery that they were linked to cancer almost doubled in the next two decades.

Of course, Zizek might brilliantly deduce that these people wanted cancer. The death drive, you see. Others, however, might point out that when cigarettes ceased being advertised in the time honored saturation manner, the wanting went out of the industry, and use declined. Amazing!

I could go into much, much more Gnostic detail. I could write a book! The point however is that when your philosophy converges with that of a spokesman for the ad industry, you’ve probably fucked up somewhere in the chain of your deductions. A dream industry - that is, after all, an advertising phrase. AKA, a lie.

There is no dream industry.

Waugh and Wodehouse

“It is not accurate to call this an annual event, because quite often the Club is suspended for some years after each meeting. There is tradition behind the Bollinger; it numbers reigning kings among its past members. At the last dinner, three years ago, a fox had been brought in in a cage and stoned to death with champagne bottles. What an evening that had been! This was the first meeting since then, and from all over Europe old members had rallied for the occasion. For two days they had been pouring into Oxford: epileptic royalty from their villas of exile; uncouth peers from crumbling country seats; smooth young men of uncertain tastes from embassies and legations; illiterate lairds from wet granite hovels in the Highlands; ambitious young barristers and Conservative candidates torn from the London season and the indelicate advances of debutantes; all that was most sonorous of name and title was there for the beano.”

Yesterday, I was reminded of a passage in Decline and Fall, Evelyn Waugh’s novel, by some conversation I was having on Facebook. So I looked up the passage, and then read the chapter it was in, and then started reading the whole book over again. And, not for the first time, I thought: this is the funniest book that has ever been written.
It isn’t the deepest funny book, which would surely be Dead Souls. Nor is it funny like Moliere’s plays. De Stael, who said that “one is serious alone, one is gay for others” claimed that the English lacked a true sense of gaiety, a true genius for comedy, such as was found in Moliere. This, of course, goes against everything that the English think about themselves and think about the French. But de Stael was insistant that “gaiety, which is the inspiration of taste and genius”, had nothing to do with what the English call “humor.”

“Most men, absorbed by their affairs, only seek, in England, pleasure as a relaxation [delassement]; and just as fatigue, in exciting hunger, makes every dish easy, continual and intellectually intense work is prepared to content itself with every species of distraction.”

In this way, de Stael thought, the British contented themselves with the most primitive jokes and funny situations, instead of the deeper laughs that sprang from genius and taste. The latter are not extrinsic to life's work, but at the center of it.

Wodehouse, it is plain, would have been seen by de Stael as vulgar. But Wodehouse is one of the funniest of writers, certainly in competition with Waugh.

The difference between them is shown by the paragraph I’ve quoted above, which is the second paragraph in Waugh’s first novel, Decline and Fall. It would have been impossible for Wodehouse, that lover of animals, to have introduced the death of a caged fox, enthusiastically undertaken by drunk gentry, into any of his novels. That scene would have immediately brought down his worlds.

Here, then, is the key to the difference between Waugh and Wodehouse: their attitude towards evil. As is well known, Wodehouse was impermeable to the very idea of evil. There is no role for evil at Blandings Castle. Now, some critics have claimed that there is something prelapsarian about this absence of evil. Myself, I think that it is not so much that Wodehouse’s characters have never tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge as that they are in two states only: either blindly egotistical, or in love. Wodehouse’s plots are all standard farce, lover’s quarrels or some familial obstruction to the path of love, and what this does is actually set in motion something that is uncommonly difficult for them: paying attention to other people. The Wodehouse power figure – the tycoon, the aunt, the country gentry – are supremely oblivious. Other people for them are pretty much shadows, or at best clay to be worked into shape. They are as self-involved as sheep. Only two things can get a person out of this state: love and fashion. Jeeves is keen not so much because he has a super brain, but because he has a fashion sense – which means that he actually has to look at people in terms of their choices. The purple tie or the straw hat? Having a fashion sense draws him ever deeper into psychology – which is of course a science that is always after Bertie Wooster. Love, likewise, calls for doing some detective work in the world – although of course Wodehouse’s men are all terrible lovers, and require a whole plotload of help just to get to the kiss.

In Waugh, on the other hand, evil is not only there from the beginning, but the terrible, bright flood of attention that floods his pages from the very beginning is, in a sense, radically evil. This is why the only characters in Waugh who aren’t damned are the wicked. Waugh’s patsies – like Paul Pennyfeather in Decline and Fall – are milled through the organized anarchy of all the hopelessly decaying institutions, erected once by better people for nobler purposes, and get to the other end, if they are lucky, with a sort of redeemed passivity. They are not destined for the perpetually renewed innocence of Wodehouse’s plotters, but for the backwaters and marginality appropriate to the limbo they carry with them. Limbo is about as much as one can hope for.

One of the great things about Waugh, and one of the mysteries of his comedy, is that he simply despises the English sense of humor. He associates it with the Victorian bric a brac that always stands in for the ersatz and spurious in his novels (although for that same reason he has a collector’s fondness for it). Like de Stael, he thinks the English sense of humor, that relaxation, is completely depressing – hence, the famous end of Handful of Dust, as Tony becomes the captive of the mad Dickens freak.

In Wodehouse, the world, and not just the humans, are essentially benign and happy – as long as they are undisturbed in their courses. The sunshine, the cats, the pigs, they are all happy. In Wodehouse’s metaphors and personifications, there is an essential bond with the great twentieth century art of cartoon animation. Modern animism, really: the rediscovery that the soul is simply motion. Waugh is the opposite. Waugh’s novels are as funny as novels can be in which all the characters are essentially and irretrievably … unhappy.

The ghost of H.L. Mencken wakes me up from a sound snooze

I've been hearing this weird laughter this morning. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Then I read the NYT, and I realized that the spirit of H.L. Mencken was in the house!

"In the proposal, which The New York Times examined, Mr. Young asserts that he assisted the affair by setting up private meetings between Mr. Edwards and Ms. Hunter. He wrote that Mr. Edwards once calmed an anxious Ms. Hunter by promising her that after his wife died, he would marry her in a rooftop ceremony in New York with an appearance by the Dave Matthews Band."

Hmm, I could comment on that, but no comment could possibly do it justice. I'll... I'll simply... repeat it:

"In the proposal, which The New York Times examined, Mr. Young asserts that he assisted the affair by setting up private meetings between Mr. Edwards and Ms. Hunter. He wrote that Mr. Edwards once calmed an anxious Ms. Hunter by promising her that after his wife died, he would marry her in a rooftop ceremony in New York with an appearance by the Dave Matthews Band."

Reforming Healthcare - and smashing some idols

A few remarks on zona healthcare

1. The teabaggers, like anti-war demonstrators, are discovering that numbers aren’t headlines. The rush of the street, the vast numbers one imagines oneself to be part of, are dispatched the next day on page A-2 if you are lucky. There’s nothing like the power of not seeing what is in front of your nose – and that is the power of the metro newspaper. Condolences.

2. I’d have more sympathy with this group if, in fact, they had turned out in the street in large numbers long, long ago. Turned out to protest the Bush tax cuts that destroyed the surplus. Turned out to protest the literal trillions spent on a fraudulent global war against terror. The behemoth of those trillions did not even give birth to the little mouselet of destroying al qaeda, which would have been childishly easy to do in late 2001. Turned out to protest the largest hike in medicare spending ever passed, which happened, of course, in 2003 with the passage of Bush’s gift to BigPharma, the pill bill. One should recall that the enormous expenditures were added to government spending on top of enormous tax decreases.

3. So, in general, the teabag crowd is hypocritical and blindly selfish. But the liberal meme that these are ignorant bigots won’t wash. Instead, these are people who feel, rightly, that they have lost symbolic power in this country. Their habit of bashing the government and enjoying the benefits of government spending lends their message its special ductus: spend the money on me.

4. The message, in other words, is all about the Soviet-like decay of the system. The teabaggers, past beneficiaries of a system that is broke, can’t believe the system broke. This is an utterly predictable response.

5. However, the liberal response to the Obama administration’s continuation of Bush policies is more puzzling. The Pentagon gravy train is chugging away at 750-850 billion per, with no handwringing on my side. That is easily 650 to 750 billion dollars too much.

More importantly, liberals, looking at the absolute horror of the Wellpoint-Baucus bill, should be asking, how did we get here.

The old answer was that the single payer was politically untenable. The new answer is that the public option is politically untenable. And the sum total of the answers is: Dems have no intention of “reforming” the health care system. From Obama’s astonishing willingness to keep the old Bush rule of paying ransom prices for pharmaceuticals to BigPharma to the dropping of the public option by Baucus to rigging the public option with the deadweight of provisions to make sure it doesn’t compete with private insurance providers, I’m not sure what is more delusional: the belief Obama is a radical Marxist, or the belief that Obama is a progressive.

6. So, we are given another solution that isn’t a solution. By the team that took over and made its own Paulson’s TARP.

7. The problem needs to be stated over and over again. The U.S. health system is the most costly in the world, and – for all that spending – has the least social scope of any of the major developed economies. It is absurdly expensive and absurdly insufficient. To spend hundreds of billions of dollars more than other countries, and to cover less, could only be accomplished by a very special beast.

8. The reform doesn’t slay the beast. It puts a collar on it.

9. When Obama said, in the presidential debates, that healthcare was a right, not a privilege, he lifted the doubts from my heart. At the moment, he has been piling them back on. The NYT obit of the public option cited a Republican sponsored study that showed that the public option could garner up to 100 million clients. For the Republicans, this showed how bad the public option is. For those whose heads are not up their assholes, this showed that the public option would be, like the post office, one of the most popular government programs ever.

10. Designing a government program that does not compete with – and kick the ass of – private insurers is the sure route to inefficiency and failure. As for the mandate hatched by Wellpoint and Baucus, what can one say? The vileness of the scheme, which exists to shuttle even more money into the hands of private insurers, is in competition with the laughability of the scheme, which essentially raises the taxes (which is what an enforced enrollment in a private insurance program would be) on the middle class to a level not seen since, well, the level on the rich in the pre-Reagan days. This is happening as we have the new reports showing zippo income growth over the last nine years in the median household, and astonishing Golcondas going to the upper 1 percent.
11. A Fanny Healthcare – a government backed entity to which anybody could transfer their current insurance for a cheaper one - is the necessary first step towards shrinking the amount the U.S. pays on a per capita basis for healthcare.
12. The right has made the point, over and over again, that socialized healthcare leads to longer waiting times. And, in one respect, they are right. Waiting times as they are measured now, say by Merrit Hawkins, extend from the time one contacts the healthcare provider to the appointment. The Merrit Hawkins survey showed that when Massachussetts put in place a universal healthcare scheme, waiting times shot up. Why? This is where the right falls silent. The why is because waiting times as measured by MH are a subset of all waiting times. Those who don’t have insurance or who have coverage with a heavy deductible simply don’t call up doctors to make appointments, unless they have to. They try to tough it out. But in a system in which they have coverage, they will make those appointments. In other words, demand shoots up. And given that the supply is stable, what gives is the wait time.
13. This is pretty obvious. Or it should be. On the one hand, the right is actually defending one of the feature of the system that doesn’t extend to everybody – your middle class patient actually benefits from this. That defense could be called, I’ve got mine, Jack, and you can bleed to death. On the other hand, liberals have shut their eyes to the fact that reforming the system will dramatically increase demand. A good healthcare reform would aim at increasing healthcare supply – one way being increasing the number of healthcare providers. We should cut a nice fifty billion per year from the Pentagon budget and devote it to scholarships for medical and nursing students. And we should have a major discussion about what primary care providers do that can be done by trained nurses.
14. We won’t have that discussion. It is easy to see that Dem legislators are influenced by the greedymen of K street – but their actions are partly motivated by the fact that covering the uninsured is not necessarily a votecatcher. Not only are there more overlaps between the uninsured and the non-voting, but the voters are going to be shocked by the increase in waiting times. This is why it is crucial that those voters are given a good, public option, as a tradeoff for universal coverage. Otherwise, universal coverage will fade - it will be successfully subject too vilification and become a welfare-like entity, ringing the neck of liberals.

15. Bus we won’t have this discussion, as I say. Politics at the moment is not only full of hate, but the hate has crowded out reality. The hatred exists for itself. Opinions are adopted not on their own merits, but to “get” the other side. This is the kind of factionalism that happens in old, decaying empires. The American Imperium is dying.