Hip Replacement: Lesson One

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“In a soldier’s stance, I aimed my hand
at the mongrel dogs who teach . . .”
                                      — Bob Dylan, My Back Pages (1964)

English, like every other living language, constantly evolves. Every utterance holds the promise of change: a new take, a fresh twist, an old word with a new meaning, or a neatly turned phrase that nudges the language, and the people who speak it, in a new direction. This is Donald Trump in the ’80s: “You have to think anyway, so why not think big?”

New words are created all the time. The verb “mansplain,” coined less than a decade ago, describes a practice at least twice as old: when a man explains something, a new word, say, to a woman in a condescending manner. And, of course, words just disappear. I haven’t heard “tergiversation” since William Safire died. Some words are like mayflies, here and gone. A word used only once is called an “onanym,” which, appropriately, is one.

As changes accumulate, the distance between the old and new versions of the language grows and the older version gradually becomes dated, then archaic, and, eventually, incomprehensible. Read Beowulf. (Or consider that less than 60 years ago we elected a president named “Dick.”)

And, of course, words just disappear. I haven’t heard “tergiversation” since William Safire died.

The sound of English changes, too. Its phonological components, such as tone, pitch, timbre, and even melody, change. If you learned American English, the North American dialect of Modern English, scores of years ago, as I did, you have heard many such changes and, while you can probably understand the current version, provided the slang isn’t too dense, you probably cannot reproduce its sound.

This, then, is a music lesson of sorts, designed to help you, my fellow older American, replicate the sounds of what we will call Post-Modern English, or PME, the successor to American English. Not the slang, mind you, but the sound of it, the music. If you are wondering why you should bother, reflect on this: you wouldn’t parade around in public wearing the same clothes that you wore as a child, would you? Of course not, because fashion changes and we should change with it, provided that we do it in an unaffected way. Choosing to update the sound of your English is as sensible as hanging up your coonskin cap. One must make an effort to ensure that one’s outfit looks snatched, after all.

The lesson includes a short passage from a radio broadcast I heard that contains many of the phonological changes that American English has undergone during the past several decades. While I managed to jot it down, I couldn’t get a copy of the audio. No matter. You can tune into any pop radio station and listen to the banter of the DJs. They are first-rate role models for Post-Modern English. (Dakota Fanning is not. I heard her interviewed on NPR, and to my ear she sounded like nothing so much as the valedictorian at a finishing school graduation, circa 1940. To be fair, NPR features many guests, and hosts, for that matter, whose mastery of PME is just totally awesome.)

Choosing to update the sound of your English is as sensible as hanging up your coonskin cap.

Ready? There are five parts. The first reveals the essence of Post-Modern English, so that you will know how to comport yourself when speaking it. The second will help you adjust your vocal cords to the proper register. The third comprises ten exercises drawn from the transcript of that radio broadcast. The fourth alerts you to a few problems you may encounter once you have mastered PME, and suggests practical solutions. The fifth and final part will put American English where it belongs: in the rear-view mirror. Just as Professor Higgins taught Miss Eliza Doolittle to drop the cockney and pass as posh, so I will teach you to drop your stodgy American English and sound cool. By the end of this linguistic makeover you will sound like a real hep cat. (The spellchecker just underlined “hep.” Bastards.)

* * *

Part One: The Essence

As French is the language of love and German is the language of Nietzsche, Post-Modern English is the language of wimps.

(Just now, you may have jumped to the conclusion that the word “wimps” was deployed in the previous sentence as a pejorative. It was not. It was chosen because it is the word that best embodies the defining characteristics of Post-Modern English. If you’ll bear with me, I think you’ll come to agree.)

When a French woman explains a line from Also Sprach Zarathustra,she sounds as if she were flirting. When a German man puts the moves on a fräulein in a dimly lit hotel bar, he sounds as if he were explaining how to change the oil in a diesel engine. Let us stipulate that the French woman is not a flirt and the German man is not a mechanic. It doesn’t matter; their languages make them sound that way. And when a fluent speaker of Post-Modern English asks you to move your car because he’s been boxed in, he sounds like a puppy that has just peed on your white carpet. He may not be a wimp, but he sure does sounds like one. It is simply the case that each of these languages, at least when heard by Americans of a certain age, creates a vivid impression of the speaker. It is no more complicated than that. So why does the American guy sound like such a wimp?

Post-Modern English is the language of wimps.

At the core of Post-Modern English are two directives that determine not just the attitude but also the moral stance that its speakers assume as they turn to face the oncoming challenges of the modern world. These two directives, sometimes called the Twin Primes, preempt both the laws enacted by governments and the commandments handed down by ancient religions. (Practically, this means that in the event of a conflict between any of those laws or commandments and either of these two directives, it is the latter that will be adhered to, not the laws of God and man, all other things being equal.) You may have heard one or both of the Twin Primes invoked when a speaker of Post-Modern English suspects a violation has occurred in the vicinity.

The First Directive is “Don’t judge.” The Second is “Don’t be a dick.”

How, you may be asking yourself, could two such sensible and straightforward prohibitions make millions of people sound wimpy? Enforced separately, they probably couldn’t, but enforced together, they lay a paradoxical trap that can make even the straightest spine go all wobbly.

When a fluent speaker of Post-Modern English asks you to move your car because he’s been boxed in, he sounds like a puppy that has just peed on your white carpet.

Step by step, now. To judge others is considered rude in Post-Modern English, especially if the judgment is thought to be harsh. A person who judges others in this way and then communicates that judgment to those being judged is often referred to as a dick. If, for example, you saw someone who was judging others and, in a completely sincere attempt to be helpful, you said to that person, “Don’t be a dick,” you would have, in effect, not only made a judgment about that person’s behavior, but also communicated it to that person in a harsh way. By definition, then, by telling this person that he has behaved badly, you yourself would have strayed off the reservation to which PME speakers have agreed to confine themselves, and would have become the very thing that you have judged so harshly: a dick.

Now, Post-Modern English speakers are not stupid. They are aware of this trap and, not wishing to be hoist with their own petards, do what any reasonable person would do. Not only do they rarely call other people “dicks,” but they fall all over themselves to avoid any communication that can be interpreted as passing judgment on others. Simple statements about mundane matters are qualified and watered down so that the likelihood of giving offense is minimized. Explanations are inflected to sound like questions, apologies, or cries for help. Commonplace opinions are framed semi-ironically, often attached to the word “like,” so that they can be retracted at the first sign of disagreement. This feature of the language is called “ironic deniability.” It also allows one to blame irony when the real culprit is stupidity.

As a result, fluent PME speakers, when compared with speakers of earlier forms of American English, sound more uncertain, unassertive, and nonjudgmental. To put it bluntly, they sound more sheepish. Not because they are, you understand, any more than the French woman was flirtatious. It is just that the rules of the language have prodded them, bleating, into the chute that leads inescapably to the waiting tub of dip. In short, to avoid being dicks, they end up being wimps.

By telling this person that he has behaved badly, you yourself would have become the very thing that you have judged so harshly: a dick.

Wake up, old son, and smell the nitro coffee. In this brave new world, wimpiness is cool.

And that, my crusty-but-benign student, is all you need to know. You don’t need a dissertation on the cultural and historical forces that forged this pained linguistic posture; all you need is to imitate its cringe as you complete the lesson ahead and go on to achieve fluency in Post-Modern English. Here’s an aspirational commandment: “Thou shalt be cool.” You can do this. It’s goals.

Part Two: The Vocal Register

Please say, “So, that’s pretty much it, right?” in your normal 20th century voice. OK? Now say it again, but make the pitch of your voice as low as you can.

How’d it go? When you lowered the pitch, did you hear a sizzle, a popping sound, like bacon frying? No? Try again, as low as it will go. Once you’ve achieved this effect, I’ll give you the backstory.

Ready? That sizzle is the sound of liquid burbling around your slackened vocal cords. As you may have noticed, this register, often called vocal fry, has been growing in popularity during the past few decades.

Fluent PME speakers, when compared with speakers of earlier forms of American English, sound more uncertain, unassertive, and nonjudgmental. To put it bluntly, they sound more sheepish.

In the 1987 movie Made in Heaven, Debra Winger played the archangel Emmett, God’s right-hand man, who was supposed to be a chain-smoker. As Ms. Winger was not, she had to simulate a smoker’s voice for the part, serendipitously producing a pitch-perfect proto-vocal fry. While this early mutation event does not appear to have lodged in the inheritable DNA of the language, it is fascinating in the same way that the Lost Colony of Roanoke is.

Vocal fry’s current run on the linguistic hit parade is more likely to have begun when Britney Spears croaked “Baby One More Time” in 1998, although it is occasionally said that the real patient zero was someone named Kardashian. Whatever.

Women tend to use vocal fry more than men. A wag on TV once said that women are trying to usurp the authority of the patriarchy by imitating the vocal register of the male. This would be in stark contrast to the southern belle or transvestite, both of whom artificially raise the pitch of their voices, sometimes into falsetto, to enhance the appearance of femininity.

Isn’t the theory that these bubbling vocal cords were repeatedly sautéed and baked less likely than the much simpler explanation of demonic possession?

Another theory holds that the phenomenon is simply the result of too much booze and marijuana. For this “Animal House Hypothesis” to be taken seriously, however, it must account for the fact that vocal fry did not present in the ’60s (except briefly in Clarence “Frogman” Henry’s 1956 recording of “Ain’t Got No Home”). Considering that the sound more nearly resembles an audition for the next installment of the Exorcist franchise, isn’t the theory that these bubbling vocal cords were repeatedly sautéed and baked less likely than the much simpler explanation of demonic possession? The smoker’s rasp sounds much drier, anyway.

There has been an effort to dismiss the bubbling as a mere affectation. But ask yourself: what are the odds that a vocalization nearly indistinguishable from Mongolian throat singing will be adopted by millions of young people, simply to strike a pose? I’m just not buying it. The simplest explanation may be best: it was an innocently adopted, thoroughly harmless preteen fad that unexpectedly took root in adolescence and grew into a well-established, widespread adult habit, like picking one’s nose.

Don’t sizzle when you uptalk. You’ll frighten the children.

We may not know where it came from, and we may not know why it came, but we do know that vocal fry, while not quite the sine qua non of Post-Modern English, sends the loud and clear message, to anyone who happens to be within earshot, that standing here is a proud master of the 21st-century version of American English, gargling spit while speaking. (I seem to recall once seeing something similar being done by a ventriloquist.)

Learn the sounds in the lesson below; sing them with the sizzle above, while acting like a sick toy poodle at the vet’s, and your quest will be over. The Holy Grail of this Elders’ Crusade will be yours: PME fluency. (Oh, and remember: don’t sizzle when you uptalk. You’ll frighten the children.)

Part Three: The Exercises

So, in the 2016 election, Clinton was really sure she would sort of capture the states in the rust belt, but she didn’t. I mean, the turnout there was pretty much deplorable, right?

1. Discourse markers, sometimes called fillers, such as those used above (so, really, sort of, I mean, pretty much, and right), while not integral to either the meaning or the music of Post-Modern English, enhance its aesthetics, signal that the speaker is part of the linguistic in-crowd, and help the speaker sound as if his grip on what he’s saying is less than firm. It gives him wiggle room and makes him seem all squirmy: the Daily Double. Placing fillers in a phrase to best effect calls for a keen ear, rigorous practice, and a constant monitoring of how it is being done by the cool kids.

Beginning immediately, insert at least one filler into each sentence you speak. Yes, it requires self-discipline, but don’t worry; in time, it will become habitual and you will be able to dispense with self-discipline entirely.

There are fillers galore. To gain perspective, note that like, actually, and dude, while still heard, have grown slightly stale.

Yes, it requires self-discipline, but don’t worry; in time, it will become habitual and you will be able to dispense with self-discipline entirely.

About ten years ago, like was like ubiquitous. Like it was in like every sentence like three or four times. I mean, it had like metastasized. Then, over the next few years, its rate of use fell by 73%, as though it had gone into remission. Often, when a word or fad becomes a pandemic, it burns itself out. There was a sign on a Mississippi country store: “Live Bait – Nitecrawlers – Cappuccino.” It could be that the overuse of like was deemed uncool by some shadowy teen language tribunal and labeled a bad habit, like smoking tobacco. But as with that addiction, many found it impossible to go cold turkey. You’ve probably heard of Nicorette,a gum used by smokers trying to ease withdrawal. Well, the discourse markers sort of, kind of, you know, I mean, and pretty much have been the linguistic Nicorette to millions of like addicts trying to kick the habit. Some former addicts have resorted to saying kinda-sorta. They are sincere in their belief that this constitutes an evolutionary step forward.

Actually, which often sounds a trifle pompous, has largely been replaced by so in the initial position and right in the final position, as demonstrated in the lesson. It can still be used, but sparingly. Once per minute ought to do it, actually; twice, at most.

In place of dude, try bro, or brah, or bruh, or perhaps you could consider using nothing at all.

In summary, “Actually, I like know what I’m talking about, dude,” compares unfavorably to, “So, that’s pretty much, you know, how it sort of is, brah — I mean, right?” While both sets of words still appear in the lexicon of New English, the latter reflects the more gracile stage of linguistic evolution that has been achieved, and is, therefore, preferred. It sounds more woke, too, doesn’t it, or is that just me?

They are sincere in their belief that this constitutes an evolutionary step forward.

2. The first two syllables in the word “election” should be mid-range in pitch, and clearly and crisply enunciated, while the final syllable should be lower pitched and slightly drawn out: “shuuun.” (In other applications, the terminal syllable must be uptalked. This will be covered in Lesson Two.) The increase in duration for the final “shun” is mandatory for all words ending in “-tion.” God knows why. But try it again, with a little sizzle: “elek- shuuun.” Nice.

3. “Clinton” should be pronounced “Cli/en” with a glottal stop entirely replacing the medial “nt” consonant blend. Glottal stops are a thing right now. “Mountain” is “mow/en,” and “important” is “impor/ent,” not to be confused with the mid-Atlantic pronunciation “impordent.” (Note that in the go-to example for glottal stops in American English, “mitten” becoming “mi/en,” it is only the “t” sound that is replaced, as it is in “impor/ent.” Replacing the “nt” seems to be the more recent, bolder approach, and is thus more worthy of imitation.) Practice these glottal stops in front of a mirror. To avoid embarrassment, it’s better to practice when you’re alone than to try them out in public before they’ve been thoroughly polished.

4. The word “sure” should not be pronounced like “shirt” without the “t” but rather as “shore,” rhyming with “snore,” with the long “o” and a strongly vocalized “r.” This pronunciation probably hails from Brooklyn, where it had been successfully detained for decades. Similarly, don’t say “toorist,” say, “toarist.” (By George, you’ve got it.) Again, practice. This is hot stuff. Cutting edge. Hundo P.

To avoid embarrassment, it’s better to practice when you’re alone than to try things out in public before they’ve been thoroughly polished.

5. In the word “capture,” the first syllable, “cap,” should be mid-range in pitch and clipped at the end, with a fraction of a second pause before dropping down to the second syllable, “chur,” which must be at a low pitch and slightly drawn out, so that it sounds like the endearing growl of a small dog.

This rule, first promulgated by anonymous Valley Girls back in the eighties, applies to all multi-syllabic words that end in “-ture” and most words of more than one syllable that end in “r.” The amount of fry used in this application has varied over time, and the appropriate level has been the subject of a lively but inconclusive debate. I take the view that it is a matter of personal taste. Experiment with the sizzle; go ahead. Practice with this list: rapture, juncture, fracture, puncture, rupture. Remember: Start high, go low, go long. Grrrr.

6. In “the rust belt,” “the” should be at mid-register pitch, while both “rust” and “belt” should be about five full notes higher. Yes, this is the famous sound of uptalk. The higher pitch of “rust” and “belt” suggests that a question is being asked. The goal is to create the impression that you are checking to see if the listener knows, as you are pretending to know, exactly what the rust belt is. What is desired is the illusion of a simultaneous, unspoken, empathetic interaction of mutual insecurity, something like, “Are you still with me? Am I doing OK?”, evoking at most an instant, tiny nod from the listener and a silent “Yes, I’m still with you, and you’re doing just fine, I think.” Try not to sound too needy. Aim for a subtle patina of clingy insecurity. It’s more credible. No need to ham it up.

Again, it is the legendary Valley Girls who are credited with this classic innovation. Australia recently filed a suit with the International Court of Justice disputing this claim. As if!

Aim for a subtle patina of clingy insecurity. It’s more credible.

Uptalk, like vocal fry, is used by women more than men, and is frowned upon by some, especially when it is “overused” and “exaggerated.” What crap. When it’s used once or twice per sentence, and the high-pitched words don’t pierce the falsetto barrier too often, uptalk reliably contributes to an authentic-sounding PME fluency. While I’ll grant that it may be something of an acquired taste, with practice and patience you’ll come to find its chirping high notes as precious as I do. Uptalk is cool and is likely to remain so. (I suspect that some men avoid uptalk because it makes their mansplaining hilarious.)

7. Then, after “rust belt,” comes a pause, as though the speaker were waiting for some confirmation of comprehension. This is a faux pause. The pause should not be so long that it gives the listener sufficient time to formulate and initiate an inquiry — in this instance, into the actual membership roster of states or cities in the rust belt. The duration of the pause will vary according to the speaker’s assessment of the listener’s level of expertise. Here, the assessment would involve the fields of (a) voter behavior in 2016 and (b) the deindustrialization of the non-Canadian area around the Great Lakes during the past half-century. To use the faux pause correctly, then, refer to this rule of thumb: Low expertise? Short pause. High expertise? Shorter pause. As always, the primary concern should be style, not substance.

8. The words “but she” should be two full steps lower than “belt” (from the fifth to the third), but “didn’t” should be right back at the same pitch as “belt.” That’s right, another dose of uptalk.

To master the technique, the novice should start by uptalking at least 50 times a day. When I was starting out, I kept a pencil stub and a little note pad in my shirt pocket to tally up my uses of uptalk during the course of the day with neatly crosshatched bundles of five. You might want to give it a try, as it keeps your shoulder to the wheel. I am proud to say that I uptalk effortlessly all the time now, and the surprise and sheer delight on the faces of young people when they hear an older gentleman “talking up” makes all the hours of practice worthwhile. I feel like I’m really making a difference.

While I’ll grant that it may be something of an acquired taste, with practice and patience you’ll come to find its chirping high notes as precious as I do.

A word of caution. When uptalk is employed at a very high frequency, volume, and pitch, and the whole sampler of fillers is tossed in, a critical mass can be achieved that has been known to set off a chain reaction. First your dog, then the neighbors’, then their neighbors’ — before you know it, the whole neighborhood is filled with the sound of a howling canine chorus. Once, when I overdid it, the damned coyotes even joined in. So mix fillers into your uptalk carefully. I’m just saying.

9. The word “didn’t” should be pronounced as a crisp, two-syllable “dident.” The short “e” sound should be clearly heard as in “Polident.” (Think “prissy.”) This same rule applies to “doesn’t,” which becomes “duhzent,” emphasis again on the short “e.” While “couldn’t” and “shouldn’t” also sometimes become “couldent” and “shouldent,” as one might expect, just as frequently they come out as, “coont” and “shoont,” utilizing the short “oo” of “schnook.” (Thinking back, the guys I heard using this pronunciation may have been lit.) Either of these modern variants is acceptable, but eschew the fuddy-duddy standard pronunciations of the original contractions, “could/nt” and “should/nt,” which, oddly, feature glottal stops. (Yesterday, I heard “coo/ent.” Very chill.) Oh, and don’t say “did/nt.” (With all due respect, you’d sound like a cave man.)

10. The final word, “right,” should be pronounced in a way that places it at an equal distance from (a) assuring the listener that what you just said was not only correct, but cool, and (b) seeking assurance from the listener that what you just said was not only correct, but cool. In order to achieve this effect, the coloration of “right” must be subtly blended so as to become a creature of the twilight world between the declarative and the interrogative: not falling, not rising, not whining, and never, ever abrupt. With the proper inflection, “right” will hit this sweet spot, where the listener will wonder, “Wait. What? Is he asking me or telling me?”

Practice these ten exercises. Practice hard, then get out there and commence pussyfooting.

Part Four: Problems and Solutions

As you gain fluency in Post-Modern English, what you seem to lose in self-confidence, you will more than make up for with an increased capacity to appear empathetic. Your use of PME will lower the walls and build new bridges between you and the people around you. Your sacrifice of the ability to assert your will and pass judgment on others will help create a more open, tolerant, and nonjudgmental human community. You will contribute to a world in which nobody will feel the need to say “Don’t judge me,” or “Don’t be a dick,” because there will be no one judging them and no one will be acting like a dick. That’s right: no more judges and no more dicks. It will be a world of greater respect, warmth, and, yes, love.

The bad news is that you’ll have to keep an eye out for three problems that may rear their ugly little heads.

What you seem to lose in self-confidence, you will more than make up for with an increased capacity to appear empathetic.

First, there is backsliding. Although you now sound hip, as you approach your dotage you may find among your life’s baggage a few truths that you feel should be self-evident to everyone. You may even feel a need to share these truths with the people who, sad to say, have not had the pleasure of reading the self-published revisions to your personal Boy Scout Handbook. (You may also feel a constant pain in your lower back. These symptoms often occur together.) Pretending to be wimpy may have grown so taxing that, as therapy, you decide to briefly drop the Post-Modern English charade and revert to your former pre-PME self. But how do you safely remount your high horse?

To avoid unjust accusations of hypocrisy, it is best to choose the venue and target of these code-switching episodes carefully. I’ve heard that a marvelous place to engage in them is on urban motorways. I am told that it is easy to find drivers who are unaware of your exhaustive personal list of driving dos and don’ts. What next?

You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. Some knucklehead in a little Kia cuts in front of you without even signaling, missing you by mere yards. Gunning it, you pull up next to him. You lower your window. He lowers his. Then you let him have it with both barrels — figuratively, of course. You tell him, in stark Anglo-Saxon terms, in as loud and clear a voice as you can muster, the obscene fate that awaits him and his mother before their imminent and humiliating deaths. After that, spleen thoroughly vented, you brake and swerve onto the exit ramp, switch back to PME,and reassume your Oprah-like pose of nonjudgmental equanimity.

Here are a few tips. Before you switch codes, make absolutely sure that the knucklehead in your crosshairs doesn’t know who you are. Anonymity is crucial. And avoid the rush hour, when traffic sometimes grinds to a halt. Offended knuckleheads have been known to leap from their cars, screaming obscenities and brandishing revolvers. They are, after all, knuckleheads. (Good thing it’s illegal to use a wireless telephone while driving. No one will be able to post your outburst on the internet.)

The best way to keep from backsliding is, obviously, to get a grip on yourself.

Before you switch codes, make absolutely sure that the knucklehead in your crosshairs doesn’t know who you are. Anonymity is crucial.

Second, should you choose to “just say no” to the temptation to backslide, beware of unsuccessful repression. If, in order to achieve PME fluency, you have to repress the wish to lord it up over everybody, and the repression fails to keep that wish contained, you may catch it sneaking out of that darkened back room of your consciousness, where you’ve been keeping it out of public view, and exposing itself in what is popularly known as a “Freudian slip.”

Attending a lovely garden party, you might intend to say, “Oh, You’re so kind. Thank you so much,” only to find yourself saying, “Why don’t you just go fuck yourself.” Remember, you could have said this to the knucklehead who cut you off, but you didn’t want to be seen as a hypocrite.

What then? The best way to avoid Freudian slips is to keep a civil tongue in your head. If you think that you might need professional help to accomplish this, weekly sessions with a competent therapist for a year or two should do the trick. And don't be put off if the hourly fee is hundreds of dollars. Medicare covers it.

Third, and finally: As bad as that slip would be, there is the possibility of something even more embarrassing. Freud himself believed that a sufficiently strong unfulfilled wish, if locked away in some dark dungeon of the subconscious, could create intolerable internal feelings that were then projected onto an external object in the form of a paranoid delusion of the kind that motivates such modern political extremists as white supremacists and their mirror-twins, the antifas. You may find yourself on the campus of a large university, waiving simplistic placards, shouting incoherent platitudes, and trading ineffectual blows with someone very much like yourself, a person who speaks Post-Modern English fluently but finds it difficult to express his opinions nonviolently. Why, he may even lack the most basic linguistic tools that are needed to engage in civil discourse.

You might intend to say, “Oh, You’re so kind. Thank you so much,” only to find yourself saying, “Why don’t you just go fuck yourself.”

The solution? Just pull yourself together, man. Snap out of it, for the love of God.

Given your age, maturity, and ability in archaic English, spotting these pitfalls early on and avoiding them should not be difficult. If, however, you find that you’re experiencing uncontrollable urges to play the pontiff, convert the heathen, or some such, and you feel the need for relief, there is a category of medications called anti-androgens that lower the testosterone levels often associated with judgmentalism. Most of the side effects are limited to the secondary sexual characteristics and are not life threatening. If this sounds right for you, you should consult your health care provider.

Should the medication prove ineffective and your symptoms persist, there is a growing body of evidence indicating that immediate and lasting relief can be achieved through gender reassignment surgery, provided that you are a male. While this has become a relatively safe and routine procedure, boasting a single-digit mortality rate, a small percentage of otherwise qualified candidates hesitate to “go under the knife.” But if you count yourself among these reluctant few, take heart. There is one more glimmer of hope: the experimental treatment protocol called “strategic relocation.” While there is insufficient data to conclusively prove the treatment’s therapeutic efficacy, the available anecdotal evidence suggests that, at the very least, more research is warranted.

Ferris T. Pranz, a postdoctoral fellow in the Department of Applied Metaphysics of Eastern Montana State University at Purdie, has been observing a band of people living with judgmentalism. These people were individually tagged and released over the past decade by the Montana Department of Behavior Management (MDBM) outside Fertin, a farming town near Lake Gombay, just south of the Missouri River. In his unpublished 2017 field notebook, Pranz records his painstaking efforts to gain the trust of this strategically relocated band at their watering hole, a smoke-filled bar called “Grumpy’s.”

There is one more glimmer of hope: the experimental treatment protocol called “strategic relocation.”

Pranz’s observations have raised some eyebrows in the judgmentalism community in Montana. Despite the Fertin band’s characteristically opinionated and aggressive communicational style and constant abuse of both alcohol and tobacco, they seem to share a gruff good humor while playing at pool, darts, and cards. Interestingly, they often refer to themselves as “blowhards,” apparently without shame or irony, and then laugh loudly. When Pranz would ask the group to explain the laughter, they would invariably laugh again, more loudly. Pranz has recommended that further research be conducted to discern the motives behind this laughter, possibly utilizing a double-blind design.

More broadly, Pranz and his colleagues at EMSUP have proposed a major longtitudinal study to explore the incongruity of the seemingly upbeat ambience in “Grumpy’s” by designing instruments to quantify (1) the specific characteristics of these Fertin people and the effect that such characteristics may have on their communicational dynamics; (2) the effects of the complete absence of treatment by means of any of the experimentally proven therapies for people living with late-stage degenerative judgmentalism. These effects can then be compared with therapeutic outcomes in matched groups receiving such treatments. Pranz has also recommended that the proposed longtitudinal study be completed prior to authorization of an expanded “strategic relocation” program to include areas beyond Fertin. In October of 2017, the Board of Directors of the Friends of Judgmentalism in Bozeman passed a resolution in support of Pranz’s proposal. Pranz plans to apply for a grant through the MDBM in June of 2018.

Part Five: Looking Backward

American English is the language of our past, already dated and quickly becoming archaic. As will be shown, the impression that it makes when spoken is not good. More importantly, it conveys an aggressive smugness that is out of step with today’s world. Even the founding documents of the United States, written in American English, sound absolutist, judgmental, and harsh.

By now, you must have asked yourself: “If French is the language of love, and German is the language of Nietzsche, and Post-Modern English is the language of wimps, then what the heck is American English?” Well?

American English is the language of our past, already dated and quickly becoming archaic. It conveys an aggressive smugness that is out of step with today’s world.

As a native speaker of American English, I am not qualified to answer. To find a place to sit somewhere outside of one’s own language and culture, and then to sit there and listen to one’s language being spoken in order to gather an impression of the speaker, using only the sound of the language, not its meaning, is like trying to street-park a Class A RV on the Upper East Side: while it may be possible, I’ve never seen it done. No, this question should be answered by people who don’t speak the language.

American English began in 1607, when the first British colonist stepped on the shore of the James River. How do you suppose American English sounds to British ears today? I’m told there are three main impressions. First, it is spoken more slowly than British English, giving the impression that the speaker is also a little slow. Second, it is spoken more loudly than British English, and with more emotion. As both of these characteristics are associated with children, the impression is that the speaker is somewhat immature. Third, American English is rhotic, meaning that “r” is pronounced both at the end of a word and before another consonant. As this pronunciation is normally associated with Scotland, Ireland, and remote rural areas, the impression is that the speaker is a bit rustic.

Taken together, then, to British ears American English is the language of dim-witted, childish yokels. One might call it the language of knuckleheads. That is not to say that Americans are knuckleheads. It simply means that our language makes us seem that way.

Post-Modern English, while less given to the glacial John Wayne drawl or the grating Jerry Lewis bray of American English, retains the rhotic accent, even doubling down on it with the vocal fry. Still, in two of the three categories, it constitutes an evolutionary step beyond its parent language. Even British children have begun to pick up Post-Modern English from Netflix, much to the delight and amusement of their parents.

To British ears American English is the language of dim-witted, childish yokels. One might call it the language of knuckleheads.

I was once told by a friend who spoke only the Arabic of the Nejd that French sounded like someone saying, “Loo, loo, loo, loo, loo,” and English sounded like someone saying, “Raw, raw, raw, raw, raw.” That was just one Bedouin’s opinion, of course. It seemed funnier in Arabic, somehow. “Loo, loo, loo.” We had a good laugh.

In 1776, less than 200 years after that first colonist was beached, Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence. What a marvelous symbolic moment in the evolution of English! He had to write it in American English, of course, because the Post-Modern branch wouldn’t emerge for two centuries. While this does not excuse him, it reduces his level of culpability. Listen:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.

Can you hear his certainty? Why, the phrase simply drips with self-confidence. To assert that a truth is self-evident is an act of rhetorical bravado that positively swaggers. (“Because I said so.”) Note the absence of fillers to dull the sharp edges. He seems to have missed the lesson that explains how “you have your truths and I have mine.” He seems to be saying that “all truths are not created equal,” pardon my French. And what is this nonsense about “men”?

So Jefferson was sure of himself, and assertive. But was he judgmental? Ask yourself: What is this Declaration of Independence, at its core? Is it a celebratory birth announcement, like a Hallmark card? (“Please welcome…”)

It seemed funnier in Arabic, somehow. “Loo, loo, loo.” We had a good laugh.

Far from it. This is Thomas Jefferson leveling a public and harsh judgment against one King George III. It spells out George’s crimes, like a rap sheet or an indictment. It is clear: Tom is judging George. Tommy is calling Georgie a dick. Listen:

A prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

This white, male, rich, privileged, powerful, slaveholding “founder” of America is writing in the scathingly self-righteous tones of archaic American English. The sound of Jefferson’s voice is clear. He is cocksure and in-your-face. He is your judge, jury, and executioner. The music of his American English is a march being played by a big brass band oompahing down Main Street on the Fourth of July, snare drums rattling like assault rifles. Courage is needed to follow the facts, no matter where they lead. It pains me to have to say it, but Thomas Jefferson was a dick.

Your final assignment is to translate the first of the two fragments above (the one with the “self-evident truths”) from American English into Post-Modern English. You have five minutes. Begin.

OK, time’s up. Answers will vary, of course, but it might be useful to compare your translation with the following:

So, some of us were sorta thinking? that a coupla of these like, ideas? or whatever? we had were, oh, I don’t know, kind of, you know, well, not so bad? I guess, right? And, uh, oh yeah, that all men, I mean, like women, too, kind of like, everybody? I mean, are pretty much, I’m gonna say, created? you know, like, equal? right. or whatever, so...”

It sounds vaguely Canadian, eh?

Yes, it is time to put American English out to pasture. Post-Modern English is not just cooler; it is more in keeping with the zeitgeist. It is the language best suited to the more equitable, inclusive, and nonjudgmental world that we are building together.

It pains me to have to say it, but Thomas Jefferson was a dick.

It is time to hang up that coonskin cap.

* * *

All living languages are continuously evolving — as are we, the species that speaks those languages. Do these two forms of evolution influence each other? Of course they do. Through millennia, the evolutionary pas de deux of our species on this earth has been and continues to be shaped by, and to shape, the words and music of our languages. To the extent that there is intent in this choreography, it is ours. We are making ourselves. The changes we make to our languages have consequences beyond the merely aesthetic. They affect the choices we make that determine our destiny. We should, therefore, make changes to our languages with the same caution we exercise in rearranging the molecules of our genome. Are we good?

“. . . Fearing not that I’d become my enemy
in the instant that I preach.”
                          — Bob Dylan, My Back Pages (1964)




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Twenty Answers

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What do you say if you’re a self-entitled person who suddenly has to deal with people who are not impressed by your credentials?

Lately, we’re seeing more of these situations. This may mean there are more self-entitled people (SEP), or they’re stupider than they used to be, or both. One indication that this class of people is deteriorating in quality is the frequency with which they ignore the existence of electronic means of recording. Even SEP who make a profession of hogging the camera and tweeting their brains out always seem surprised when somebody actually notices what they’ve said, and sees how stupid and offensive it is.

How wonderful it is when we see the Governing Class asserting its credentials, only to be dismissed with a Bronx cheer.

Nevertheless, the SEP have developed, because they need it so often, a long list of things they can say when they are caught and challenged. Here are 20 items that appear on that list. I’ve tried to put the more popular sayings first; as you’ll see, they tend to be the funniest ones, though they are not intended to be funny. But SEP seldom find just one of these responses sufficient. It’s like diet books, of which there are thousands; if any of them worked, there would be just one. Anyway, here’s my short list of SEP comebacks:

  1. I never said that. I would never say a thing like that.
  2. I’m the victim of a hacking.
  3. I was quoted out of context.
  4. My remarks were misinterpreted.
  5. The American people know where I stand on this issue.
  6. This isn’t what the American people are interested in. They’re interested in jobs and education and the welfare of our children, which is what I’m spending all of my time on.
  7. This is simply the Democrats’ [or Republicans’] attempt to divert attention from their failures.
  8. Last year, the Democritan candidate for Congress was involved in a real scandal; I don’t recall your investigating that.
  9. I know, that’s what Donald Trump [or Nancy Pelosi] wants you to believe.
  10. I don’t see you asking men that kind of question.
  11. This is racism, pure and simple.
  12. I have already addressed this issue.
  13. This is a personnel matter, so I am unable to comment.
  14. This matter is under investigation, so I am unable to comment. (If you think you can get away with it, substitute “so I am forbidden by law to comment.”)
  15. As a public servant, I have always been proud to represent Missouri [or whatever] values, and I plan to continue advocating for them in the public forum. [If you were in Our Town in high school, go ahead and say “in the public square.”]
  16. At times like these, I believe it’s important for all of us, both Democrats and Republicans, to put aside old animosities and work together for the common good.
  17. This is not the time to relitigate this matter.
  18. Those responsible for this unfortunate incident have been appropriately disciplined.
  19. I have already taken full responsibility for this incident, and now it’s time for me to get back to doing the people’s business.
  20. I’m not going to allow you to take the love of the people of this state away from me. [Sorry, I couldn’t resist. That one’s from Citizen Kane.]

Isabel Paterson said that the purpose of elections was not to enable the voters to run the country but to give them the opportunity to fire the people who are currently running it. Her idea was shared by whoever it was — I believe it was a Republican, reacting against the long incumbency of the New Deal — who thought up the slogan, “Had Enough?” Today it is clear that everyone except the self-entitled class has had enough of the responses listed above. Not on the list is one that SEP never think of, although it is one that might work: Fiorello La Guardia’s “When I make a mistake, it’s a beaut.” LaGuardia was a modern liberal, thus not my ideal of a leader, but he had a pretty good idea of how a leader of Americans should talk, and it wasn’t Responses 1–20.

Turner is evidently so inextricably a part of the Governing Class as to profit from both political parties.

The really bad thing is that some people fall for this stuff. A large proportion of the populace put up with Hillary Clinton’s use of 15 or 16 of those sayings. And although it so happens that America’s Governing Class, which is peculiarly self-entitled, is overwhelmingly Democratic, you’ll get the same responses from the congressman representing Anytown, USA, a safe Republican district, that you will from a Democrat.

Disgusting? Yes. But how wonderful it is when (to quote the words of the old hymn) the darkness turns to dawning, and the dawning to noonday bright, and we see the Governing Class asserting its credentials, only to be dismissed with what La Guardia knew as a Bronx cheer.

Submitted for your approval . . . the case of Caren Z. Turner.

Ms. Turner (sorry! I should have called her something else, because, as you’ll see, she demands to be called something else) lives in Tenafly, New Jersey (median household income, $126,000; cf. national household income, $49,500). She is a professional lobbyist and is evidently so inextricably a part of the Governing Class as to profit from both political parties. She worked for Hillary Clinton, but Republican Governor Chris Christie appointed her to office as one of the 12 commissioners of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. It may seem odd that a career in lobbying should fit one to exercise authority over an agency that operates giant tunnels, bridges, terminals, and airports (LaGuardia, JFK, Newark, etc.), but I ask you: who knows, better than a lobbyist, how state agencies are run?

Unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell, from her lengthy account of herself, exactly what she does.

Turner’s skill set, whatever it may be, was clearly considered appropriate for a government official, as government officials are today. According to her self-description (formerly here, now offline), Turner most prominently exemplifies “Experience You Can Trust.” In other words, she’s been around for a while. Nobody has drained her out of the swamp. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell, from her lengthy account of herself, exactly what she does — but the results are said to be conspicuous:

Campaigns led by TURNER GPA [that’s her business — “Turner Government and Public Affairs; Caren Z. Turner, Esq. CEO”] are noted for their high energy, intense focus and no nonsense approach. [I’m italicizing the clichés.]

She has been referred to as “a woman on a mission” (CBS TV), creating legislative solutions where “pigs fly” (NRA News) and having an “iron fist in a velvet glove.” With over twenty-five years federal government relations experience, she has earned the respect of both Republican and Democratic policymakers. Her solutions to business problems are innovative, often radically different from the “norm” and designed to maximize her client’s bottom line with minimal legislative tinkering.

I’ve had some trouble running down the sources of Turner’s quotations, except the one for the iron fist cliché. The ultimate source for that is Napoleon; the proximate source, apparently, is Turner. That’s just the way she likes to see herself. She wakes up in the morning, looks in the mirror, and thinks about iron fists in velvet gloves. I don’t much care who said the other things, because I haven’t any idea what they’re supposed to mean.

I didn’t learn much more from her list of accomplishments, either:

Ms. Turner is proud to have won several eight figure benefits on behalf of clients. [Tell me, what do you mean by “benefit”? An award in a legal case? A government subsidy? A law stipulating that some amount must be appropriated for something or other?] . . . Business issues on which Ms. Turner has worked include: defense, aerospace, tax policy, international trade, health care, Medicare and biotechnology. “Social issues” include: gun safety, genetic ethics and standards, discrimination, children’s advocacy, domestic violence, and cancer research.

Well, isn’t she the little engine that could? But how is she different from talk show hosts, presidential candidates (successful or disappointed), popular preachers, Shepard Smith, or anyone who works for CNN? They all know everything, don’t they?

She wakes up in the morning, looks in the mirror, and thinks about iron fists in velvet gloves.

OK, I’ll move on. Because of Turner’s profound and extensive knowledge, she has been, according to her, “on” finance committees for Hillary Clinton, Kirsten Gillibrand, and Jon Corzine (Democrats) and has served as “Honorary Chairman of the National Republican Congressional Committee’s (NRCC) Business Advisory Council.” She has also been a member of the “Presidential Business Commission” — whatever that is. And whatever any of those things are. She was an intern for Teddy Kennedy, and perhaps that’s the operative factor. Who knows?

And who knows how she has found the time to perform all these honorable functions? But, as the Wizard of Oz told the Tin Man, what a good-deed doer needs is a testimonial. And Turner has plenty of them:

Awards include: “Top 100 Privately-Held Businesses in District of Columbia 2010,” “Top 50 Woman Owned Businesses in the District of Columbia 2010” and “Top 50 Diversity Owned Businesses in the District of Columbia 2010” [Only in 2010? What happened after that?] awarded by Diversity Business.com[.] Honoree “Women’s Business Enterprise Leadership Spotlight” September, 2007. Awardee, 2007 Top 100 Minority [She’s white!] Business Enterprise Awards. Selected one of 15 “Women of Prominence”, BC Magazine.

Is that BC magazine, a former arts and entertainment journal in Hong Kong? Is that the Boston College Magazine? Is that Bergen County the Magazine? No matter. The idea that there are people in this world who are unfortunate enough to spend their time figuring out what are the top 100 privately-held businesses in the District of Columbia is enough to make me question the existence of God. And suppose that in every state there are people employed to root out the top 50 “diversity owned businesses,” and that they actually do that, with proper attention to corporate reports, stock averages, local business rankings, and the philosophical problem of what the meaning of “diversity” is . . . How many lives have been sacrificed so that such as Caren Z. Turner should be officially congratulated for being in the top 50?

But even these indications of exalted social status can never be enough for a go-getter like Caren Z. Turner, Esq. We must picture her partaking in the nightly feasts of ego in the Club of the Governing Class, enjoying the rewards of her mighty efforts, yet still poised just half in and half out of the inner sanctum. She is the kind of person on whom Mrs. Clinton once smiled, assuming she was someone else. She is the kind of person who spends significant time sending CVs to people who pass out Diversity Awards (“to be considered, the prospective honoree must reserve a table for eight at the Awards Luncheon — requested donation $4,000”). She is the kind of person who has one foot in the doorway, but whose other foot has not yet found a way to follow. She’s making a living, but she could be making a much better living.

The idea that there are people in this world who are unfortunate enough to spend their time figuring out what are the top 100 privately-held businesses in DC is enough to make me question the existence of God.

And then, by the connivance of certain friends in Trenton, Republican and Democratic, she gets a real job, meaning a job with Visibility. She becomes a Port Commissioner! This position pays nothing, but it sounds as if it did, and it is, after all, a position in government. Ms. Turner’s path is trending upward.

But then, on March 31, 2018, something changed. Turner discovered that not everything in Jersey is politically corrupt. And she was expelled, actually expelled, from the Club!

What! You’re kidding! How could this have happened?

Here’s how. On the date mentioned, a daughter of Turner was riding through the highways and byways of Tenafly with three of her friends, and the car in which she was riding was halted by a pair of Jersey cops who had noticed that it had tinted windows, illegal in the state, and a partially obscured out of state license plate. Investigation showed that the driver was also defective; he had no current car registration or proof of insurance. Because of these technical improprieties, the cops proceeded to have the car impounded. Daughter called mother, and mother came to the scene to try to intimidate the cops into releasing the car. A long discussion followed, in which cops and Self-Entitled Person deployed their characteristic rhetoric.

These cops knew enough of the law to realize that they didn’t need to recognize her as what Al Gore used to call the “controlling legal authority.”

I want to stipulate that I am not a fan of the cops’ zealous pursuit of the technical, or of their way of speaking. As they grew irritated with Turner they relied repeatedly on the notion that her “demeanor” — that is, her arrogance and contempt — discouraged them from giving her the information she ostensibly sought, which was “what’s goin’ on here, officers?” This is repulsive. Policemen aren’t the mistresses of a charm school that punishes you if you show the wrong demeanor. They have to go by the law, whether they like you or not.

But unfortunately for Turner, these cops knew enough of the law to realize that they didn’t need to recognize her as what Al Gore used to call the “controlling legal authority.” As they noted, she was not involved in the incident, and when she angrily demanded to know what, precisely, had happened, they referred her to the operator of the car and its passengers, who were standing right there and who knew all about it. Turner refused to get her information from that source, thereby proving that she wasn’t after information. She was after intimidation.

But this was a rhetorical crisis. How could she intimidate people who didn’t recognize her right to intimidate them? Unable to impress them as an individual, she invoked her membership in the Governing Class. She told them she was “a concerned citizen and friend of the mayor.”

Policemen aren’t the mistresses of a charm school that punishes you if you show the wrong demeanor.

The Governing Class likes to authenticate itself in this way. It likes to combine and confuse the personal-emotive (concerned), the populist (citizen), and the authoritarian (friend of hizzoner).

When I hear concerned citizen, I figure I’m soon going to hear about the citizen’s membership in a political action group including Senator Bullfinch, Representative Stalwart-Bones, and thousands of people like you! Then I’m going to hear about the need to pass another law and enforce it. The most important part of the three-pronged approach is the authoritarian prong. Realizing that, Turner flashed a card, and probably a badge, and told the cops, “I am a commissioner of the Port Authority, and I'm heading up over 4,000 police officers.”

As NJ.com remarked, “there are only 1,600 officers employed at the Port Authority. And she is not directly in charge of them in any way, shape or form.” The instinctive response of the powers-that-be is: “Just lie to ’em; they’ll never find out.” Nowadays, basic facts are easy to discover online, so that trick doesn’t work as well as it used to. But Turner kept pushing her institutional authority, insisting that she be called, not “Miss” or “Ms.,” but “Commissioner.” She also mentioned that she was an attorney.

That didn’t get her anyplace, so she tried a peculiar recombination of the emotive-personal and the Governing Class appeal. Indistinctly, and then with more clarity and oomph, she insisted on special privilege because, as she put it, “I got four people who are coming back to my house, including people who live in New Haven, attending Yale graduate school, a Ph.D. student.” She was talking about the people in the car, daughter and friends, whom she would now apparently have to drive back to their seats in Valhalla.

The instinctive response of the powers-that-be is: “Just lie to ’em; they’ll never find out.”

I’m sure you’ve noticed that Turner’s grammar and syntax aren’t all that they might be. Remember this; I’ll come back to it. But I need to tell you that I, as the holder of a Ph.D., find this part fascinating. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I see that we’ve reached the point where a politically savvy person thinks she can get her way simply by revealing that she is someone who knows someone who is trying to get a Ph.D. from Yale. When she brought it up again, she added MIT.

It went downhill from there. Turner made references to political and police superiors in Tenafly, to whom she would take her complaint, but she was bad at remembering names. As faithfully reported by NJ.com, she said:

"You know Louis, what's his name? Schmaradaski?" Turner asks, apparently referring to Tenafly police traffic officer Louis Smaragdakis.

"What does that have to do with anything?" asks Officer Savitsky, utterly bewildered, and now officially The Most Patient Person in the Universe.

"Well, I'm just telling you who I am," answers Turner.

Or who she thinks she is, as in the old expression, Who do you think you are, anyway?

Turner thinks she’s a person who’s good with words. And isn’t this an attribute that’s supposed to qualify the Governing Class for control of everyone else? (I said “supposed.” I know about George Bush, Hillary Clinton, and Donald Trump.) That appears to be Turner’s assumption, because one of her parting shots at the cops was, “You can’t put a sentence together.” She said the same thing five times during the episode. In another parting shot, she told the cops, “Shut the fuck up.”

Isn’t this an attribute that’s supposed to qualify the Governing Class for control of everyone else?

This sordid little incident has no importance in itself, but it illustrates a healthy tendency. Since members of the Governing Class are still unaware of the fact that when they make fools of themselves, their folly is likely to show up on Youtube, public exposure of their emptiness and stupidity has become routine. That’s what happened to Commissioner Turner. The police were recording everything on their dashcam, and they released what they had to the public, which was immediately and sanctimoniously outraged, as only video footage can make it. Turner was censured by the Port Authority board and “resigned” her post as commissioner.

May all members of the Governing Class join her lemming rush to the sea. But here’s another interesting thing. If you’re wondering what Turner did as Commissioner of the Port of New York and New Jersey, I’ll tell you: she headed the Government and Ethics Committee.




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The Emperor Has No Brains

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One of the greatest things in this universe is discovering that there are other people — lots of other people — who are just as smart as you are, or even (if you can believe it) smarter.

As a teacher, I’ve often been inspired by what I’ve seen other people doing in the classroom. “How did they think of that?” I ask myself, futilely. As a writer, I’ve spent many of the best moments of my life marveling at the accomplishments of people who were much more intelligent than I. Emily Dickinson, are you listening? J.F. Powers, can you hear me? Even writers who, I think, were not particularly bright (in my way of being bright) have earned my admiration by being smart enough (in their way) to do things I could never dream of doing. Hemingway and Whitman, I salute you.

But it’s not just in my own work that I rejoice to lose the competition. The cleverness of a good carpenter, the strategic intellect of a good cook — such things astonish me. I have a friend who has mastered virtually all the skills of the construction trade. That’s real intelligence, of a kind that I don’t have. When I’m disgusted with the world, I’m consoled by the knowledge that I’m surrounded by so many people who can do things so much better than I.

The cleverness of a good carpenter, the strategic intellect of a good cook — such things astonish me.

An economist would say I was recognizing the importance of the division of labor. I prefer to call it the division of intelligence. According to James Madison, writing in the tenth Federalist paper, this is what our system of government is all about. It’s about protecting the division of intelligence, and the superior degrees of intelligence:

The diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is . . . an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests. The protection of these faculties is the first object of government.

It is not only the rights of property that derive from the division of intelligence; it’s property itself in any significant form. If everyone had one form and degree of intelligence, everyone would be a teacher, with no one to teach; everyone would be a writer of the same kind of stuff; everyone would be a mediocre cook, with no one to produce the food or pay for it.

Recently I bought a new heating and air conditioning unit. At the moment when the superbly intelligent and adroit technician finished installing it and presented me with the bill, social hierarchy did not exist; I was happy to reward the superior intelligence he showed in his craft, and he was happy to receive some of the money that I had been paid for exercising an appropriate degree of intelligence in mine. The best thing is that such moments are constantly occurring. They are the real story of human life.

But there is a class of people — let’s call it the governing class — that does not think in this way, that apparently lacks the capacity to think in this way. Members of this class assume that they are smarter, simply smarter, than everyone else and that they are therefore commanded by nature to tell everyone else what to do. Alexander Pope remarked that

Each might his sev’ral province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.

The meaning of such comments is lost on the hierarchs of the governing class. They don’t command a province of human endeavor; they command human beings. They will not stoop; there is never any reason for them to stoop. They were born with an understanding of existence and their superior role in it, and if they weren’t, they soon learned it from their four years at Harvard, Brown, or Wellesley. They’re smarter than all the rest of us, which gives them the right to push us all around.

Members of this class assume that they are smarter, simply smarter, than everyone else and that they are therefore commanded by nature to tell everyone else what to do.

In the early republic, such people were rare, and scorned. If you wanted to be esteemed for your intelligence, you had to show that you actually were smart at doing something. It might be reading good literature, understanding its meaning, and using it in effective argument, especially on questions of political principle and fundamental law. This is the substantial intelligence that until the 20th century gained the highest rewards in America’s political life. But no one thought there was only one way to demonstrate intelligence. You might do it by showing your grasp of military affairs, or financial investments. You might construct great works of engineering or great industrial combinations. You might invent the electric light. You might build houses that people really wanted to live in or operate a hotel that would really make them comfortable. But you had to do something to show you were smart.

This obligation has been superseded by the modern, all-encompassing state, which inculcates far different, and far narrower, ideas of merit. It rewards people who have no skills except an ability to write memos, endure meetings, and serve on committees, teams, and task forces — most of them useless or harmful, but that’s all right: the state is made to command and not to please. The state grants prestige even to people whose sole job is to spin — that is, to lie to other people, using methods that are openly discussed and admired among the governing class but are presumed to operate unnoticed by those targeted for bamboozlement. In other words, the state gives special rewards to people who lack sufficient intelligence to respect the intelligence of others.

Civilized people — and our society is still, in most ways, civilized — are trained, and properly so, to respect other people’s intelligence and the achievements that are a sign of intelligence. But here’s the problem. They are trained to respect even the appearance of achievement. When I call a plumber and a man shows up with TONY on his chest and a set of plumber’s tools in his hand, I assume that he’s a plumber, and probably a decent one, or he wouldn’t still be in business. I’m inclined to respect him as such. Who am I to say that he’s not a real plumber? I’m not smart enough to judge that.

The modern, all-encompassing state inculcates far different, and far narrower, ideas of merit. It rewards people who have no skills except an ability to write memos, endure meetings, and serve on committees.

But in the same way, when a gang of people stride into a room in $2,000 suits, step to the microphone, and make statements about the welfare of the nation or some other governing-class topic, their air of assurance tempts otherwise intelligent men and women to wonder whether these impressive figures could possibly have attained their power unless they were, in fact, more intelligent than anyone else in the room. So large, and so important, is our respect for accomplishment that we imagine that anyone who has attained some distinguished position must have the mental qualities that merit it — must be, in a word, smart.

We are slow to realize that dumb people are drawn to dumb jobs. Imagine asking a good carpenter whether he would like a more prestigious job. “Doing what?” he says. “Oh,” you say, “going to meetings to decide which of the proposed revisions to the current memorandum regarding the department’s recommendation to the undersecretary should be revisited. You’ll look very impressive doing that.” The plumber would say, in franker words than these, that he wouldn’t consider it. But some people do more than consider it. They make it their life’s work. They often say that they didn’t even wonder about whether it was. They recognized it, right away, as their mission in life. And that’s true. They were just dumb enough to want it. Go read the parable of the trees in Judges 9:8–15.

This brings us at last (but you could see where we were going) to James Comey, late director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Comey has published a book about how much he hates President Trump, who fired him from his job. Comey has apparently governed his life in accordance with the idea that he is smarter than everyone else. He has tried to demonstrate the truth of that idea by snooping on other people and sending them to jail, even when their only crime was lying about something that wasn’t a crime. This is the man who imprisoned Martha Stewart, host of a television cooking show, for committing lèse majesté against Comey’s government agency.

We are slow to realize that dumb people are drawn to dumb jobs.

You might wonder how anyone could have led such a dumb life as Comey, and I suppose the answer is simply that dumb people do dumb things. Puffing his book in an interview with George Stephanopoulos, a fellow member of the governing class, Comey was asked one of those dumb questions that dumb people think are so clever when they’re conducting a job interview: “What is your worst quality?” Stephanopoulos put it in an even dumber way: “What’s James Comey’s rap on James Comey?” The answer was:

Yeah. My rap on myself is that — is that ego focus. That I — since I was a kid, I've had a sense of confidence. That I know I'm good at certain things. And there's a danger that that will bleed over into pride.

Few people will dispute this answer: Comey strikes nearly everyone as an insufferable egotist. But notice the idea that Comey thinks is not in dispute — the assumption that he is “good at certain things.” We have his own word for it: “I know I’m good.” It does not occur to him that an egotist will always imagine that he’s good at something, and that this may be evidence that, after all, he’s not good at anything. What is it, exactly, that Comey is good at?

He’s certainly not good at speaking like an adult. If the fractured syntax of the “rap on myself” answer isn’t enough to convince you, consider his childish answer to another childish question from Stephanopoulos, who wanted to know “what did it feel like to be James Comey” during the last ten days of the presidential campaign of 2016. That’s the period when Comey blunderingly announced that he was reinvestigating the “matter” of Hillary Clinton’s emails, and then blunderingly announced that he’d stopped investigating them. Comey replied:

It sucked. Yeah, it was — it was a very painful period. Again, my whole life has been dedicated to institutions that work not to have an involvement in an election. I walked around vaguely sick to my stomach, feeling beaten down. I felt, when I went to the White House — I don't want to spoil it for people, but there's a movie called The Sixth Sense that I talk about in the book where Bruce Willis doesn't realize he's dead.

That's the way I felt. I felt like I was totally alone, that everybody hated me. And that there wasn't a way out because it really was the right thing to do. And that — that, in a way, I'm ruined. But that's what I have to do. I had to do it the way [sic].

Ah, the reflections of a sage and statesman! The penetrating self-analysis of a man who understands that most mysterious of all things, the human heart! The battle-wrought wisdom of a Churchillian leader!

It does not occur to Comey that an egotist will always imagine that he’s good at something, and that this may be evidence that, after all, he’s not good at anything.

Leader and leadership — Comey mentioned those words 47 times during his wee interview with Georgie. The subtitle of Comey’s book is “Truth, Lies, and Leadership.” Explaining to Stephanopoulos why he wrote a spiteful volume about how he was always telling the truth and President Trump was always telling lies, and that’s why Trump fired him from his leadership role, Comey cited young people’s need for education in leadership:

It occurred to me maybe I can be useful by offering a view to people, especially to young people, of what leadership should look like and how it should be centered on values.

I can’t tell how many young people (or any people) will actually read his book, but Comey is not a very challenging teacher. He’s the kind of teacher who is dumb enough to pander to his students. Kids say “it sucked,” so Comey says “it sucked.” (Lofty phrase! Especially when you remember what it literally means.) Kids feel emotions that make them lose all perspective, so Comey describes his bad day at the office by saying that it made him feel vaguely sick to his stomach, beaten down, totally alone. Kids have a desperate desire to be part of a group, so Comey tells them that when some people didn’t want him on their team anymore, he felt that everybody hated him. This is leadership!

When someone at this intellectual level strives for a literary or artistic allusion, he reaches out to . . . Washington? Lincoln? Dante? Nope. It’s Bruce Willis who’s on his mind. But he can’t fix his thoughts on Bruce. He’s got to keep coming back to . . . James Comey. “I’m ruined,” he thinks. And he keeps thinking that, and he has to tell other people that he’s thinking that. As is natural for a traumatized kid of 57.

Comey’s absence of intelligence, and his inability to conceive that his audience might have some, are painfully displayed when Stephanopoulos takes him through the absurd scene in which Comey informed Trump that he had a secret to tell him. The secret had to do with a dossier (that’s a foreign word, but I think you may be old enough to hear it) purporting to show that several years before, Trump had hired Russian prostitutes to piss on a bed that had once been occupied by President Obama. Master sleuth that he is, Comey is still unable, by his account, to determine whether to believe Trump’s outraged denial of this ridiculous and unsupported allegation.

I don't — I don't know. I don't — the nature of an investigator is you don't believe or disbelieve. [Really? That’s not what they taught me in Investigator School.] You ask, "What's my evidence? What is the evidence that establishes me [Huh? Is this English?] whether someone's telling me the truth or not. And ask this allegation—" I honestly never thought this words would come out of my mouth, but I don't know whether the — the — current president of the United States was with prostitutes peeing on each other in Moscow in 2013. It's possible, but I don't know.

As any person of normal intelligence can see, Comey has to keep asserting that he doesn’t know whether any of this is true, because otherwise he wouldn’t have any reason to talk about it. But, one might ask, what does he know? He knows how he feels about things. He knows that in great detail.

GEORGE STEPHANOPOULOS: How weird was that briefing?

JAMES COMEY: Really weird. I mean, I don't know whether it was weird for President-elect Trump, but I — it was almost an out-of-body experience for me. I was floating above myself, looking down, saying, "You're sitting here, briefing the incoming president of the United States about prostitutes in Moscow." And of course, Jeh Johnson's voice is banging around in my head. President Obama's eyebrow raise is banging around in my head. I just wanted to get it done and get out of there.

What teenager could have said it better? “How weird was that briefing, Jimmy?” “Like, it was really weird.” Just thinking about icky things sent Comey’s brain rushing to the Pop Psych ward, where selves see themselves floating above themselves, and the voices (and eyebrows) of authority figures keep banging around in your head. Dude! How grody was that!

Comey has to keep asserting that he doesn’t know whether any of this is true, because otherwise he wouldn’t have any reason to talk about it.

Please remember that it was Comey who started this weirdness. And why? Because he felt it was his duty to tell Trump that somebody had written something that claimed that Trump had done something bad. Not bad, as in illegal, but bad, as in embarrassing. And embarrassing, to a teenager, is worse than illegal. It was so embarrassing — to Comey! — that he couldn’t tell the president precisely what it was. He preferred to leave some things to Trump’s imagination (which, we have reason to believe, is much more fertile than Comey’s).

GEORGE STEPHANOPOULOS: How graphic did you get?

JAMES COMEY: I think as graphic as I needed to be. I did not go into the business about — people peeing on each other, I just thought it was a weird enough experience for me to be talking to the incoming president of the United States about prostitutes in a hotel in Moscow. And so I left that part out. I thought I'd given enough to put him on notice as to what the essence of the material was.

It was all too weird — for Comey, who was apparently so weirded out that he couldn’t bring himself to mention where the gossip came from.

GEORGE STEPHANOPOULOS: Did you tell him that the Steele Dossier had been financed by his political opponents?

JAMES COMEY: No. I didn't — I didn't think I used the term "Steele Dossier," I just talked about additional material.

GEORGE STEPHANOPOULOS: Did he — but did he have a right to know that?

JAMES COMEY: That it'd been financed by his political opponents? I don't know the answer to that. I — it wasn't necessary for my goal, which was to alert him that we had this information. Again, I was clear on whether it's true or not, it's important that you know, both because of the counterintelligence reason and so you know that this maybe going to hit the media.

Well, well. What shall we make of this? Suppose somebody wants to meet with you and tell you something bad about you. Suppose that person is a cop. Or an employee. Or, as in this case, both. The guy could make a lot of trouble for you, because he’s a collector of secret information. And in this case, he happens to be a person who is trying to keep you from firing him. The information he wants to share with you is this: there is a secret dossier, alleging that you went to a foreign country, which is claimed to be an enemy country, and spent a night having dirty fun with prostitutes. He tells you that, without mentioning that the dossier was sponsored and financed by your political opponents. He just tells you that he has this thing. This secret thing. “I got this information, see, an’ I jus’ wanted youse to know it, see? That I had it, see? Me, I jus’ don’ know what to think of it. But spose it gits out. We don’t want that to happen. Do we . . . boss?” Even if, as the rightwing media theorize, Comey’s goal was to use his chat with Trump as a convoluted means of leaking the dossier, the obvious effect would be to make Trump wonder, “What else does this guy think he has on me?”

But suppose my impression of Comey’s intent is wrong. What type of mind would fail to recognize that it is the impression other minds would form? How stupid do you have to be to think that everybody else is just that stupid?

The old-time political boss, the old-time candidate for office — those people were smart enough to lie in colorful, sometimes fascinating ways.

This is not the only mess that Comey has gotten himself into while expecting that no one would notice, and perhaps not even noticing himself. Here, have some links. And, as you’ll see, Comey has not acted alone. The nice thing about his present, tremendous mess is that few members of the governing class are emerging from it with their reputations intact. Since those reputations were largely created by a constant merry-go-round of praise from the governing class itself, it’s only fair that they should all get off the ride together.

As a literary critic, I keep wondering how anyone could read or listen to these people without realizing how dumb they are. The old-time political boss, the old-time candidate for office — those people were smart enough to lie in colorful, sometimes fascinating ways. Often they were very smart, and needed to be; their class privilege, if any, wasn’t strong enough to keep them going by itself. The contrast with the current political class appears to be lost on even some of its foes. They persist in saying such things as Laura Ingraham said of Comey on April 19: “He’s a very smart guy. University of Chicago Law School. He’s a smart guy.”

Laura, can’t you read anything besides your teleprompter?




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Bridges to Nowhere

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On March 15, a bridge collapsed in Florida, crushing several people to death. The bridge was being constructed as a joint effort of Florida International University and various government agencies, who paid for it. News reports indicated the possibility that some of those involved had rushed the project, failed to supervise it properly, or chosen the wrong firms to undertake it. I don’t know whether Mark Rosenberg, president of the university, had any of that in mind when he issued a statement about the disaster, but here’s a newspaper report on his statement:

Rosenberg [said] in a video shared on Twitter Friday [the day after the accident] that the “tragic accident of the bridge collapse stuns us, saddens us.”

“The bridge was about collaboration, about neighborliness, about doing the right thing,” he said.

“But today we are sad and all we can do is promise a very thorough investigation in getting to the bottom of this and mourn those who we have lost.”

I have four things to say about Rosenberg’s comments.

  1. On occasions like this, old-fashioned college presidents would issue dignified statements, in writing. Rosenberg leaped to tweet a video.
     
  2. Mark Rosenberg, PhD, doesn’t know the difference between “who” and “whom” — not when facing such a linguistic puzzle as an embedded clause. Just turn it around, Dr. Rosenberg. Would you say, “We have lost who?” Maybe you would.
     
  3. Whom, exactly, had Rosenberg lost and was mourning? I have enough trouble picturing public officials kneeling by their beds, rapt in thoughts and prayers for people they don’t know and never heard of. What shall I do with the claim that such people are a personal loss for whom officials are donning the black bands of mourning? Rosenberg should have stopped with the simple and incontestable “today we are sad.”
     
  4. But here’s the worst problem: “The bridge was about collaboration, about neighborliness, about doing the right thing,” Are there any situations in which PC lingo won’t come barging through the door? A bridge is not about anything except getting people to the other side. A bridge may acquire some kind of symbolism, but the taxpayers of the United States didn’t pay 10 or 15 million dollars to construct a monument to collaboration, neighborliness, or doing the right thing. They paid that money so that students could cross Tamiami Trail from FIU to their homes in Sweetwater. This was not the Golden Gate Bridge or the Rainbow Bridge in Das Rheingold. It was a simple, ugly, concrete, utilitarian structure. The university was not being neighborly; it was assisting its own students (with other people’s money, naturally). And if it was collaborating, it was doing so in order to cadge some money from the government. As for doing the right thing, nobody sets out to do the wrong thing, except perhaps in Spike Lee movies.

Rosenberg’s symbol-mongering continued in an interview with an uncritical New York Times:

“This was a good project,” Dr. Rosenberg said Friday. “This was a project that spoke to our desire to build bridges. When the board hired me, I told them, ‘If you give me a pile of rocks, I’m going to build a bridge, not a wall.’ This was about neighborliness and collaboration.”

We see, however, that if you give him a pile of rocks, you’ll end up with a pile of rocks — rhetorically as well as literally.

This was not the Golden Gate Bridge or the Rainbow Bridge in Das Rheingold. It was a simple, ugly, concrete, utilitarian structure.

From Rosenberg’s lofty musings there’s a steep descent to the Death Valley of Hillary Clinton’s latest attempts to explain why she lost the election and deserved, of course, to have won it. On her recent visit to India she took occasion to insult the 52% of American “white” women who voted against her, claiming that their menfolk told them how to vote, so they voted that way. But what especially interested me was the weird mélange of PC and plutocracy that characterized her distinction between places that voted for her and places that voted against:

I won the places that represent two-thirds of America's gross domestic product. So I won the places that are optimistic, diverse, dynamic, moving forward.

One of Clinton’s ideas, if that’s the right word for them, is that diverse populations are wealthier than non-diverse ones, and that their wealth is somehow an effect of their diversity. Since she never defines her terms, one must suppose that diverse means non-“white.” She must, therefore, believe that people in East Los Angeles and South Chicago are really good at hiding their wealth: they don’t seem as prosperous as people in Beverly Hills and the Chicago Gold Coast, but they must be wealthy, because they voted for her. So much for Clinton’s grasp of the problem of income inequality, much advertised by her and her party, when it suits them. Her grasp of psychology is almost as good. Some of her most fervent support came from impoverished inner cities and from the Washington suburbs, which are chock-full of government bureaucrats. These communities supported her because they are dynamic, optimistic, and moving forward.

If you give him a pile of rocks, you’ll end up with a pile of rocks — rhetorically as well as literally.

Clinton divulged another idea, and this is one with few competitors in the realm of politically repulsive notions. I refer to the idea that the better population, the more upright and moral and truth-seeking and noble and deservedly optimistic population, is the one that has wealth. I suppose that Clinton ought to know, because she and her husband (who obviously tells her what to do) have amassed, from a lifetime of selfless public service, a fortune worthy of the Arabian Nights. No country bumpkins are these noble sophist-solons. The fabled wealth of their supporters often derives from similarly political sources: government contracts, government-assisted industries, and lucrative government employment, as in those Washington suburbs. There is barely a state capital in the country that doesn’t have higher household incomes than the rest of the state, or that failed to vote for Hillary.

But if you think that the urban plutocrats who use their votes and influence to ruin the schools, bankrupt the middle class, spread crime and welfare dependency through every promising community, and deny peaceful citizens the right to self-defense — if you think these people are wiser and nobler than a single mother waiting tables in Kansas City, you have disqualified yourself not only from public office but also from public respect. And that’s exactly what Hillary Clinton has done.

Descending still further on the trail of the self-disqualified, we arrive at Andrew (“Andy”) McCabe, former second banana at the FBI. When this gentleman got fired for leaking and lying, he released a long, turgid, thoroughly lawyered-up declaration about various things, including the offenses charged against him by the Justice Department’s Office of the Inspector General. It’s the kind of statement that’s meant to sound childishly simple, but even a child could see that it’s written to be impenetrable. It doesn’t make you wonder how such a smart, caring person could possibly have been fired from his job; it makes you wonder (once more) how stupid one needs to be to qualify for a leadership position in government.

There is barely a state capital in the country that doesn’t have higher household incomes than the rest of the state, or that failed to vote for Hillary.

Here’s a passage; I’ll inject some comments.

The OIG investigation has focused on information I chose to share with a reporter through my public affairs officer and a legal counselor. As Deputy Director, I was one of only a few people who had the authority to do that. It was not a secret, it took place over several days, and others, including the Director, were aware of the interaction with the reporter. [McCabe never says what the information was or to whom it was given. If it wasn’t secret, what is it? But his purpose is to implicate as many other people as possible. He proves, however, that his unethical action was no accident; it was determined and systematic. He must have provided one hell of a lot of information “over several days.”] It was the type of exchange with the media that the Deputy Director oversees several times per week. [The plain word for this kind of “exchange” — and by the way, what was given in return? — is “leak.”] In fact, it was the same type of work [Work? Is leaking a job?] that I continued to do under Director Wray, at his request. [An attempt to implicate the current boss. But notice the obvious but unanswered question: What exactly were you exchanging?] The investigation subsequently focused on who [Ever hear of the word “whom”?] I talked to, when I talked to them, and so forth. During these inquiries, I answered questions truthfully and as accurately as I could amidst the chaos that surrounded me. [He had no role in generating that chaos.] And when I thought my answers were misunderstood, I contacted investigators to correct them. [Give us an example. Maybe we’ll start to imagine something other than “I lied, and then I tried to spin my lies.”]

Of course, McCabe’s statement castigated Trump for saying that he should be fired and denied the pension he had earned by his monumental “20 years of service.” I suggest that those 20 years should be regarded as their own reward, since the servant thinks so highly of their moral value.

Another person who has been unwittingly (to use a favorite term of James Clapper, former director of national intelligence) revealing that he wasn’t qualified for his job is John Brennan, former director of the CIA. Brennan has been making such revelations for quite a while. In December he flew off the handle at Trump’s odd desire to unfriend nations who voted against the US in the UN. Trump, he said, “expects blind loyalty and subservience from everyone — qualities usually found in narcissistic, vengeful autocrats.” While it’s refreshing to find that the former chief of the nation’s army of spooks is so concerned about the welfare of countries he used to spy on, his zeal betrayed him into the ridiculous error of calling blind loyalty and subservience a set of qualities usually found in autocrats. Oh, isn’t that what he meant? But that’s what he wrote. He also accused Trump’s 2016 campaign of being on “a treasonous path,” apparently for being too friendly to certain foreign nations.

Those 20 years of service should be regarded as their own reward, since the servant thinks so highly of their moral value.

If the former head of the CIA is this loose with language, it’s not surprising that he should have gone all out in denouncing Trump for the firing of McCabe, his colleague at the FBI. Brennan spat a tweet at Trump, as follows:

When the full extent of your venality, moral turpitude, and political corruption becomes known, you will take your rightful place as a disgraced demagogue in the dustbin of history. You may scapegoat Andy McCabe, but you will not destroy America . . . America will triumph over you.

There are arguments to be made both for and against Trump’s conduct, in many areas, but his most obvious defense will be, “Look what I had to deal with” — meaning people like Brennan, whose tin-pot j’accuse can only confirm most people’s suspicions about government spies. He is a man whose instinctive response to opposition is to indicate that he knows something that he can use to get you. If a person like that can threaten the president so automatically and transparently, what was he willing to do to people who were not president?

Yet this is precisely the quality that inspired former UN Ambassador Samantha Power to tweet, as a compliment to the former spymaster:

Not a good idea to piss off John Brennan.

Hey, ya lug. You tryin’ tuh piss off duh boss? You know what happens tuh people that piss off duh boss?

Thus encouraged, Brennan has continued to make himself look like a gangster, going on TV to say that Vladimir Putin “may have something” on Trump.

If we are going to have an FBI or a CIA or a DOJ, I presume it should be run by people of discretion and courage, people who are bold enough to denounce any crimes they uncover by people in the government, but are wise enough to know that they themselves are not the government. This is what the McCabes and Comeys and Brennans and Clappers and Strzoks and Ohrs, geniuses that they are, failed to understand. Like Hillary Clinton, they thought they were the government, having achieved that status by virtue of their superior intelligence and nobility. They then proceeded to sneak their way into higher and higher levels of power. Then it turned out that their nobility was nothing but self-righteousness, and their intelligence was nonexistent.

Trump treats truths and falsehoods in the same way, because he can’t tell the difference.

If there’s a way of being brutally disingenuous, Trump’s enemies have found it. Trump himself is an expert at being brutally ingenuous. The truths he enunciates are blurted out and kicked around, in the way a child finds a football and kicks it into the lamp. He treats falsehoods in the same way, because he can’t tell the difference. Lately he’s been touting a proposal to handle the “opioid crisis” by administering the death penalty to “high level drug traffickers.” What’s the why and how of that? Well, as reported by a prominent source of news and blather, CNN Politics,

Trump told an audience in Pennsylvania this month that "a drug dealer will kill 2,000, 3,000, 5,000 people during the course of his or her life" and not be punished as much as a murderer.

"Thousands of people are killed or their lives are destroyed, their families are destroyed. So you can kill thousands of people and go to jail for 30 days," Trump said. "They catch a drug dealer, they don't even put them in jail."

I can’t help noticing Trump’s switch from the acceptable “his or her” to the horrible “them” (referent: a — i.e., one — drug dealer), which shows that he doesn’t understand grammar. As we’ve seen, he’s not the only one. But the real atrocity is the ideas he’s conveying. Talk about fake news! First we have the glib assertion that single sellers of drugs kill thousands. “How many thousands, Mr. Trump?” “Oh, 2,000, 3,000, 5,000. Is that enough to make my argument? I’ll give you more if you want.” Later we see that drug dealers aren’t put in jail. My modest research on law enforcement (please buy my book, The Big House: Image and Reality of the American Prison, Yale University Press, and ask your library to buy it as well) has uncovered a few cases of drug dealers who are in jail — a multitude of cases, in fact.

The worst childishness is the premise that these non-facts are supposed to support, which is the idea that drug dealers are responsible for destroying the live of victims and their families. If I’m drinking myself to death, the guy on the other side of the counter in the liquor store is not my murderer. He is not destroying my family, as 19th-century prohibitionists would maintain. If I die of drink, I am the one responsible. If my family suffers, I am the one who caused the suffering. And if Trump believes so much in the death penalty (which honesty compels me to state that I do also, though without Trump’s touching faith in its pharmacological efficacy), shouldn’t he be advocating that the consumers of illegal drugs be executed? That would solve the whole problem.

“How many thousands, Mr. Trump?” “Oh, 2,000, 3,000, 5,000. Is that enough to make my argument? I’ll give you more if you want.”

Let’s go back to Dr. Rosenberg’s idea about building bridges instead of walls. Intelligent communication is a bridge. Rosenberg’s opaquely politicized language is a wall. The intransigence of virtually all government agencies about revealing, well, anything about their operations — that’s another wall. The nation’s incessant, interminable investigations — those are walls, too.

But then we have the bridge builders, the Trumps and Clintons and McCabes and Brennans, ad infinitum, busily constructing their monuments of words — things built of twaddle and government jobs, unsupported by fact or logic. These projects have been going on for a long time. Now, thanks to the rank stupidity of the architects, everyone can see that they don’t work. The bridges are down. Knowing that, maybe we can start to pick up the scattered stones of our language and build some real bridges.




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Don’t Gift Me, Bro

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Last month’s Word Watch presented a list of terms that were prominent in 2017 and we can do without in 2018. That column was popular in one way and unpopular in another. Many people read it — and wrote to tell me that it was woefully deficient. Too much left out!

Now look. I could write a 10,000-word column about depraved and ridiculous uses of language, but in the immortal words of Tristram Shandy, “Will this be good for your worships’ eyes?”

Nevertheless, I’ll try to fill in some of the blanks left by last month’s column, using linguistic horrors provided either by outraged readers or by my own outraged researches.

Given that performance, it was obvious that Wray’s public statements would repeat the arrogant asininity of Comey’s.

But first! The word outrage prompts a brief digression. It’s about Tucker Carlson. Isn’t he a good writer? I’m not talking about his political insights or lack thereof, but just about the quality of his prose. And it’s getting better. His TV show opens with an editorial monologue, and when I compare the monologues from six months ago with the monologues he’s writing now, I seem to see a good-better-best progression. Anyway, back on December 22, Tucker said on his television show: “A large portion of the American public is now addicted to outrage.” Isn’t that true? And isn’t that a good way of saying three things, briefly and cogently: violent political emotions aren’t confined to a few people; this outbreak of outrage happened recently (“now”), and it isn’t merely a brief emotional spasm; it’s chronic and addictive. He said this in 12 words; it took me 28 to paraphrase it. And he hit the bullseye even more frequently in February than he did in December.

But now, since I’m already digressing, I may as well say something else I’ve been meaning to say, although it’s not about the meanings of words; it’s about their pronunciation. One of the things I always held against the pompous, prissy James Comey, whose strongest expression of dismay was “Lordy!”, was his pompous, prissy pronunciation of the word processes. He pronounced it “processEEZE.” Now, why would anybody say it that way? When talking about Comey and his friends, does anyone refer to “dumbassEEZE”? Was the FBI one of Hillary Clinton’s “franchisEEZE”? And how about “Comey’s second guessEEZE”? Is that how we say it?

This pronunciation is even more emphatic in its advertisement of the speaker’s stupidity.

Behind “processEEZE” lies the same kind of embarrassment before words that people exhibit when they wonder how to make “princess” plural and come up with “prinCESSes,” or can’t figure out how to say that Mrs. Hastings has a pet and end up referring to “Mrs. Hasting’s cat.” Comey isn’t alone in devising weird pronunciations. “EEZE,” the phony plural, has been a badge of Washington pomposity for many years. If you want to identify people whose method of suggesting that they’re “smart” is to demonstrate that they’re dumb, listen to their plurals. When Comey’s successor, Christopher Wray, testified before Congress, it was notable that he kept saying “processEEZE.”

Given that performance, it was obvious that Wray’s public statements would repeat the arrogant asininity of Comey’s. You’ve probably seen the supposed apology that Wray issued for the FBI’s failure to do anything at all with a citizen’s detailed warning about Nikolas Cruz, who then proceeded to murder 17 people in a Florida high school. Wray said:

We are still investigating the facts. [As I mentioned in last month’s Word Watch, that’s what this gente always says. The idea is to keep saying it until everyone else forgets.] I am committed [How touching! But this also is what they always say.] to getting to the bottom [A fresh and heartfelt phrase.] of what happened in this particular matter, as well as reviewing our processes [Reviewing them, as opposed to doing anything about them.] for responding to information that we receive from the public. It’s up to all Americans to be vigilant [Wray can’t bring himself to reflect on the behavior of his own org without criticizing all the rest of us.], and when members of the public contact us with concerns, we must act properly and quickly. [This is the place where members of the public look for some discussion of why “we” didn’t do that. Still looking . . . . ]

We have spoken with victims and families, and deeply regret the additional pain this [What’s the referent of this? It could be “our abject failure,” but curiously, failure is not in Wray’s statement.] causes all those affected by this horrific tragedy. All of the men and women of the FBI are dedicated to keeping the American people safe, and are relentlessly committed [There’s that word again.] to improving all that we do and how we do it.

Oh, for God’s sake — all of you are relentlessly committed? Then how did the Florida disaster happen? How did the Peter Strzok-Lisa Page disaster happen? And how did all of the FBI’s other gross failures happen to happen? I guess the processEEZE will have to be reviewed.

Meanwhile, we are enduring a blizzard of accusations from all parties, alleging that their political opponents are being “divisive” — pronounced “diVISSive.” This may be worse than “processEEZE.” It’s pompous and it’s prissy and it reflects a similar inability to understand the words one uses. What word does “diVISSive” come from, “diVID”? But this pronunciation is even more emphatic in its advertisement of the speaker’s stupidity. After all, processes, no matter how one pronounces the word, are seldom the point of emphasis of anyone’s remarks. But divisive always is, wherever it occurs, so that the mispronunciation calls even more attention to itself.

So much for things I wanted to bring up. A reader wanted me to discuss the horror of going forward, moving forward, and other expressions that redundantly and ungrammatically signal future action. An example: speaking of Wyndham Lathem, the Chicago professor accused of the bizarre murder of his boyfriend, Chicago Tonight said, “[Judge Charles] Burns wasn’t present at Lathem’s arraignment in September, but said he will be the trial judge moving forward.” That’s a typical conclusion for what is proving to be a typical American sentence: moving forward.

All of you are relentlessly committed? Then how did the Florida disaster happen?

Typical, and bad. Such expressions are invariably redundant because they follow one indication of the future (“will be”) with another (“moving forward”). They are ungrammatical because . . . What moves forward? In the Lathem example, the only candidate for what is the judge, but he’s not moving anywhere. I suppose it’s the legal case that will move forward, but case is not in the sentence, so it can’t be modified by moving. “Moving forward, going forward,” and all their linguistic kin are engendered by nothing but a vague anxiety that one has somehow not said enough, coupled with a strange unwillingness simply to notice what one has, indeed, already said. They are the type of “are you with me?” gesture that we see constantly in this age of insecure communication. All right? You understand? OK? I really mean it. Ya know?

More than one reader — actually two of them — let me know that something should be done about “on,” as in “on you.” When, for instance, Hawaii was terrorized by a false alarm about an atomic attack from North Korea, Jamie Lee Curtis, whoever she is, tweeted, “The Hawaii missile crisis is on you Mr. Trump” (who had nothing whatever to do with it). In general, people who use on you or on me as a substitute for the very cumbersome and difficult “your responsibility” or “my fault” are illiterates who should never be discussing questions of this nature.

But I do enjoy their imagery. If you take these expressions literally, you have to picture men and women plastered with such things as missile crises and failed garbage pickups and teenage drinking and the absence of party favors at a 6-year-old’s birthday bash: it’s all on them. And in theory, any adjectival expression can be used about the past as well as the future, so it’s fun to think of statements such as “The Great Depression was on the Smoot-Hawley tariff,” “The Civil War was all on John C. Calhoun,” and “The Sodom disaster was definitely on Yahweh.” But fun like this isn’t worth the annoyance.

"Moving forward, going forward,” and all their linguistic kin are engendered by nothing but a vague anxiety that one has somehow not said enough.

Here’s another complaint from a reader: gifted. This isn’t about gifted painters, or gifted young sopranos. It’s about: “For Christmas I gifted him with a new nine iron,” “Michelle Obama Finally Reveals What Melania Trump Gifted Her at the Inauguration,” and “Pippa Middleton gifted her sister this sentimental piece of jewelry — and it's actually affordable.” The first passage is something I made up, to show where the whole ugly process began. Apparently, gifted intruded itself on the contemporary language as a pointless substitute for gave. Its users may have been the same kind of people who use moving forward to make sure that you got it, right? — I’m talking about the future, OK? So, dude, gave has only one syllable, right? So you might miss it, right? So why not give it two syllables, ya know? Right? OK? Which gifted has, ya know? And besides, maybe gifted sounds more festive? Right?

In the distant past, like, two years ago, gift (used as a verb) was an obscure expression, seldom employed, and cursed with bad associations, such as its association with a shadowy companion, with. Says the American Heritage Dictionary (1982): “Gift (verb) has a long history of use in the sense ‘to present as a gift, to endow’: He gifted her with a necklace. In current use, however, gift in this sense is sometimes regarded as affected and is unacceptable to a large majority of the Usage Panel.”

Notice the telltale with: “gifted her with.” The tale it tells is called: “The Burden of Affectation.” When people wanted a better, cuter, more precious word than gave, they went, sometimes, to gifted, but they had to take with along, because that’s how the expression had always appeared in print: gifted with.

I like that one especially, because when you first read it, you think that Pippa gave away her sister.

Yet even illiterate people can be affected. And when, seized with the desire to be better, cuter, and more precious themselves, they decided to substitute gifted for gave, they missed one of gifted’s idiomatic requirements, which was with. The result was, “Pippa Middleton gifted her sister this sentimental piece of jewelry.” I like that one especially, because gifted is followed by an indirect as well as a direct object, so when you first read it, you think that Pippa gave away her sister. Gosh, how sentimental. And it’s actually affordable. Thus gifted became the language of love. Ya know?

This is a good place to acknowledge the concerns of a faithful reader about “there isn’t any there there,” “nothingburger,” and other clichés of emptiness. Eighty-one years ago, in a book called Everybody’s Autobiography, Gertrude Stein wrote of her hometown, Oakland, California, “There is no there there.” During the next few generations, this bon mot was occasionally quoted, usually to show that the quoter knew something about Gertrude Stein. Then, suddenly, the thing was here here and everywhere everywhere. No one could write about American politics without asserting that there was no there there in the opposition’s statements, programs, arguments, accusations, proofs, or patriotism. You’ll notice that people who use this expression usually say it with a look that claims they’ve got something very smart in their noggins. But there’s no there there, any more than there was in Oakland.

I’m not sure who came up with nothingburger, although verbal burgers have been with us for quite a while — consider an article by Nora Ephron (1970) that quotes Helen Gurley Brown, editor of Cosmopolitan, as saying, “If you’re a little mouseburger, come with me. I was a mouseburger and I will help you. You’re so much more wonderful than you think.”

Nonentities can now become dominant and stay dominant. Think Meryl Streep. Think Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.

I myself was once a little mouseburger, but I’m not coming with her. I’ve had it with burgers of every description. They were never very impressive, and they’ve exhausted their 15 minutes of fame.

See! I can make trite allusions like everyone else — this time to something that Andy Warhol wrote in 1968. Fifty years later, “15 minutes of fame” can be heard 24 hours a day. Warhol’s idea was that in the future nothing would be much more significant than anything else; the dominant culture of the media would allow nothing but itself to get that way. This isn’t exactly what happened. It’s true that total nonentities can now become “stars,” and insignificant political events can now be heralded, for about “15 minutes,” as game-changing moments. But that was true in 1968, and 1958, and 1948 before it. More important is the fact that nonentities can now become dominant and stay dominant. Think Meryl Streep. Think Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. The reason isn’t lack of communication, as in Cool Hand Luke (“what we’ve got here is a failure to communicate”), but lack of imagination, lack of the ability to think of anything to replace nothing burgers with something burgers.

The proliferation of “media” may be relevant. It may be harder to think, to visualize, to imagine things for yourself when you can feast 24/7 on other people’s images. But whatever the cause, if you believe that Meryl Streep is a great actor and Barack Obama is a great orator and Stephen Hawking is a great philosopher and Doris Kearns Goodwin is a great historian and George F. Will is a great political thinker and Paul Krugman is a great economist and the New York Times is a great paper and Angela Merkel is a great European leader and Pope Francis is a great religious leader, this means that you cannot imagine anything better than these wretched substitutes for greatness. And if you can’t think of any better words than “there’s no there there” and “it’s a nothingburger,” then, actually, you cannot think. And that’s where we are right now.




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A Few Things We Can Do Without

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A new year is always hopeful — until you notice that it’s only the calendar that has changed; none of the problems has gone away. Word problems can be especially sticky visitors.

As 2017 changed to 2018, I was thinking about that old expression back in the day. I heard it once or twice when I was a kid. I thought it was charming, in a daft way. (Not that I knew the word “daft.”) It gestured vaguely toward some unspecified moment in the past on which something of vague, unspecified significance had occurred. It was quaint and silly. Then, about 1998, I heard the expression again — this time from college students, who had heard it from other college students, who had picked it up from somewhere. These students were saying it about anything that had happened before, well, 1998. “When I was in high school, back in the day . . .”

I’d thought that discretion was only a few pages of his personality; now I found that there was nothing else in the book.

Soon the expression was everywhere. It was a fad. I thought that fads went away; they’re supposed to go away. But this one hasn’t. I hope that it will, eventually — although many other hoary old youth expressions — cool, hot, weed, hittin’ on, even hip, as in hipster — won’t give up their lease. Perhaps (who knows?) you can hasten the exit of back in the day by saying, the next time you hear it, “Pardon me . . . which day do you have in mind?”

And here are some other things, few of them as innocent as back in the day, that have overstayed their welcome. I’ve arranged them alphabetically, starting with:

All about, as in, “Libertarianism is all about freedom.” OK, I understand that statement, and there’s nothing especially wrong with it; it’s just a way of heightening an effect: instead of saying that “libertarianism is about freedom” you say “all about freedom.” Maybe it’s a little childish: you wouldn’t say, “War and Peace is all about the Napoleonic wars.” But it gets, and has gotten, worse. Usually, nowadays, it involves the pretense that human beings have themes, just as books and movements do. I recently told a colleague that something should be kept confidential. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m all about discretion.” I’d thought that discretion was only a few pages of his personality; now I found that there was nothing else in the book.

Bible fakery. This is a perennial medium of political disinformation. Somewhere in history, there must have been a politician who used biblical references with some respect for their source, but I can’t think of one. Christmas is a dependable venue for Bible fakes. At Christmas 2017 the most popular type was the equation of illegal immigrants with the Holy Family. A few blocks from my home there’s a church that’s still flying a banner depicting Mary and Joseph on their way to Bethlehem and proclaiming, “Immigrants & Refugees Welcome Here.” If any immigrants or refugees turn up at the church door, they’ll find out how much this kind of “welcome” is worth. But never mind; here’s something sillier. Martin O’Malley, decayed Governor of Maryland, whose campaign for the presidency was a ludicrous flop, has not ceased his quest for the limelight. On December 22, he appeared on Tucker Carlson’s TV show to say, “Merry Christmas. And remember that Jesus himself was a refugee child. What would you do if he came to the borders of your country?”

Debaucherous? Epitomize an archetype? Powerful restaurateurs? What did they do — invade France?

Carlson’s comment was: “That’s so stupid, it’s hard to respond.” So I will respond. Jesus and his family were not immigrants, and they were not part of some “refugee” movement. They never crossed the borders of their “country,” which was the Roman Empire. According to one of the gospels, they came to Bethlehem by government order, to fulfill a tax regulation; according to another, they fled, a couple of years later, to another part of the empire, but soon returned. Notice, however, what Bible fakery depends upon: an audience that is impressed by “Bible” ideas but is unwilling to ask “What is this guy talking about?” — and then open the book and find out what it says. It’s easy. A child could do it. Millions of children have done it. It is not a good sign that churchgoers and media gatekeepers (there’s another term we can do without) can’t be bothered to do it. Tucker evidently did, but in the program that aired on Fox News just before his, it was assumed without contest that Jesus’ parents took him illegally across a border.

Culture of, toxic culture of. An online journal devoted to the topic of eating has become alarmed about reports “of a male-dominated ‘boys’ club’ environment that, in some ways, has become synonymous with restaurant culture as a whole. The restaurant world is known for late-night, loose, sometimes wild culture, but staffers told Eater,” the online journal, that so and so “epitomized the archetype of rich, powerful restaurateurs who party hard with beautiful women and celebrities, and indulge in what several former employees called the most debaucherous behavior they had ever witnessed.”

Debaucherous? Epitomize an archetype? Powerful restaurateurs? What did they do — invade France? This stuff is pretty hard to take. But culture, used in an anthropological and yet judgmental way — that’s even harder. When it’s used about realms of lifethat I’ve had anything to do with, I feel like a native of New Guinea who is suddenly being “studied” by a bunch of ignorant people from America. I feel that these people are full of crap. I know that they’re full of crap. Since I don’t cook, and I have some money, I have visited many provinces of the restaurant world; I am fairly well acquainted with restaurant culture. I’ve had good friends who ran expensive restaurants. The most debaucherous behavior I ever saw was a waiter flirtatiously kissing his (male) manager. That’s restaurant culture for you! Was it toxic? I don’t know, but no hospitalizations were reported.

Grab. This word has traditionally, and rightly, been reserved for instances of haste, rudeness, or criminality: “Dude! He grabbed my wallet!” During the past year, however, I have seldom heard a waiter or barista or person in a store respond to a request by saying, “I’ll get that for you.” What I hear is, “I’ll grab that for you.” Right; first grab me a steak; then you can grab me my check; after that, I can grab my car and leave.

Restaurants and coffee houses are primary breeding grounds for inane locutions: people who work in them need to communicate essentially the same information, hour after hour, day after day; they look for new ways of communicating it; they find them. Then they say these new thingsover and over, until even they get sick of them. In the meantime, multitudes of other people have heard the cute new things and have passed them along. This is what happened, for example, with the vile “You still workin’ on that?” The result is similar to the one we see when explorers introduce some quickly multiplying rodent to an island populated by a diversity of interesting but unprotected species. Now every person who intends to get something, find something, provide something, reach for something, or pick up something is saying, “I’ll grab that for you.” Our only recourse is to take the word seriously and reply with the appropriate warnings: “Watch out! You don’t want to spill that check!” “Don’t grab it too hard! Those Big Macs are delicate!” “If you grab your data like that, you’re just lookin’ for trouble!” “Be careful how you grab it; those salads can get violent!”

Historical fakery. On January 20, Eric Trump talked to Fox News’ renowned legal expert, Judge Jeanine, and confided inside information about the president: “My father’s workin’ like nobody ever worked before. . . . He’s gotten more done in one year than arguably any president in history.” “Arguably” is the weasel word, but it isn’t enough, unless nobody in his audience ever heard of Washington, Jackson, Polk, Roosevelt (both of them), Truman, Johnson (Lyndon), Nixon, Reagan . . . I’m not saying whether these people got more good things done than bad things, but even if you limit them to the good things, Trump’s statement is preposterously ignorant, so ignorant that it amounts to fakery. A guy who writes you a check for a thousand dollars without bothering to find out whether he’s got a thousand dollars in his account — if he’s not faking you, he’s faking himself.

Restaurants and coffee houses are primary breeding grounds for inane locutions.

In history is something the country should have tired of four decades ago, when Democrats in Congress endlessly reiterated the notion that Watergate was “the worst crisis in our history,” at least “since the Civil War.” But that was a true and moderate statement, compared with such recent claims as that of Trump fils, or that of a would-be Trump nemesis, Congressman Luis Gutierrez (D-Illinois), who is reported to have said that Trump is the first “racist” president in US history. By Gutierrez’ standards, if he has any, Jefferson, Jackson, Lincoln, and many others were all racists; and other presidents were racists by any standard. Depend on it: any public figure who uses the phrase in history knows nothing about the subject.

Knowledge is power. This phrase is submitted for your consideration by Mehmet Karayel, who says that he’s tired of hearing it — as well he might be. Knowledge is power is one of the Western world’s oldest clichés (it goes back to the Renaissance, anyway, though it smells like the Romans), and one of its most harmful. Every expert in ichthyology or Sumerian mythology treasures this silly aphorism, regarding it as his license to loot the world’s moral bank account: “I have knowledge; you are now required to give me power.” You see the fallacy, but the possessor of knowledge never does. So knowledgeable is he that he swallows the statement whole and spends the rest of his life in vengeful disappointment with the ignoramuseswho will not give him power. It never occurs to such wisepeople that their absolute trust in their own knowledge (of something or other) is itself a decisive refutation of their eligibility for power.

Legendary. We see examples of this one every day. The following happens to come from Mediaite (December 21), but it could be from anyplace: “Legendary anchorman Tom Brokaw took a hard swing against Fox News this morning . . .” Tom Brokaw should not be confused with Paul Bunyan. There are no legends about Tom Brokaw. And, if memory serves, Paul Bunyan could occasionally talk so as to make himself understood.

I’m not saying whether these people got more good things done than bad things, but even if you limit them to the good things, Eric Trump’s statement is preposterously ignorant.

How does legendary get attached to people who are not even memorable? The reason is that it’s too hard to find another adjective for them; they just aren’t worth the effort, so to be nice, somebody makes them legendary. Notice that no one ever refers to “the legendary Abraham Lincoln.” It’s always “the legendary Meryl Streep” or someone like that.

Litigating, relitigating.This is a low-grade form of political flimflam. It’s the substitution of a high-class term that many people do not understand for simple terms that everyone uses all the time, in order to make simple events appear too complicated to be understood. Thus CNN, last November, on the goofy ways in which goofy Senator Alan Stuart (“Al”) Franken dealt with allegations of goofy sexual misdemeanors:“What Franken is doing here is obvious. He is letting the statement he released last week in the wake of the first allegations stand. He's not adding to it, re-opening it or relitigating it.” You’re an intelligent person; you’re a good reader; you know what litigate means. So tell me: how can someone litigate, let alone relitigate, a statement, let alone relitigate his own statement? The simple word, the word that relitigating has been used to replace, is “changing.”

Much worse than the passage just quoted is Senator Elizabeth Warren’s statement to the Boston Globe about her bizarre claim to be an American Indian:

These issues were extensively litigated in 2012 [when she ran for the Senate] and I think the people of Massachusetts made their decision. I think what the people of Massachusetts and what voters are concerned about is the direction that Donald Trump is pulling this country.

No, an election is not a litigation. And if it were, its purpose would not be to decide the issues of whether Elizabeth Warren and her employer, Harvard University, falsely claimed that she was an American Indian. Neither, unfortunately, would it be held to pronounce judgment on the illiterate syntax of Dr. Elizabeth Warren, darling of liberal “intellectuals,” a woman who says such things as “the direction that Donald Trump is pulling this country.” Diagram that, if you can. Her underlying idea is simple: she got elected, so she must be right, either about being an American Indian or about the morality of falsely claiming to be an American Indian. This idea is ridiculous, and that’s why she’s trying to make you feel that the situation is too complicated for you to understand.

Nation of immigrants. Everyone — Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, whoever — constantly recites this article of the American Creed. That’s sufficient reason, in itself, to send nation of immigrants to the retirement home. But there’s another reason. It isn’t true that we are a nation of immigrants, and it hasn’t been true since the 17th century. The vast majority of Americans were born right here in America; they are native Americans in the true sense of those words. But even if we were a nation of immigrants, so what? What inference could possibly be drawn from that? It wouldn’t mean that more or less immigration should occur. The only thing it might suggest is that the original native Americans, the Indians, should have done more to prevent the growth of a nation of immigrants, in which they would become a small and persecuted minority.

Tom Brokaw should not be confused with Paul Bunyan. There are no legends about Tom Brokaw.

Perch. I mentioned Al Franken (boo!, hiss!). I mentioned Tucker Carlson (hurrah!). Here they are again, but not in a good way for either. During his December 6 TV program, the latter referred to the former as “a powerful person knocked from his high perch” by a sex scandal. That would have been all right, if Tucker hadn’t been echoing one of the media’s insta-clichés. During the past six months, every prominent social position has become a perch, and while it pleases me to picture former Senator Franken as a fat yellow parakeet being knocked from its little plastic swing, this cliché is like all the rest of them: it usurps the position of other expressions, many of them more exact or vivid or imaginative, that might be useful for the occasion. The plague of perch will get worse before it gets better, because it only started recently.

Tone deaf. Discussing the execrable behavior of federal prosecutors in the Bundy case, “Ian Bartrum, a constitutional law professor at University of Nevada Las Vegas, said he's struggled to understand what led to the prosecutors' ‘tone deafness’ to their obligations.” Contrary to current popular opinion, you can’t be tone deaf to something that’s not a tone. Obligations, for instance, are not a tone.

Under investigation. Here’s another phrase marked for condemnation by Mehmet Karayel. He notes its constant use as a charm to keep the peasants from storming the palace — in plain terms, to keep the public from learning anything about the government it pays for. Whenever some particularly atrocious official deed is perpetrated, the first response of every government agency is to begin an investigation. Of course, if something is under investigation, no information can be divulged. If, however, the investigation has been concluded, well, the investigation has been concluded — case closed; go away. The next thing you’ll hear is that the matter has been fully litigated, and this is no time to relitigate it; i.e., bring it up again.

These are sayings, by the way, that you will never hear from Word Watch. This column never refuses to give out information, and the public can stay just as long as it wants.




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Imitations of Life

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In the surreal world of “news,” the funniest thing that happened during the past few weeks may have been the fake Thanksgiving episode of MSNBC’s “Morning Joe.” The show was prerecorded, but — and this is the thing that tickled me — Joe Scarborough and Mika Brzezinski kept making fraudulent Thanksgiving sounds. As reported by the New York Daily News:

“Day after Thanksgiving. Woo! I’m stuffed!” host Mika Brzezinski said to open the show.

“A great Thanksgiving,” Joe Scarborough replied before they both offered a few awkward clichés.

S and B later claimed that the performance was a joke and that anyone who took it seriously (e.g., all media reporting on it) was a “moron.” Was that a joke? A joke about a joke? Much funnier was the network’s response to complaints. Its spokeswoman said:

There was no intention to trick viewers. Would it have helped if there was a disclaimer? Maybe. But that’s not typically done.

If this is correct, does it mean that news shows are typically faked? I can believe it. And I guess she’s right: a disclaimer wouldn’t help.

Or maybe it would, if the news content still made sense. I know, I know: that would mean hiring news people with the (minimal) knowledge and (minimally) balanced minds required to tell the difference between sense and nonsense. Such people would need to be paid, and that might be difficult, because the corporate vendors of news are strapped for money; they’ve got nothing left after paying such people as Matt Lauer and Megyn Kelly tens of millions, just to cause trouble.

Was that a joke? A joke about a joke?

But if the principal news media could scrape up some cash, maybe we wouldn’t see reports about “young, undocumented immigrants born in the U.S.” (NBC, November 28). That phrase (discovered by hawkeyed Liberty author Michael Christian) was later changed to “brought to the U.S.,” when somebody finally noticed the obvious mistake. But what’s the difference? The Dreamers are here, aren’t they? Who cares whether they were born or brought?

The larger question is why soi-disant journalists should want to make sense about anything, when nobody else seems to care. If the people at large really cared, why would they be getting their news from NBC or “Morning Joe” in the first place? And if the president cared . . .

Here’s a good one. When, on December 18, an Amtrak train went off the rails on a curve near Tacoma, killing several people, Trump immediately attributed the disaster to a lack of government investment in the infrastructure:

The train accident that just occurred in DuPont, WA shows more than ever why our soon to be submitted infrastructure plan must be approved quickly. Seven trillion dollars spent in the Middle East while our roads, bridges, tunnels, railways (and more) crumble! Not for long!

Now, one of the first things broadcast about the accident was the observation of witnesses that the train was going about 80 miles an hour. This turned out to be true. And if anyone was curious enough, as I was, to google a map, he could see at a glance that a train going anywhere near that speed would never get around that curve. Little more time was required to discover — because this too was immediately reported — that the stretch of rail in question had just been opened to passenger transportation after a vast federal investment in the infrastructure. This doesn’t mean that the president is always wrong. It does mean that his Does It Make Sense Monitor is subject to periodic deactivation.

That would mean hiring news people with the (minimal) knowledge and (minimally) balanced minds required to tell the difference between sense and nonsense.

But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: if VIPs made sense, where would Word Watch be? The answer is: out of copy. So senselessness has its benefits. That sudden, excited breath you take, that little jump your heart makes when you ask yourself, “Did the president really say that?” — you’d be missing all that fun if the VIPs (Vitally Ignorant People) limited themselves to sensible statements. As Yeats put it, “What theme had Homer but original sin?”

The sin of senselessness can brighten any subject. On December 14, ABC fired somebody named Mario Batali, who seems to be a chef, from its show “The Chew”(!). The cause was the usual sexual allegations, and Batali responded with the usual Reeducation Rag:

I have made many mistakes and I am so very sorry that I have disappointed my friends, my family, my fans and my team. My behavior was wrong . . . . I will work every day to regain your respect and trust.

That tells you a lot, doesn’t it? Now I feel that I understand exactly what happened. But he added:

In case you’re searching for a holiday-inspired breakfast, these Pizza Dough Cinnamon Rolls are a fan favorite.

He followed with a picture of the magic Rolls, and a button you could click to get the recipe. It’s an odd effect, isn’t it — this combination of repentance and recipes? But the senselessness is almost as savory as a plate of warm cinnamon rolls.

If you want senselessness of any kind, sex is the most dependable source, and the result is virtually guaranteed when sex is combined with politics. As John McLaughlin used to say, here’s a political potpourri.

If VIPs made sense, where would Word Watch be? The answer is: out of copy.

My first exhibit comes from Senator Catherine Cortez Masto (D-NV). She is one politician who really knows how to sling the clichés. Determined to destroy, as she put it, the “toxic culture of predatory sexual behavior” (that’s two big clichés in only six words), she attacked her colleague, Congressman Ruben Kihuen (D-NV), for his alleged sexual improprieties. But she was anxious to free herself from any implication of unfairness, and this is how she did it (dateline December 1):

I support a full, fair and expedient investigation against Congressman Kihuen and any other Member of Congress who have women or men come forward with allegations of inappropriate behavior. This process must be open [and] transparent and have an appropriate investigatory timeline that delivers justice.

It’s good to know what Senator Masto supports, as opposed to what she actually believes (if anything).

It gives her utterance that special something that was lacking in Mr. Batali’s statement of personal responsibility — that flavor of political process that adds so much to moral discourse. It suggests speaking at rallies, recording your vote, and wearing your most serious face when the cameras are on. She supports — but does she think? The quality of her thinking is indicated by her reference to a fair investigation against Kihuen. Thank you, Madame Defarge.

Let’s see, let’s see . . . the next linguistic scandal is provided by the Los Angeles Times, reporting on the life of California Assemblyman Matt Dababneh, who has lately been charged with sexual impropriety:

In 2013, Dababneh narrowly won a special election for his Assembly seat in a reliably Democratic district. . . . Since then, he has handily won reelection twice, boosted by a flush campaign account and an influential perch as chairman of the Assembly’s Banking and Finance Committee.

Picture that, if you can: boosted by a flush account, the man attained an influential perch. “Perch”: what is that, a fish? No, but I can more easily imagine a fish being influential than influence being wielded by one of those things that a bird sits on. My assumption is that the Times, which was knocked off its perch by a drop in daily circulation from 1,225,000 in 1990 to 274,000 in 2017, feels a compulsion to be flashy and jazzy all the time. Or try to be.

Again, big birds (well, once-big birds) give examples of senselessness to all the little birds. Remember Nancy Pelosi, and you’ll see at once what I mean. Whenever sane persons hear her name, they automatically ask themselves, “What idiotic remark has she made now?”

The quality of her thinking is indicated by her reference to a "fair" investigation "against" Kihuen. Thank you, Madame Defarge.

Pelosi’s special characteristic has always been her senseless clichés. A cliché is often just a tired way of saying something sensible, but her clichés are tired ways of saying nothing. Pelosi is the High Priest, the Grand Mufti, the Magical Adept, the Mysterious Oracle of meaningless clichés.

When sex charges arose against Congressman John Conyers (D-MI) — a perpetual representative from Detroit, where politics is as dirty as dirt — Pelosi stepped forth to defend him, dressed in her costume as the sweet village maiden who never wants to hear any bad things. I’ll quote her, putting her clichés in italics:

We are strengthened by due process. Just because someone is accused — and was it one accusation? Is it two?

How dear that she didn’t know! Although it wasn’t just one. If it had been, she wouldn’t have been talking about it. But now comes the Yankee Doodle Dandy part of her comments (except that Yankee Doodle Dandy was created by people who understood what to do with clichés):

John Conyers is an icon in our country. He has done a great deal to protect women — Violence Against Women Act, which the left — right-wing [oops!] — is now quoting me as praising him for his work on that, and he did great work on that. [Did you ever notice how similar Pelosi’s rhetoric is to that of her bête noir, Donald Trump?] But the fact is, as John reviews his case, which he knows, which I don’t, I believe he will do the right thing.

I always enjoy listening to moral lectures, especially from people who don’t know what they’re talking about:

When asked specifically whether she believes the accusations against Conyers, Pelosi said: “I do not know who they are. Do you? They have not really come forward.”

Actually, they had. So later that day (November 26) Pelosi put out a statement saying, "Zero tolerance means consequences. I have asked for an ethics investigation, and as that investigation continues, Congressman Conyers has agreed to step aside as Ranking Member."

But there was more. According to NBC,

Pelosi, meanwhile, also [being a news writer means that you don’t have to worry about whether it’s senseless to write also when you’ve already written meanwhile] said the reaction to sexual misconduct accusations against former President Bill Clinton from that era versus today represent [and you don’t have to worry about subject-verb agreement, either] “obviously a generational change.”

“The concern that we had then was that they were impeaching the president of the United States, and for something that had nothing to do with the performance of his duties, and trying to take him out for that reason," Pelosi added. "But let's go forward. Let's go forward. I think that something wonderful is happening now, very credible. It's 100 years, almost 100 years, since women got the right to vote. Here we are, almost 100 years later, and something very transformative is happening.”

What the hell? What does that mean? It’s said that the definition of “true poetry” is something that cannot be translated into any other language. So I guess that Pelosi’s words are true poetry. You can’t even summarize them in a sensible way. As Alexander Pope put it, “true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.”

Nancy Pelosi is the High Priest, the Grand Mufti, the Magical Adept, the Mysterious Oracle of meaningless clichés.

Now that I’m quoting from the 18th century, I recall that Thomas Gray called the great front of the palace of Versailles “a huge heap of littleness.” A good phrase, susceptible of many applications. “A huge heap of littleness” is what all these official people are making of our language — our means of thinking and the palace of our culture.

On December 11, Fox News described, with peasant navieté, the way in which achievement is signified in Washington. The subject was Bruce Ohr, one of the horde of hollow men that government spawns and nurtures:

Until Dec. 6, when Fox News began making inquiries about him, Bruce Ohr held two titles at DOJ [if you aren’t inside the Beltway, this means “the Department of Justice”]. He was, and remains, director of the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force; but his other job was far more senior. Mr. Ohr held the rank of associate deputy attorney general, a post that gave him an office four doors down from Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein. The day before Fox News reported that Mr. Ohr held his secret meetings last year with the founder of Fusion GPS, Glenn Simpson, and with Christopher Steele, the former British spy who compiled the dossier [accusing Donald Trump of bad behavior in a Moscow hotel], the Justice Department stripped Ohr of his deputy title and ousted him from his fourth floor office at the building that DOJ insiders call “Main Justice.”

Associate deputy attorney general . . . four doors down . . . ousted from the fourth floor . . . good grief! What would the Buddha think? What would your grandmother think? There used to be a half-good novel (Fannie Hurst, 1933) that spawned two half-good movies; and its title was Imitation of Life. That title is appropriate to many people and many things.

But here we are, as Pelosi says, at the end of 2017 — a year of linguistic horrors. It’s fitting that she should have the last word about this year, because she has extended it. Yes she has.

Pelosi thinks that "the process" has some significance, because she said it.

She doesn’t want anyone to imagine that she and her party exploited the cloyingly denominated Dreamers by promising that their wishes would be made into law this year, only to disappoint them. Therefore, by decree of Pelosi, 2017 has acquired a 13th month.

This was all reported by The Hill on December 21:

House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi (D-CA) on Thursday defended her fellow Democrats for allowing the debate over “Dreamers” to carry into January, saying the delay is no indication that party leaders have abandoned demands that the issue be tackled this year.

Instead, according to Pelosi's argument, the Republicans’ decision to punt the fight over 2018 spending into next month meant the Democrats had to postpone their immigration push, as well.

“They kicked the can for the omnibus into January. It’s this year, extended, that’s what it is. It’s the process,” Pelosi told reporters in the Capitol.

What does this mean, if anything? It means that Pelosi thinks that everyone in the country knows the significance of the omnibus, just as everyone is supposed to know the significance of the fourth floor. It means that she thinks the process has some significance, because she said it. It means that she thinks kicked the can sounds fresh and new. It means that she thinks she can lie about the calendar.

My idea is that neither the calendar nor the United States of America can be favorably transformed by nonsense words. My idea is that words ultimately depend on realities. To put this in another way, I agree with Yeats: “At stroke of midnight God shall win.”




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The Visualization Test

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When I was a kid, a few million years ago, my parents subscribed to the Sunday edition of the Detroit Times (now defunct). The part of the paper that interested me was the eight pages of color cartoons, gathered in a section called “Puck: The Comic Weekly.” It was headed by a tiny figure of Puck and a quotation from one of his remarks in A Midsummer Night’s Dream: “What fools these mortals be!”

The message appealed to me almost as much as the beautifully drawn, intricately plotted, glacially moving episodes of Prince Valiant. I was too young to read Shakespeare, but I was starting to get the point: mortal life is one hell of a crazy thing.

You know you live in a crazy world when its reputedly big people do things for no reason at all — or, to put this in a more pedantically accurate way, do things that no one asked them to do, things that no one wants them to do, things that can accomplish nothing except to get them into trouble. I need only mention Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump.

It’s crazy for someone who wants to go down in history as an ultra-discreet manager of America’s super-sleuths to go around blurting things out with no show of evidence.

A crazy world, however, is not just a world of elephantine insanity. It’s a world in which every little opportunity for craziness is promptly identified and eagerly exploited. It’s a world of micro-craziness.

On November 12, John Brennan, who thank God is a former head of the CIA, opined to CNN that President Trump “for whatever reason is either intimidated by Mr. Putin, afraid of what he could do or what might come out as a result of these investigations.” He said that Trump sends “a very disturbing signal to our allies and partners who are concerned about Russian interference in their democratic processes as well.”

There was a reason for Brennan to say such things: he wants to continue to be seen on TV. But it’s crazy for someone who wants to go down in history as an ultra-discreet manager of America’s super-sleuths to go around blurting things out with no show of evidence. This man wants to be known as a deep thinker (something that, by the way, his CIA X-ray vision should have told him was not what deep thinkers ever want, or reveal that they want). So he pontificated about disturbing signals and democratic processes — which, for no reason except pomposity, he pronounces “processEEs.” Try as I may, I can’t visualize what he’s talking about. What processEEs?

I tried picturing Angela Merkel (a person whom I do not delight to picture, but I’ll rise to the call of duty) phoning Emmanuel Macron (ditto) to say:

“Whaddup, Manny. Listen, I’m very disturbed this afternoon.”

“Oh, why?”

“I’ve received a disturbing signal from President Trump.”

“Oh, he’s an idiot. So what?”

“No, I am very disturbed. I am concerned about Russian interference in the democratic processes of our countries. I fear that Trump is either intimidated by Mr. Putin or afraid of what he could do or what might come out as a result of these investigations.”

“What investigations?”

Investigations into the influence of Russia on the November 2016 election in the United States.”

“Well, if you put it that way, I am concerned as well.”

Try as I may, however, I can’t visualize any real person saying anything to the announcement of such concerns except, “What the hell are you talking about?” And try as I may, I can’t keep myself from believing that the attempt to visualize what a statement means, to get a clear and sensible image out of it, is a test of its validity as an act of communication.

If you want another example of words that fail the test, I have one ready, this time from the Right side of the political spectrum. It’s in an article in PJ Media excoriating Senator Tim (Smilin’ Jack) Kaine for his refusal to return money donated to him by disgraced Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein. I confess that I’m amused by Kaine’s idea that he can’t give the money back, because (dramatic pause) he’s already spent it! Yeah, and so what? But I also confess that I am skeptical about the idea that money derived from immoral sources has to be returned to the sources themselves, thus rewarding them for their immorality, or else handed off to some charity, so that its holiness will miraculously remove the moral contagion.

America’s tendency, throughout its history, has been to designate certain offenders as people about whom one can say anything, anything at all, and expect one’s listeners to nod in agreement.

Yet passing beyond all that, it’s hard to make sense of PJM’s critique of Senator Kaine: “He's not prepared to give Weinstein's blood-money back or try to donate it. He just got to profit off of a sexual assaulter.” Again the question: “What are you talking about?” I know some of the things that Weinstein is supposed to have done, and they are all bad things, but sexual assault has now been given so many meanings, from bothering people to raping them, that the phrase, seen by itself, no longer has meaning. It evokes no picture. We are also, it is true, offered the more pungent image of blood-money, but this image, though clear, is false. Weinstein didn’t make money from assaulting people; he lost it that way, by the bushel. Also, the man is an ape, but he is not a murderous ape — and what else could “blood-money” mean?

America’s tendency, throughout its history, has been to designate certain offenders as people about whom one can say anything, anything at all, and expect one’s listeners to nod in agreement. This is a bad tendency, and it makes no difference whether the offenses are real or whether they are such old-time, say-anything-you-want-against-it offenses as witchcraft, homosexuality, and questioning whether the Great War was a good idea. Mobspeak is mobspeak, no matter what the subject is; and that’s what we’re hearing with regard to Weinstein and his ilk.

Morally excited people often make their point so emphatically that all one can see in their statements is a preposterous image of themselves. Here’s something along that line. It’s a statement by Mika Brzezinski, reputed star of cable TV, about the Weinstein affair. (Cries of “Enough already! Find another topic!” But to proceed . . . ) Brzezinski tweeted: “I have a three-book deal with Weinstein Books. . . . I can’t go forward with those books unless Harvey resigns.” She can’t? Picture a woman so stunned by the revelation of Weinstein’s flaws that she can no longer make her mouse run about her screen. You can’t picture that; you start laughing too hard. But the really difficult thing to visualize is someone, even Harvey Weinstein, patron of the arts, thinking hard and long and then declaring, “What this world needs is not one book by Mika Brzezinski, but three!” Evidently Ms. B has no trouble visualizing that; she is certain that not going forward with those books is a threat that will make the world tremble. The world, however, may not have such a daring imagination.

Mobspeak is mobspeak, no matter what the subject is.

The rule is: If you can’t visualize it, don’t write it; and even if you can visualize it, ask yourself what, if anything, your readers will see. It isn’t enough to gesture toward some possible meaning.

For an exhibit of such a gesture, I turn to the venerable British Broadcasting Corporation. There used to be an idea that the BBC was a standard of good, though precious, English. If you still have that idea, forget it. Consider a current sample of high-class British lingo: subject, Africa; date, November 18. Reporting on the political liquidation of Zimbabwean leader Robert Mugabe and his spouse, the BBC referred to “Grace Mugabe, who is four decades younger than him.” Oh, that much younger than him is?

I’m not mentioning this report just to be unkind about its grammar (although that’s fun). My real concern is a passage that illustrates how easy it is to destroy your meaning if you don’t try to visualize it. According to the BBC,

Our correspondent says the situation may appear to be getting out of [the Zimbabwean ruling party’s] control and there could be a broad push to introduce a transitional government that includes the opposition.

OK, I’m picturing a person who says something. So far, so good. He or she says that there is a situation. All right; “situation” is pretty abstract, but I know it means political events in Zimbabwe — mobs in the streets, that sort of thing. I have some kind of picture in my mind. Now, this situation appears to be out of control. . . . But no, that’s not quite right. It may appear to be getting out of control. . . . Picture that. Go ahead. Try.

Sometimes we can’t blame writers and speakers. Sometimes the audience is at fault.

The depressing thing is that people are actually getting paid to write stuff like this. I suppose someone also got paid to write a news item for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution about the appointment of a new president at Morehouse College. He is David A. Thomas, and he

said in an interview with The Atlanta Journal-Constitution his goals include increasing enrollment from its current 2,200 students to 2,500 students, providing more scholarships, finding opportunities for every student to study abroad, supporting faculty research and engaging in issues that improve outcomes for African-American men, noting Morehouse “is a place where we can offer solutions to those issues.”

I’m not sure what Mr. Thomas provided as a referent for “those issues,” so I’m not sure whether he thinks that finding opportunities for students, supporting research, and increasing enrollments are things that need to be solved. But by the time his interview was written up by the AJC, he was proposing to offer solutions even to issues that improve outcomes. And if you think this is hard to visualize, first try to visualize engaging in issues. If “issues” means “problems,” as it usually does these days, I hope that the new college president doesn’t engage himself too deeply. But even if it just means “matters,” how do you picture that? And how do matters “improve outcomes”? And if they do that, why, again, should Mr. Thomas solve them?

In statements of this kind, a resistance to being visualized is considered an asset.

No one can visualize any of this; it’s all just words, with no pictures attached. But sometimes we can’t blame writers and speakers for engaging in issues that don’t improve outcomes. Sometimes the audience is at fault.

Denise Young Smith, Apple’s (former) Vice President of Inclusion and Diversity, found this out when she told a conference of diversity mavens that

there can be 12 white blue-eyed blonde men in a room and they are going to be diverse too because they’re going to bring a different life experience and life perspective to the conversation.

The words are clear and self-evidently true. Yet they were understood as meaning, among many other things, “that there really is no need to look beyond any sort of seeming homogeneity within Silicon Valley’s tech workforce (which is mostly white and overwhelmingly male).” Smith, who is African American, was forced to apologize for her “choice of words” and then to step down from her job — a position she had held for only six months, in a company at which she had worked for 20 years. Apple has proclaimed that 50% of its “new hires are from historically underrepresented groups in tech.” I’m trying to visualize what that means, and unfortunately I can’t, except that it does not include Ms. Smith. I assume that in statements of this kind a resistance to being visualized is considered an asset.




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Liaisin’ the Night Away

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No, I am not going to do the predictable thing — review Hillary Clinton’s book. I reviewed her earlier one, It Takes a Village: And Other Lessons Children Teach Us (Liberty, May 1996, pp. 51–54), and that’s enough to expect from me. True, this one seems to have been written by different ghost writers, although it’s hard to be sure. There’s a point below which stylistic analysis can’t be conclusive. But that’s not enough to justify further consideration of this “author’s” work.

Besides, a lot of other people have already done a good job with What Happened. One of them is Joseph Bottum in the Washington Free Beacon. Says Bottum, writing about the “writer”:

Has there been a more self-conscious major-party presidential candidate since Richard Nixon? The stiff way she moved, the personalizing of every slight, the grimacing smile as though she had been forced to teach herself how to wear her face: Nearly everything about Hillary Clinton spoke of a self-consciousness so vast, so heavy, that only the sternest will could shoulder it. Like a robot with slow actuators, she always seemed to have a gap between a stimulus and her response — a brief but noticeable moment of deciding how to react. Leave aside questions of her truthfulness about everything from her Rose Hill law firm's files to her private email server while she was at the State Department. Trump's needling epithet of "Crooked Hillary" gained traction because, regardless of her actual honesty, she had the affect of dishonesty — the pause that recalls for many viewers a liar choosing what to say.

Well put, and I’ll leave well enough alone. On to other matters.

In 1959, Isabel Paterson found a young couple who wanted to buy her old wooden farmhouse near Princeton, New Jersey. “The young wife,” she wrote to a friend, “‘loves an old house.’ She has certainly got something to love.”

Readers don’t care about somebody being killed, but they do care about penthouses, luxury suites, celebrity yachts, and high-rise apartments.

I’ll say the same thing about the good old English language: those who love it have certainly got something to love. It has the largest vocabulary in the world, and the most chaotic spelling, and sources that are stranger and more varied than those of any other language. In addition, it has the world’s most insensitive users.

I can’t establish that scientifically, but I have plenty of what “scientists” disparage as “anecdotal evidence.”

Here’s some:

On July 27, Wyndham Lathem, a science professor employed by Northwestern University, and Andrew Warren, an employee in the business office of Somerville College, Oxford University, allegedly butchered the boyfriend of Lathem in the latter’s high-rise apartment in Chicago. I put in high-rise because murder stories are always supposed to have stuff like that in them. Readers don’t care about somebody being killed, but they do care about penthouses (Ayn Rand wrote a murder play called Penthouse Legend), luxury suites, celebrity yachts, and high-rise apartments. Readers want class.

If it’s a sign that there are still murderers who love a good book, as they did in the Nero Wolfe stories, then it’s a good thing.

Now, after what seems to have been a high-rise thrill-killing, Lathem and Warren apparently left the corpse to cool and — you will never guess what they did next. They drove to the public library in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, where Lathem made a contribution of $1,000 in memory of the victim. They then escaped to California, where they eventually turned themselves in. They are now in jail in Chicago.

I thought your curiosity would be aroused by that part about the donation to the library. It leaves me with a few thousand questions, too. If it’s a sign that there are still murderers who love a good book, as they did in the Nero Wolfe stories, then it’s a good thing. But what makes the story relevant, more or less, to reading and writing is what spokespersons for Oxford University had to say about the university’s employee, Mr. Warren.

The PR release was sensibly worded. It said, among other things: “We have been in contact with the police in the UK and are ready to help the US investigating authorities in any way they need.” Unfortunately, the principal of Somerville College wouldn’t leave well enough alone. She added this:

We and the university authorities will liaise with the investigating authorities and provide any assistance that is required.

This comes as upsetting news to all of us. Counselling support can be made available to anyone who needs it.

The principal, Alice Prochaska, is a distinguished archivist and curator who was once head librarian of Yale. Yet her acquaintance with books seems not to have extended far enough to inform her that “liaise with” is a pretty poor substitute for “help,” especially when it is used as a redundant parallel to “provide assistance.”

At first I was willing to congratulate Principal Prochaska on avoiding the temptation to administrative overreach. According to the well known statement of Rahm Emanuel (which I am about to paraphrase), administrators seldom fail to waste a good crisis, but the principal’s double qualifiers, “anyone who needs it” and “any assistance that is required,” somewhat allayed my fears. Then I realized: everything in the principal’s message is classic overreach.

It’s not just the quantity of words that’s important; it’s the quality.

Consider the rush from helping investigators to providing counselling support for “anyone who needs it.” Is Somerville College, whose alumnae include Margaret Thatcher, Indira Gandhi, and Daphne Park, the Queen of Spies, so sheltered a place that the rumor of crimes committed by a clerk in the financial office can drive its inhabitants round the bend? Principal Prochaska’s psychiatric initiative looks like just another way for a modern bureaucracy to reach out to its subjects and clutch them to its smothering breast.

Somerville College had no connection with the murder. If you were wondering, for some bizarre reason, whether the college would help the police with any facts it might have about Andrew Warren, the press release cleared that up. The principal’s only function was to expand useless verbiage — which appears to be why we employ college administrators. Under their tutelage, help becomes assistance, and assistance gives birth to counselling. To increase the number of syllables, counselling generates counselling support (we wouldn’t want anyone to think that our counselors will be non-supportive), and they need generates that is required. It is only proper, in such an authoritative message, that authorities should appear twice in the same sentence.

But it’s not just the quantity of words that’s important; it’s the quality. That’s where liaise comes in. Its function is to convert a common, low-quality, bureaucratic communication into something fairly stinking with high intrigue.When I read “ready to help,” I picture one cop calling up another cop and saying, “Ya know this bloke Andy Warren? Yeah, that’s the one. Got anything on him?” When I read “liaise,” I picture Allied agents behind the German lines, hoping that the message they inserted in the shoe of the Swedish diplomat will somehow make its way to Churchill.

The purpose of official patois is not to communicate meanings clearly or truly in any way. The purpose is to project the self-importance of the authorities.

It would be unfair to the British if I left this discussion of the Chicago murder case without providing a parallel anecdoteabout American verbiage. Here are the wise remarks of a Chicago police spokesman about the murder’s probable cause: "Something pivotal happened that resulted in the victim being attacked." You don’t say so! I thought it was something completely unimportant. I thought it was something on which nothing turned, so to speak. Now I know it was like, oh, the voyage of Columbus, or the invention of the incandescent light. It was something . . . pivotal — whatever it was.

Am I being petty? No, I’m not. The purpose of official patois is not to communicate meanings clearly, or emphatically, or wittily, or charmingly, or poetically, or individually, or truly in any way. The purpose is to project the self-importance of the authorities. That being so, it’s easy to see that this is commonly the language, not just of obscurity, but of obvious untruth, which the recipients are nevertheless expected to swallow.

One of the TV stations in my area has been trying to capitalize on the autumnal return of school children to their places of so-called instruction, by advertising a series about bullying in the schools. In one of its ads, a reporter intones, “We’re not afraid to stand up to bullying.” Refreshing, isn’t it? Here’s a public institution that is prepared to resist the threats of 12-year-olds.

Also refreshing is the station’s openness to the community. “I want you to be part of the conversation,” the reporter assured me. Well, maybe not me. Maybe the million little me’s out here in watcherland who are thought to be gullible enough to believe that by listening to some gasbag on TV, they’re participating in a conversation.

Refreshing, isn’t it? Here’s a public institution that is prepared to resist the threats of 12-year-olds.

If there’s a grossly politicized word in the vocabulary, it’s conversation. Remember when everyone in the Obama White House wanted to start a national conversation about that never-before-discussed topic, race relations in America? In other words, they wanted a conversation in which they had the final, and possibly the only, word. I remember Gorbachev, when he was in power. He was always calling for openness. One day, when he was out in the street conversing with his fellow citizens, a woman actually said something, and it wasn’t favorable to his policies. His response was, “That is what you think. Now I will tell you what I think.” How much more preposterous is someone with a microphone and a TV tower, inviting the invisible people who pick up his electronic signals to start a lively conversation with him? I quoted Gorbachev; now I’ll quote Brooklyn: “How dumb da ya think we are?”

The issue here is manipulative speech, speech that is less concerned to convey facts or even opinions than to neutralize the audience’s well-justified resistance. In this regard, television “journalists” and political “leaders” face a similar problem. Their audience really doesn’t care what they think; it doesn’t care to converse. It prefers, for the most part, to be left alone — unless, in some highly unusual case, a useful fact needs to be extracted from the flow of sound. Say, for instance, a useful fact about an approaching hurricane.

God help me, I squandered many hours of time watching the TV coverage of Hurricane Irma, particularly the 24/7 treatment offered by the Weather Channel. From this coverage I derived one useful fact: if you live in Florida, a hurricane may hit you sometime, so you should consider the obvious choices — leave or stay. If you stay, you should take in supplies and board up your windows.

That’s it. No other valuable knowledge was imparted. Despite graphic displays of predictive models — the European Model, the American Model, etc. — practically nothing was confided about how these models are constructed, or how hurricanes are constructed, or how to respond to the constant changes in the models’ estimates, or . . . anything.

The more the hurricane fizzled, the more insistent the news crews became about keeping it going.

As wall-to-wall coverage completed its sixth day, I began to pity all those hapless souls who had to stand in front of a camera and recite the same shrill warnings, purported facts, and solemn speculations over and over again. I was fascinated by the number of times I heard how foolish it is to try to ride out a hurricane in a small boat, and how dangerous it supposedly is to use candles if your power goes out.

I could forgive a lot of blather from people who have to keep talking long after they’ve exhausted their material. I could even forgive their obvious desire to cover a big story, which could only be the story of terrible destruction. I had more trouble forgiving their inclusion of the word “meteorologist” in every available sentence: “Turning now to meteorologist Jane Doe,” “As a meteorologist, I can say that this is indeed a big storm,” and so forth. I found it impossible to forgive anyone, meteorologist or not, who inflicted on the audience such locutions as, “Miami stands to get a large douse of rain” and “During the past week, millions of people fleed.”

The more the hurricane fizzled, the more insistent the news crews became about keeping it going. On Monday, September 11, the day after it hit, the weather guys had nothing to do but stand in a light breeze, muttering forecasts about the dreadful things that could yet happen. “There’s nothing weak about this,” one of them said, “only weaker.

Well, OK. What else can you do with all that airtime? One thing you could do is provide a sober consideration of what went wrong with all the confidently scientific predictions about where the storm would strike, how hard it would strike, and what the effects might be. That would be interesting, both scientifically and humanly. “Let’s see where things went wrong” is a fascinating study in imperfect humanity. Or you could share your knowledge (if any) about the history of evacuations, particularly the costs and benefits of leaving a place rather than staying in it.

The stunned weather guy didn’t know what to say. He had finally met someone with a sense of realty.

I heard none of that. What I heard was an increasingly shrill hall-monitorism — more warnings about using candles, evading curfews, driving on the roads during the recovery period. On Monday morning, one of the Weather Channel people positioned himself on a residential street and spent 15 minutes bemoaning the fact that a few cars were making their way through the light debris (palm fronds and such). Why are they here? he wondered. Why can’t people see that they may be blocking the way of first responders? Seeing a plump middle-aged gentleman walking calmly along, the weather guy said, “Let’s find out!” So, sir, why are you here?

The man explained that he had refugeed out but was now returning to see how his house was. He also commented that the storm hadn’t been nearly as bad as expected, and gave details. The stunned weather guy didn’t know what to say. He had finally met someone with a sense of realty. As he dismissed the home owner with an admonition not to block any first responders, I wondered what the gentleman might have replied, if he hadn’t been a gentleman, to this weird guy standing in the street with a microphone and a truckload of TV technicians. “Same to you, fella”?

I can’t resist dragging another party into court — Rick Scott, governor of the state of Florida. Scott seemed to me a competent organizer of disaster preparations, such as they are. He may have precipitated a run on gasoline by the millions of people whom he urged, perhaps uselessly, to evacuate, but he did arrange for gas to be stored and rushed to market afterward. And probably he can’t be blamed for trusting the scientific models of coming disaster. But I do resent his failure to notice the existence of 54 % of his state’s population.

His failure to make sense was emblematic of our great communicators’ disdain for most of the people who are purportedly part of their conversation.

What I mean is that 54% of adult Floridians are single, but in Scott’s long string of televised announcements he talked almost exclusively of “families” — as in his oft-repeated, literally absurd promise, “No resource or expense will be spared to protect families.” For the sake of families, he was willing to blow up Disney World, execute every alligator in the state, cut off his thumbs, and destroy every unmarried person he could find.

Or maybe not. Maybe he was just being pompous. But his failure to make sense was emblematic of our great communicators’ disdain for most of the people who are purportedly part of their conversation. And this disdain is generally reciprocated. Somewhere there are people who love Rick Scott for finally mentioning families. Somewhere there are people who feel that they are actually conversing with a television station by listening to its lamentations about childhood bullying. Somewhere there’s a person who warms to university administrators when they mention their passion for liaising. But I’m sure that these people amount to far fewer than 46%.




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Making It Official

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My remarks this month are about official abuse of language — a phenomenon so protean that it’s hard to decide where to start grabbing it. I’ll start at random, with the news about an employee of Google who wrote an essay claiming that there was no room for conservative attitudes in that outfit, and immediately discovered that there was no room for his attitudes:

Google has fired an employee who wrote an internal memo blasting the web company’s diversity policies . . .

“We are unequivocal in our belief that diversity and inclusion are critical to our success as a company,” [said] Danielle Brown, Google’s new vice president for diversity, integrity and governance.

Emphasizing the fact that corporate officials are sensitive to race, gender, and so forth, but not to irony, the news article continues with a note about Google’s holding company,Alphabet Inc.:

The subject of Google’s ideological bent came up at the most recent shareholder meeting, in June. A shareholder asked executives whether conservatives would feel welcome at the company. Executives disagreed with the idea that anyone wouldn’t.

“The company was founded under the principles of freedom of expression, diversity, inclusiveness and science-based thinking,” Alphabet Chairman Eric Schmidt said at the time. “You’ll also find that all of the other companies in our industry agree with us.”

Well, that’s diversity for you — universal agreement. It’s science, too. Science means that everybody agrees, and that’s that.

I, for one, do not agree that it’s a good idea to use principles as a kind of camouflage tent and found a company under them. That makes me wonder whether the principles are, in fact, just something to hide beneath. But maybe I’m not thinking scientifically. We know that if science says something, it must be true. That’s that, no matter how preposterous it sounds.

"Science" means that everybody agrees, and that’s that.

Speaking of that’s-that verbiage, let’s turn, without attempt at transition, to President Trump. On August 7, he tweeted this about Senator Richard Blumenthal (D, CT), one of many politicians who have been braying about Trump’s alleged intercourse with Russians (and, oddly, his alleged acceptance of foreign “emoluments”): “Never in U.S. history has anyone lied or defrauded voters like Senator Richard Blumenthal. He told stories about his Vietnam battles and conquests, how brave he was, and it was all a lie. He cried like a baby and begged for forgiveness like a child.”

Cried like a baby isn’t exactly fresh, but it’s fun to see it used about a man so swathed in the dignity of the Senate as Mr. Blumenthal. But I can think of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of anyones who have lied or defrauded worse than Blumenthal, several of them to be found in the Senate today. Maybe Trump can think of some himself, but he also thinks that everyone will understand his untruth as hyperbole.

One may ask, however: what is the use of hyperbole when you’re discussing historical events? If somebody said, “Of all the no-good, lying, dirty dogs, Hillary Clinton is by far the worst,” everyone would understand this as hyperbole; everyone knows she’s not a dog, and everyone can immediately picture all the no-good, lying, dirty “dogs” he has ever encountered, and identify some of them as even worse than Mrs. Clinton. This would not lessen the humorous effect of the trite, though picturesque, characterization of our former almost-president. But when Trump refers to specific, literal, historical facts (about lying, defrauding), he invites people to check them, not just to appreciate his hyperbole. The response is likely to be a pallid, “Sure, Blumenthal’s bad, but he’s not that bad. He isn’t Lyndon Johnson, after all.”

I can think of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of anyones who have lied or defrauded worse than Blumenthal, several of them to be found in the Senate today.

Trump has always trafficked in hyperbole, often to good effect, but historical hyperbole is becoming a habit with him, and a bad habit. On August 3, he tweeted, “Our relationship with Russia is at an all time & very dangerous low.” Since I want to believe, literally and completely, in everything a president of this country says, I immediately went out and bought emergency supplies. If we are at a lower point with Russia than we were during the Berlin blockade, and the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the breakup of the conference at Reykjavik, I’m preparing for war.

Yes, that’s sarcasm; sorry about that — which is what you say, nowadays, when you aren’t sorry about anything. Let’s pursue this topic of official discourse a little further.

In olden times there was a novel, and then a play, called Ten Nights in a Barroom. It was “temperance” propaganda, endeavoring to shame people out of their favorite saloons. I don’t know whether it accomplished that purpose, but it did show how unpleasant saloons could be, and it turned out to be very popular entertainment. But lately we’ve all spent many more than ten nights in a barroom. Ever since that evil day, now lost to memory, when the 2016 presidential campaign began, we’ve been locked in an old saloon filled with barflies yelling abuse at one another. The barflies are politicians and their journalistic surrogates. They scream, they taunt, they bluster, they try to make life miserable for everyone else. There’s just one good thing about them: they’re acting like human beings — angry, outrageous, extravagantly daft, but overtly, and sometimes interestingly, themselves.

If we are at a lower point with Russia than we were during the Berlin blockade, and the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the breakup of the conference at Reykjavik, I’m preparing for war.

Contrast the robotic calm that all the best people believe should characterize official discourse — the placid self-righteousness that camouflaged, with equal diligence,the foreign-policy hysteria of the Bush regime, the Neronian corruption of the Clintons, the ignorant Ameriphobia of the Obama class. The absence of this camouflaging discourse is one of the major reasons the shadow state detests Donald Trump. It detests him because it measures value by the degree to which erring human nature is repressed and the drama of life is replaced by professional training, best practices, settled science, authorized procedures, mission statements, job descriptions, educational credentials, and community principles.

But to replace messy human discourse with a comfort zone of politically correct official discourse is not to banish savagery. Oh no. It is only to weaponize it with inhuman words. There are few things more dangerous than official persons armed with official discourse.

You may recall that in last month’s Word Watch, I alluded to the hysterical behavior of Minneapolis police, and their panic shootings of innocent beings, human and canine. Soon after I wrote that column, wry signs were posted in the region: “Warning: Twin Cities Police Easily Startled,” with a silhouette of a cop with a gun in each hand, banging away.The AP distinguished these signs from “legitimate” ones, thus advertising its own political assumptions, but the signs showed an apt use of language. Less apt, indeed chillingly stupid, have been revelations about the ways in which Law Enforcement in Minneapolis talks.

To replace messy human discourse with a comfort zone of politically correct official discourse is not to banish savagery.

The policeman who wantonly shot two friendly dogs in the backyard of a woman whose burglar alarm had accidentally gone off claimed that the pooches made him fear for his safety. Apparently he needed a trigger warning. But the first words out of his mouth after he shot the household pets were a robotic, “Yeah, I dispatched both of ’em.”

Is that the way you talk when you’re rattled? But you’re not a trained professional, for whom the automatic term for shooting to kill is dispatched.

Worse is the way in which the state’s investigative agency described what happened when a policeman who was allegedly frightened by a noise fired his gun over the driver of the car in which he was riding and killed the woman who had called these cops to her neighborhood to investigate a possible rape. She seems to have made the absurd mistake of approaching the car. . . . but let the investigating agency, the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, narrate the action as it understood it on July 25:

On July 15, 2017 at approximately 11:30 p.m., Minneapolis PD received a 911 call from a (woman) requesting police respond to 5024 Washburn Ave S, Minneapolis for a female screaming at this location. Approximately 10 minutes later, a female called 911 again to check the status of police arrival at this address. Moments later, Minneapolis PD arrived on scene. Upon police arrival, a female “slaps” the back of the patrol squad.

After that, it is unknown to BCA agents what exactly happened, but the female became deceased in the alley, approximately 10 to 20 ft. north of 51st St. with trauma to her torso that could be a gunshot wound. Minneapolis PD has not elaborated on the circumstances, but requested the BCA to investigate an officer-involved shooting regarding this incident.

Note that the woman had to call twice. Be it also noted that, according to court records, the scene wasn’t searched until seven hours after the killing — I mean the decease — took place. But let’s think about the mentality that created this report.

No, I’m not a psychologist, and I don’t need to be. I’m not looking for individual motivation, biases, or intellectual deficiencies. I’m looking at the organizational mentality that is clearly responsible for this atrocious use of language. It’s practically illiterate, for one thing. “An officer-involved shooting regarding this incident” — what? The shooting was the incident. But much of this is the kind of illiteracy that has to be learned. People don’t normally call women females. They don’t normally say that a woman who obviously was shot dead had trauma to her torso that could be a gunshot wound. Even a sociopath wouldn’t spontaneously employ the language of radical skepticism in a case like this. And it’s interesting that the investigating agency has received a revelation that the cop car was the victim of a “female” slap. They aren’t sure what killed her, but they do know that she — or some other suspicious member of her gender — made the mistake of slapping a car.

For brutal coldness, this one can hardly be surpassed.

But who in the hell has ever said that a person became deceased? We’ve heard a lot of substitutions for died or dead: passed away (eventually followed by that weird nonentity, passed), perished, departed this life, and yes, deceased. Innumerable jocular substitutions (kicked the bucket) have been added, humor being one of mankind’s best means of transcending the fear of death. Each of these terms, euphemistic, religious, or jocular, is appropriate to some human attitude or context, but none of them pictures men and women as mere objects undergoing chemical change.

But now we have became deceased, and it’s not meant to be funny. For brutal coldness, this one can hardly be surpassed. A cake became stale in the fridge. A drain became clogged under the sink. A female became deceased in the alley.

Notice the seemingly inevitable progression of bureaucratic thought. You start with a euphemism (deceased for died), then prevent even that from being an occasion for sentiment.

For some reason, I’m thinking of a scene in Citizen Kane:

THOMPSON
I see. And that's what you know about Rosebud?

RAYMOND
Yeah. I heard him say it that other time, too. He just said, uh,
"Rosebud," then he dropped the glass ball and it broke on the
floor. He didn't say anything after that, and I knew he was dead.
He said all kinds of things that didn't mean anything.

THOMPSON
Sentimental fellow, aren't you?

RAYMOND
Mmm . . . Yes and no.




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