lottery fixing scandal

Why the story of a lottery-fixing scam that enable(s) people to know which lottery tickets are winners isn't bigger news, I really don't know.

The inquiry is sending a chill through state governments that depend on public confidence in contests that generate $20 billion annually in lottery revenue.

It's not quite clear to me how the scam worked or works, but the idea that anyone might get an inside track on winning lottery tickets strikes me as enormous news. Talk about a sweet deal!

Think of the states and municipalities that have thrown their credulous weight behind gambling as a means of footing the tax bill: If the credibility of the lottery were skewed, what happens to tax revenues?

FBI investigates Pete Seeger

FILE - In this April 4, 1961, file photo, Pete Seeger, with a banjo slung over his shoulder, is accompanied by his wife, Toshi, as he arrives at the federal court in New York for sentencing on a conviction for contempt of Congress. The Federal Bureau of Investigation released more than 1,700 pages of documents it collected on the folk singer. (AP Photo/File)

When confronted by the particulars of "background checks," I have to admit that such investigations scare the crap out of me. So often, those doing the investigating fall victim to their own grandeur and importance that the ordinary humanity of the one being investigated is relegated to the "suspicious" bin. Conformity is a frightening commodity, yesterday and today.

An Associated Press story today details the lengths to which the Federal Bureau of Investigation went when scouring folksinger Pete Seeger's associations and thoughts and friends as he tried to join the army during World War II. His "loyalty" was fragile at best, from the FBI's point of view.

Freedom of thought. Freedom of association. The wonders of the thoughtful mind. None of this seems to occur now to investigators who have the task of assessing a man or woman's make-up and potential. Then it was Pete Seeger. Now it is, perhaps, Muslims or some other perceived "radicals." If your job is to find dirt, what human being -- to the extent s/he is human -- is immune? Gawd!

Pete Seeger's left-wing affiliations were known. His left-leaning friends like Woody Guthrie were likewise known. His wife was of Japanese extraction at a time when Japanese-Americans were being rounded up and sent to American internment camps. And he, like his friends, dressed in workplace clothes. A slob, by some lights. A Commie agitator who, with the Almanac Singers or alone, gave resonance to songs like "Talking Union" and "If I Had a Hammer." Seeger's mail was intercepted as were his wife Toshi's letters.

I grew up on Pete Seeger's music. I knew nothing of communism, but the songs spoke to justice and equality, however badly defined. They were inspiring songs and Pete Seeger was one of my heroes. I was happy as a pig in mud when I was able to get hold of a Seeger album that was "banned" ... something like "Songs of the Spanish Civil War."

And then there was the question of how, when it came time to run a background check over my own life, investigators didn't balk at the fact that my mother -- at a time when it was fashionable for intellectuals -- had likewise joined the Communist Party. I needed a top secret clearance for the work I was to do in the army and someone must have stumbled on my mother's disloyal affiliations ... before she realized that the Communists were far too lock-step for her taste and she quit. 

All I could imagine was that the investigators had gone back to a time when, in college, I gained a "secret" clearance from the Navy in order to work at a facility linked to Columbia University where I had once taken classes and needed a job in order to pay tuition. All I did at Columbia was deliver books and mail packages, but the clearance was necessary. The facility worked on rocketry and similar secret stuff. I was a high-priced mail boy, so I got the clearance and when later it came time to join the army and bump up to "top secret," perhaps the army investigators went no further back than the point at which the Navy decided I was not a Communist threat and my mother's affiliations could be overlooked.

Secrecy, loyalty, conformity ... isn't there anyone in that self-involved and self-important world that stops to consider the ranging wonders of the human mind? Isn't there anyone who wonders if wondering and postulating are not really enough for a conclusion? These days, people even thinking about 'terrorist' acts are taken for questioning. I don't know about you, but I have seditious thoughts all the time. But it is when I act that you get to arrest or harass me ... and not before.

Oh well, I'm just an old scaredy-cat.

act with care; steer clear of goodness

Act with care but steer clear of goodness.

That little snapdragon of a thought came to mind this morning in the wake of a movie review that was passed along in email. "Zen and War: A Film Review," which I read with less attention than it probably deserved, reprises the complicities of Zen Buddhism in the war that Japan waged in China and elsewhere. It is carefully and forcefully and literately argued, as far as I could see.

But the particulars of the indictments fell out of my spotlight, somehow. What a lot of well-camouflaged hypocrisy goes into institutionalized religion's virtues. The bill of particulars deserves to be outed, but more than those particulars, from where I was sitting this morning, is the need/plea/demand of the human condition to imagine it is doing something good.

Institutionalized religion will occasionally tug a humble forelock and concede that there is a rotten apple or two in an otherwise nutritious barrel. But the unspoken assumption is that the barrel nourishes and is good. I certainly wouldn't argue for the opposite -- that the barrel is, of necessity, rotten. But I am interested in the notion that a great and good notion is necessarily great and good and therefore the institution deserves the power of an assumption. The Vatican did what it could to posit this position when pedophile priests grabbed the popular spotlight: "Yes, we have our problems, but the foundation is firm and good and holy" ... something like that.

But the Vatican is hardly alone in sustaining the goodness of what so much effort demands ... a place in the goodness pantheon. Zen Buddhism contributed to the mind set of death and destruction in the face of a precept that says pretty clearly, "don't kill." But even as anyone might comb the institutional landscape and turn up one hypocrisy after another, it is the bathroom mirror that impresses me more:

I work so hard to do something good that it must, both institutionally and personally, be good. The alternative is too distressing. I want to think well of myself because, because, because ... well, I just wanna and there's the end of it. A rotten apple or two, sure, but the barrel that looks back in the bathroom mirror is, because I say so, nutritious and good. Call me Mr. Vatican.

I wonder if goodness is just something to outgrow, like acne. Or is it perhaps not outgrow-able? Is there anything that enriches a nest of vipers more than the application of goodness? And what of the sense of loss -- so vast, so vast -- if goodness is set aside? The Vedas weren't whistling "Dixie" when they came up with "the razor's edge."

Whatever it is, I think my little snapdragon is pretty close to the mark. Not good, mind you, just pretty close. I'll try to keep an eye on it.

survival in Japan

With a low crime rate, Japan is one of the safest places in the world, but it is also prone to natural disasters. A 2011 earthquake and tsunami left more than 18,000 people dead or missing in the northeast. The last major earthquake in Tokyo, in 1923, sparked fires that burned wide swaths of the city and killed 140,000 people in the area.

The Tokyo disaster guide, with every page printed on bright yellow paper, is intended to help citizens prepare for and survive a major emergency in which power, water and heat may be lost for days. It opens with an ominous warning: "It is predicted that there is a 70 percent possibility of an earthquake directly hitting Tokyo within the next 30 years. Are you prepared?"

black site on red-white-and-blue soil

It appeared in The Guardian in February, but I first saw it today after it was passed along in email -- an article about a 'black site' used by the Chicago Police Department to hold suspects without charge or recourse for a number of hours.

It may be that I hadn't had enough coffee, but as dismaying as the article's details were, I found it sort of blurry around the edges. But for all that, it does seem to point to yet another bit of crumbling in the American fabric. "Disappearing" the largely dispossessed suspects feels like some tinpot dictatorship above which America might rather wish to stand ... like Central or South America or China, perhaps.

The police-state nightmare, often wispy in its outraged tendrils, seems to gain a more concrete footing. Firepower, secrecy, presumptions of guilt, legalities overlooked ... this is America? It tastes like the aftermath of throwing up to me.

durable goods

The US firm is one of a small number of clothing companies actively countering the proliferation of cheap wears, where new collections delivered weekly, or in some cases daily, has helped fuel a seemingly insatiable desire to buy more stuff.

More stuff, and made to fail or go out of fashion into the bargain. If things don't fail, it's not as easy to buy more stuff. And a BBC article takes note of a few companies offering durable clothing ... stuff that lasts and can be fixed when it wears down and threatens to encroach on the need/desire/addiction to more stuff.

But there is a paradoxical element involved: Capitalism is based on more stuff, but more stuff never seems to still the craving for more stuff. As my parents no doubt felt about my early longings, I marvel at the stuff my kids can accumulate, learn to ignore and then throw away.

As in the picture above, I have a hammer I have owned for decades. It is a bit rusty around the edges, but that doesn't mean it can't pound nails with the best of them. I like it. Likewise a set of fingernail clippers ... ten, twenty, thirty, forty years and it works just fine. I like it.

It's nice to have something about which, theoretically, anyone might say, "one and done" ... or, at least relatively speaking, "one and done." But I too have mountains of stuff accumulated -- not necessarily based on vanity alone -- over the years. Important once, it is largely crap now. And still I like the idea of creating something that has the capacity to last a bit longer than some plastic automobile or a water heater that, as distinct from its predecessors, falls apart at the least surge.

Ah well, I guess it all gives new meaning to the encouragement, "if you want something done right, do it yourself."

"Leaves of Grass" redux

Watched the whole of the 2009-1010 movie "Leaves of Grass" and while it was not so astounding as I had thought when seeing segments on TV, still it was quirky enough and human enough and touching enough and funny enough to qualify, in my book, as a keeper.

Hollywood didn't get its hooks into this one.

religion and cats

In this photo taken on Tuesday, Dec. 15, 2015 in the village of Lemeshevo, Moscow region, Russian Archpriest Pyotr Dinnikov holds his cat Vasik at Ilynsky church. A group of Christian enthusiasts has released a calendar showing an unexpected face of the Russian Orthodox Church: cat-loving priests. The Priest and Cat calendar released earlier this month by photographer Anna Galperina and editor Ksenia Luchenko shows 12 Orthodox priests at their homes posting with their cats. (AP Photo/Sergei Fedotov)

taking on the shit

NEW DELHI (AP) -- The World Bank has approved a $1.5 billion loan for a sanitation program in India, where millions of people have no access to toilets. 

The bank said in a statement Wednesday that the loan will be used to support government efforts to provide toilets in villages and end the practice of open defecation by 2019. 

More than 500 million Indians, especially in rural areas, continue to defecate in the open, despite efforts to encourage people to change their habits. 

World Bank representative Onno Ruhl said one in every 10 deaths in India is linked to poor sanitation. 

Defecating outdoors increases cases of diarrhea, parasitic worm infections and other public health scourges that experts say contribute to childhood stunting and malnutrition.

Thank goodness India has a lot of computers to lessen the load.

monthly newspaper column

With a helpful nudge from "Judith," here is the monthly column as it appeared in the local paper today.

Military matters, from father to son (12/16/15 Daily Hampshire Gazette)

A couple of months back, my younger son, a machine-gunner for the Army National Guard, came home one evening and announced that two security positions had opened up in Afghanistan and he had volunteered.

My stomach lurched, but I tried to keep a straight face. Ives is 21, a college student and has been drawn to the military since he was little. There comes a time when a father needs to let go of his children. But that doesn’t mean the transition is easy.

Yes, a part of me can see the attraction of military engagement, but another part rises up in a protective fury: This is my son we were talking about. My son!

The late Russian dictator Joseph Stalin once said, “One death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” With more than 20 million Russian dead during World War II, you can see where he was coming from.

But the idea that my son might become another man’s statistic was beyond all words! It was beyond horror. And it was at this point in my paternal confusion that a recollection asserted itself.

In 1959, I attended a college that had a mandatory ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corps) program for freshmen. As a freshman, I successfully petitioned to be excused based on a 19-year-old’s conscientious objections. At 19, I was very sincere.

Yet, two years later, I signed on the dotted line and joined the Army as much as anything because, I was “more interested in experience than I was in virtue.” There was a draft at the time and “everyone” participated. My father was flabbergasted: How could a “rather intelligent young man” — as he once described me — be so stupid?

Anyway, I signed up and went. I was a pretty good shot, but when all was said and done I ended up as a pencil-pushing spy in Germany — a linguist who never shot at anyone and was never shot at in return. In addition, strangely, the unit I was assigned to in Berlin turned out to be the single most intelligent group of people I would ever meet in my lifetime.

My father disapproved and I did it anyway. And now my son was on the verge of doing it and it was my turn to grind my teeth.

But there is a difference between a pencil-pushing spy and a cannon-fodder machine gunner. I can sympathize with a young man’s willingness to go in harm’s way if that is the price for an inner peace that youth seldom has a handle on. There is “brotherhood,” “patriotism,” “service,” “courage,” “heroism,” and perhaps a whispered hope for “glory” ... all of it a heady and reassuring social support system.

Was it ever otherwise? Old men fashion the dreams; young men live the nightmare.

All of this and more like it flashed through my mind as I considered Ives’ announcement. I wondered if there was anything I could say that might be useful to the course he had chosen or might fall victim to.

All I could think to say was this: “If you are selected to go to Afghanistan, I think the first thing you want to do is learn at least 100 words of the native language spoken in your assigned country. It may not be much, but it could save your life or the lives of your buddies or the lives of the people whose land you occupy.”

My son looked supremely unimpressed. Machine guns don’t need words. Bullets have their own language. “Peacenik” rhetoric changed nothing. Why make things any harder than they needed to be?

But what good soldier is not trained to know his enemy? How could you know your enemy without some facility in the language? Does esprit de corps mean a willful ignorance and mindless flag-waving? Wouldn’t you like to think that women and children (the ones referred to blithely as “collateral damage”) might somehow be absolved and made safe?

One hundred words. In that desperate split second before the trigger gets pulled, one hundred words might make all the difference. True, it might make no difference at all: Sometimes cruelty is the only recourse. But in the instances where words can suffice, aren’t they preferable to the blood and loss, however gaily the banner waves?

Ives was not selected to go to Afghanistan. But given the events in the Middle East and given a hobbled political arena, I imagine he will get his chance. “Terrorism” is chic.

As always, the old men wear lapel-pin flags as if they were patriots.

As always, young men go to war.

And, as always, like deer on a highway, fathers stand transfixed in the statistical headlights.

Adam Fisher lives in Northampton. His column appears on the third Wednesday of the month. He can be reached at genkakukigen@aol.com.

"Leaves of Grass"

After a number of errands, I am looking forward today, assuming I can find it on the Internet, to watching a 2009-2010 movie called "Leaves of Grass." I saw part of it on TV last night and was delighted ... yes, Virginia, it is possible to make a good movie. After enough parboiled plots, you kind of forget how thoughtful-without-being-freighted a good story can be.

Other than that, I tweaked the newspaper column running tomorrow and have (as when fucking not?!) a doctor's appointment for reasons I don't or won't recall.

Forward the Light Brigade!

U.S. averts its eyes

From Reuters:

Two unpublished investigations show that the United States has consistently overlooked killings and torture by Iraqi government-sponsored Shi'ite militias.

Others may hit the mark from time to time, but when it comes to steady-Eddy real news, I find myself putting Reuters out front.

workers shut in coffins

When the pressure mounts, increase the pressure:

South Korea has one of the highest suicide rates in the world, and workers often report feeling stressed. So in order to make people appreciate life, some companies are making employees take part in their own pretend funerals.

Strange to note that when management comes up with such nostrums, it is seldom if ever that they consider revising the circumstances that afflict the worker....

Sorta like "terrorism:" Don't examine the causes, just mow down the results.

who am I?

Seen through one lens, perhaps there is an unceasing universal prayer resting on every human lip, a request to the heavens and all their realms, sometimes whispered, sometimes yowled: "Tell me who I am." It may never be clearly enunciated and it never receives a perfect, consoling response, but still it lingers, I suspect.

Perhaps a job will answer the prayer. Or maybe marital status. A spouse. Or money. Or a philosophy. Or an institution. Or an award. Or an argument won. Or, or, or ... or any circumstance that seems to bind and bond and quantify and, at last, settle things. It never works perfectly, but that doesn't lessen the intensity of the quest. If I knew who I was, I could somehow get on with things and be at ease.

But in the midst of this wispy, floating quest and query, the possibility almost never asserts itself: What if there were some thing or person that could wrap up the case with a perfect, unassailable response. What if there were an answer that was in fact The Answer ... and there's an end to it! On reflection, it seems that something within knows that there is no answer and nevertheless persists and begs and seeks and insists. A settled and settling coherence is not in the cards.

Still, there are moments when the target comes close -- so very close -- to finding a focus and the arrow really seems to strike home.

Once upon a time, a time when I was hip-deep in visiting a shrink (who am I?) on the one hand and practicing Zen Buddhism (who am I?) on another, I got wind of a little work. A fellow at the zendo said that the advertising world had been thrown into a tizzy by a strike and agencies were looking for stand-in's to tout various products. "Why don't you try it?" he suggested. "All you have to do is show up."

So I showed up and waited in a room littered with unremarkable people like me who had likewise heard they might find work. There was paperwork. There was waiting. There was no indication of what product any of us might be touting. We waited. And finally, it was my turn in front of the camera and bright lights and reading from a story board. A much-too-skinny, high-octane woman placed me where I was to stand for the reading. And then I read.

The ad was for pickup trucks and I knew in a nanosecond that I didn't stand a chance. I was not someone whose looks would inspire faith or longing in the world of pickup trucks. The reading took perhaps a minute, after which the tightly-wound woman came to escort me towards the exit. Thanks for coming, she said perfunctorily but not unkindly. I wasn't what the agency was looking for ... and then she answered my unspoken prayer:

"You're more the priest, cop or young daddy if you'd smile more."

And she was right. A person I hardly knew, someone who had not delved earnestly into my psyche or plumbed my mystical realms took a finger-snap's worth of her time to nail me to the barnyard door. I was as obvious as clear water ... why beat around the bush?

Her on-target assessment left me both wonder-struck and bereft. For a few moments I knew who I was. No more frills and navel-gazing ... just plain. Just plain, and "just plain" was just plain fine. Sometimes "just plain" fills the bill. Sometimes not. Either way was just fine.

But to what constructive uses might I now put all the time once dedicated to finding out who I was. The prospect was so daunting that -- you guessed it -- I went back to petitioning the heavens and all their realms: "Tell me who I am."

music box balm

Music from a music box [sample from elsewhere] ... it's antiquated, perhaps, but when it comes to soothing the savage beast, it gets my vote. My stepmother gave me one -- a real one from the old days -- and now and then, better than Valium, I crank it up and float away.

A BBC article begins:

Devices for playing music come and go - cassette tapes, MP3 players and CDs have all had their time as digital downloads take over.

But one system invented some 200 years ago lives on.

In the mountains of western Switzerland, one company still makes automatic music boxes for enthusiasts around the world.

Reuge is considered the last major manufacturer of a traditional device that once rivalled watches as one of Switzerland's greatest exports.

teaching Zen

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had a Zen Buddhist instructor I was inclined to listen to. One day, I asked him about the appropriate way to instruct relative newcomers to the discipline. He replied, "Tell them eighty percent and let them learn twenty."

Because I was inclined to listen to him, I rolled that around in my mind in the years that followed. In the end, I decided he was right but I also decided I did not agree with him. My answer to my question became, "Tell them one hundred percent and let them learn one hundred percent."

Like Christmas presents under the tree, it's funny how what is fierce comes differently wrapped.

"a minor scratch"

"A driver has escaped serious injury after a heavy metal beam fell off a truck, bounced then pierced his BMW X5 SUV's windscreen in San Jose, California.

"The driver was able to drive the vehicle to the shoulder of the road and no other vehicles were involved, fire crews said.

"The man received a minor scratch to his right arm, firefighters said."

artificial intelligence

Vast advance or assured suicide?

Prominent tech executives have pledged $1bn (£659m) for OpenAI, a non-profit venture that aims to develop artificial intelligence (AI) to benefit humanity....

Open AI says it expects its research - free from financial obligations - to focus on a "positive human impact".

Scientists have warned that advances in AI could ultimately threaten humanity....

Last year, British theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking told the BBC AI could potentially "re-design itself at an ever increasing rate", superseding humans by outpacing biological evolution.

Does anyone doubt that the child will stick his fork in a light socket?

a movie I don't want to see

In my memory banks, "The Last Wave," directed by Peter Weir, is probably the most ballsy movie I ever saw. The 1977 movie is

... about a white solicitor in Sydney whose seemingly normal life is disrupted after he takes on a murder case and discovers that he shares a strange, mystical connection with the small group of local Australian Aborigines accused of the crime.

The spiritual daring of the movie blew my socks off. Apparently it blew Weir's socks off too because his subsequent movies ("The Year of Living Dangerously," "The Truman Show," "Witness" et al) while containing mystical/magical elements, bent a knee to Hollywood and the need to put spaghetti on the table. Still, "The Last Wave" is a benchmark in my memory. Who knows if it would stand up to rewatching today?

Like a child reaching out to touch the horizon, "The Last Wave" acknowledged the child in all of us. It was intelligent and unapologetic. It was no joke. It eluded the smarm that might have been brought to bear in other directorial hands. It was serious rather than solemn. Children fall down and skin their knees. There is literal blood on the tapestry of this childhood.

I guess I find myself casting back to "The Last Wave" because "In the Heart of the Sea" made it into movie theaters this weekend. A Variety review seemed to sum up the luke-warm reception it got when the magazine described the movie as "a pedestrian retelling of a harrowing real-life survival story that served as one of the key inspirations for “Moby-Dick.”"

Reading reviews is not something I generally do, but in this case, I had recently finished the 2000 book on which it was based. I liked the book, which was quiet and somehow embodied the vastness of the landscape on which 19th century whaling ships operated... man-in-the-face-of-the-huge ... was this courage or greed or insanity? I liked the book, but a part of me simply could not believe a movie would or could be daring enough to capture or investigate or even whisper about the "it" of it all. I thought the reviews might cast some light. And they did. Good reviews, bad reviews ... still reviews cannot escape whether or not the reviewer was touched or moved or informed or drawn-out or shape-shifted out of a convenient world.

I had wanted to want to see the movie. Now I don't. Big and brash and bold and sweeping ... or maybe just disastrous ... these are coupons on the cereal boxes. Balls are a different matter.

fog duty

A satin cat of a foggy morning and whatever energy I have needs to be apportioned first to column-writing chores.
Out of the fog, into the fog.
Pin the tail on the non-existent donkey.

patching the holes

When I was a kid in the first and second grade, it was not unusual to see other kids wearing patched jeans to school.

Levi's made a good, tough pair of trousers and most of us wore them to school, but, kids being kids, there was wear and tear, mostly at the knees. Moms, in that time, knew how to sew and did so, patching the holes as they appeared: No point in wasting an otherwise perfectly good pair of pants.

And the patching wasn't chic as it is in today's throw-away times. It was practical. "Fashion" was yet to come.

And so it is, I sometimes think, with my mind these days -- patching the worn and wearing holes in the tapestry; reconnecting dots that others may see as obviously-connected dots. The gaps get bigger as time passes and the patching process becomes more necessary or, as I increasingly sense, not necessary at all: The connections aren't really all that assured in the first place.

Again I am trying to write a newspaper column, to connect dots in such a way that others will know what I am talking about. My free-association is not necessarily anyone else's, so there is some sewing necessary ... to make it all seem connected ... even if it isn't ... or is.

It takes more and more energy to patch these jeans. Maybe I could just go naked.

"Christina's" burden

Without getting too smarmy about it, sometimes I think everyone's life may boil down to the evocative depiction of "Christina's World," a painting by Andrew Wyeth....

Struggle and sweat and laugh and cry and in the end there is always the house at the top of the hill and the keen awareness of the crippling barriers between here and there. With what arms and legs can I make this journey? I don't know and have to admit I may never get where I insist on wanting to go... and yet what other choice is there?

Oh, if polio were the only wall!

maple syrup wars

Organization produces stability, but it cramps individuality. Individuals want the blessing of stability AND the freedom of individuality: Sacrifice to a wider good becomes onerous and confining... and the resulting revolution brings instability back into focus.

The American political landscape comes to mind, as does the De Beers diamond cartel and...

The maple syrup wars in Canada:

Redheaded grandmother Angele Grenier doesn't look much like a criminal, but she is one of Canada's most wanted women.

And as such, she faces the likelihood of lengthy jail time, and fines of about 500,000 Canadian dollars ($368,000; £245,000).

Her crime? She's a self-confessed smuggler and illegal dealer, someone who sells contraband across province lines.

But what exactly is she selling that has so incensed the Canadian authorities, and seen the police search her property? Drugs? Guns?

Nope, maple syrup - the lovely, sweet stuff that you pour on your breakfast pancakes, or add to your biscuit recipes.

"Lean On"

Lean On ... what's au courant leaves me pretty much gasping in the prop wash, but that doesn't mean I can't find some fun in a young Danish woman who has found success:

MØ won critical acclaim for her debut album in 2014

commodity prices dip

Steel pipes wait to be loaded on to ships at Lianyungang, in eastern China's Jiangsu province [BBC]

What I know about commodities is negligible to non-existent, but the following tale of sagging prices caught my attention as the kind of thing that will come knocking on my own, quite-personal door:

Mining shares have continued to fall in the face of low commodity prices.

Shares in Anglo American, which fell more than 12% on Tuesday, fell another 10% on Wednesday morning in London.

The group announced on Tuesday it would cut some 85,000 of its workforce in a massive restructuring.

Among the major commodities only oil managed to stage a slight recovery, with Brent crude rising above $40 a barrel in Asian trade.

However, most analysts believe that any recovery will be short-lived with the world continuing to face a glut of commodities.

Donald Trump, a shining star

If nothing else, Donald Trump, the current political front-runner in the Republican race to be 2016's presidential nominee, must stand out as a shining star in the eyes of those who credit themselves with an aristocratic heritage and culture.

The English, the French, the Japanese, the Chinese, the well-appointed hordes everywhere -- the ones whose ancestors' portraits hang on the walls and act as a reminder of a refined and cultured existence stretching back hundreds, if not thousands, of years ... how could they not bask in this billionaire's brash assertiveness and idiocies? With a pitch-perfect politesse, which among this band would not look on Trump as the very model of an America they had always quietly disdained, even as they were willing to take its money?

Nekulturny -- that's Trump ... the very essence of an America which knows the price of everything and the value of nothing; the contrasting backdrop against which the aristocrat, real or imagined, might measure his own stature and composure. A guy like Trump bolsters and supports ancient and well-heeled understandings of what it is to be kulturny -- understandings that quietly overlook the role that the unwashed played in the clean hands of poetry and politesse.

No need to fret. A bias is assured. Donald Trump helps to make it possible:

America is a nation of merchants.

the Dalai Lama redux

Yesterday, on an Internet Buddhist bulletin board, a New York Times Magazine piece about the Dalai Lama floated into focus and I decided to test myself and try to read it. Like many people of my acquaintance, I too have fond, if brief, recollections of encounters with the Dalai Lama. I read the piece (sort of) with that twinkly fondness in mind.

I was dogged. The piece went on and on and on and on and on and I could remember times when every spiritual hangnail the Dalai Lama might have was of keen interest: What he did, where he went, what he said, how he affected others, the problems of the world and his assessments, his mystical depths, what his daily schedule might be, his humor, his seriousness ... on and on and on and on and there was a time when I soaked it up greedily. What a shining light.

But reading the piece -- or rather, skimming it -- I realized I didn't much care. I liked the Dalai Lama and was grateful to the stimulation he once brought to my life, but ... but I was content with my inconsequential encounters. They were enough. Reading the piece was a little like running into an old girlfriend with whom there had once been fire but now there were merely pleasant embers. It wasn't something to ignore, but it also wasn't anything to write home about.

What a nice guy. Isn't that enough?

Strange to think how fierce the attraction once was and how lazily banked the flames were now. Not dismissive or critical, particularly, just a topic that others might jump up and down about but I no longer could. A serious and silly man and I like silly and serious people, flawed or otherwise.

What a nice guy.

Mt. Etna erupts

"After almost two years of quiescence, Mount Etna erupted this past Thursday with a spectacular display of lava and volcanic ash. Southern Italy woke up to ashen sky and a red glow above Sicily coming from Mt. Etna on the eastern edge of the island. The active volcano produced one of the most violent eruptions in recent decades and lasted in total less than an hour."

 

And here is Reuters rough cut from yesterday:


Strange to consider what set of circumstances will bring what perspective to worldwide or even personal events of the moment.

Dave Allen assesses "the clock"

"a date which will live in infamy"

December 7, 1941

“A Date Which Will Live in Infamy”: FDR Asks for a Declaration of War. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, on December 7, 1941, stunned virtually everyone in the United States military. Japan's carrier-launched bombers found Pearl Harbor totally unprepared.

What horrors were yet to come in the wake of the presidential speech? Excruciating, consuming, horrific in little ways as in large.

And yet here is the anniversary and not even the infamy lives on.

I am so sorry and yet am in need of something to feel sorry for or about.