When The Situation Calls for Marian Anderson....

I tell her, she who is not here, that the world doesn’t need to hear from me today.

“Well, I wrote about it,” said Lady, “so you should too.”

“There will come a time,” I told her, “when people won’t know what that unspecified ‘it’ is. But today, all anyone can think about is the killing of 50 people in a gay nightclub in Orlando. Anyway, when ‘it’ no longer ceases to be ‘it’ then I’ll write about it. Or ‘it…’ Anyway, nobody particularly cares…”

“Well, I care,” said Lady. “So what do you think?”

“Hard to know,” I tell her, ‘though my first thought, frankly, was ‘ah, the religion of peace strikes again!’ Is that fair? No, of course not. Did the fact that Westboro Church all but lit off fireworks to celebrate the event mean that all Christians hate gay people? Of course not. In fact, there was a vigil held at a mosque in Orlando last night. And some sheik or imam or somebody-or-other came out and denounced the attack. But then again, two months ago, Farrokh Sekaleshfar, a Sharia ‘scholar’ was in Orlando, and he comes right out and says it. Couldn’t be clearer—gays must die. So what are we supposed to think? Oh, and Sekaleshfar, to be fair, put out on his website condolences, as well as made this statement:”

The killing of innocent life is never justified by religion,' he said. 

The perpetrator of this shooting has directly violated this holy commandment and displayed a complete disregard for the sanctity of human life and divine values.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3638438/Orlando-shooting-Controversial-anti-homosexual-sheikh-spoke-Florida-shooting.html#ixzz4BThH3cMw

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“So I ran over to YouTube, and there he is, coolly saying that ‘we have to get rid of them.’ Oh, and according to the info on the YouTube clip below, he also said:”

Death is the sentence. We know there’s nothing to be embarrassed about this, death is the sentence...We have to have that compassion for people, with homosexuals, it's the same, out of compassion, let’s get rid of them now.”

“Anyway, he certainly knows how to use both side of his mouth,” I told her. “But he actually worries me less than the fact that the ‘Interfaith Council of Central Florida’ got the guy in to speak, and then issued this smarmy statement when they got called on it:”

These issues around homosexuality and the decrying of it or denouncing of it by religion takes away, often, from our really important task of helping our community to be a better community...and wishes congregations would focus more on helping the homeless, poor , and abused instead of persecuting a group that can take care of itself.

“In other words, homosexuality is a side issue, and then he throws in that assumption that we can ‘take care of ourselves.’ Well, I wish it were true. But there’s something a little complicit in the Muslim community: too many of them let a sizable wacko component spout off, and then when something outrageous happens, they give us the ‘Islam is love’ line. ”

“Anyway, it’s a disaster,” I continued, “because guess who benefits? Donald Trump, since he’ll play the fear factor up, and say that he’ll make America safe—as well as great—again! So that’s another disaster….”

“Ouch!”

“And of course, there’s the other disaster of knowing that Americans have the constitutional right—supposedly—to buy and carry assault rifles, and that any lunatic can do so. So even though the guy was an abuser—according to his wife—he still got a gun. Oh, and his co-workers knew that he was nutso, so much that they contacted the authorities. And just like the Boston bomber, he was on the screen but off. So that has to be the fourth or fifth disaster….”

“Oh, dear….”

“Yup…”

“You know, if enough of the Muslim world could do what Irshad Manji did and does, I’d buy into the ‘Islam is a religion of peace’ stuff.”

“Irshad Manji?”

“Canadian woman who wrote a book called The Trouble with Islam Today. Anyway, today isn’t really a day to think, or to analyze. It’s mostly about getting up and getting on, which is why I flew Marian Anderson in….”

“The contralto? The lady at the Lincoln Memorial?”

“The very same,” I told her, “because when things really get bad, the only way out is Anderson. And the Alto Rhapsody, of course…”

“Brahms?”

“Yup, and quite specific and to the point, here. It’s a prayer for a soul lost in the wilderness to find spiritual comfort. And oddly, I always think it’s a prayer for the victimizer, not the victim. It is, in fact, the only way I can pray for the soul of the 19 hijackers on September 11. Or for Mateen…. Because what nobody talks about is the intense isolation of these killers. Their society, and ours, has failed them. They’re drifting around, unmoored, and then this fanatic ‘religion’ snags them, and the only way for their life to have ‘meaning’ is to commit atrocities in the name of Jesus or Allah or whoever. Then, of course, we say that ‘they are filled with evil.’ But that’s crazy: they’re not filled with anything. At least at the beginning. So the Alto Rhapsody always does the trick….”

“But why?”

“Because what is wearisome about all of this is the narrative we tell ourselves. ‘It was a senseless act,’ we say, but is that really true? Of course, it doesn’t make sense to us, but then, getting down and bowing to Mecca five times a day doesn’t make sense, either. To us, at least. But the terrible think is that the tragedy does make sense, if you take the Koran literally. I mean, it’s there, as it is in the Bible. But if you believe literally, well the act makes sense….”

“Are you condoning the attack?”

“Absolutely not. But not thinking clearly about our narrative doesn’t help us….”

“And thinking clearly does?”

“Who knows? But I think it’s our only way out….”

“Right! So on with the Brahms!”

“OK, but to really get this work, you gotta follow the lyrics….”

“Why?”

“Just do it. You’ll see why.”

She did, and she did!

Chapter 13, Bad Novel

It was the hill where they placed the dead.

The old, the young, the sick and maimed—it didn’t matter to the hill. Its only obligation was to receive them, soak in the putrid fluids from their wounds, and finally watch as the carrion descended. A hill can do all of that quite coldly. Death, after all, is the answer to life’s question.

It was as well, I thought, since there is nothing personal in death—and isn’t an individual personality a tyranny? How many of us long to be in a mob, a part of a raging riot that has a mind of its own? To sweep through the streets towards the Bastille, sure that nothing can stop it. At last, having the ‘I’ become ‘it.’

And so I came across the body, in my first steps up the hill. I sat beside it, for a while, since it seemed somehow lonely.

“Well, I was so in life, as well,” it said.

“Excuse me?”

“Lonely, I mean. It’s the price of success. And I was successful, very much so….”

“That wasn’t what you wished?”

“Very much so, and not, in the end. But yes, I spent a lot of time and energy upon that success. In my youth, I had looks. Later, I had money. And at the end, I had no one. My wife had left me, emotionally, years ago, though she never moved out. But there was no companionship, nothing sweet between us. And my children? They hovered around me, waiting for me to die, wondering who would get how much. I very nearly left them nothing….”

“You were that angry?”

“I had gone past anger. I was tired. And I wasn’t sure that I cared enough to do anything at all. But I was a man of business, and knew that if I did nothing, the lawyers would descend and grab as much of the goods as they could. And so I died, and was happy to do so.”

“Was there nothing good in your life?”

“Good? There were many things good, I suppose. You forget them,. You know, as you get older. Or rather, you stop seeking them. It was a pleasure, yes, to be young. I was strong, I was handsome, and I had drive. But then, I began to treasure my age. The body worked less well, yes, but that didn’t much matter. I was clearer, then, than I had been when I was young. And it was easier….”

“And so you lived….”

“I suppose. It wasn’t much of a life, really. I spent most of it building my business, and I did very well. But something happened—in the days when my wife and I had had nothing, we had each other, and that had been something. Everything, really. We used to joke that we had houseguests—referring to the roaches that we could never get rid of. And then, one day, we got our first house, and we made love that first night. I’ll never forget, making love that night. The bliss of being in a place of our own—a place we could make our own. I went to the bathroom, later, and I touched the walls, marveling, and saying ‘this is mine.’ Yes, happy—I think I was happy then….”

“You think? Didn’t you know?”

“Whoever knows when one is happy? And when you think that you are…well, should you be? Happiness is a sort of artifact. It’s the byproduct of a reaction, but just the byproduct. It means nothing, by itself…”

“Yet most people seek it.”

“Most people seek the things they should not. I did, for too many years. And then I was old, and quite tired, and did it make sense, really, to throw out everything I had worked for? So I played golf, and went to the clubs, and saw the same people and said the same things. I was bored, in the end….”

“Why didn’t you change?”

“Change? What would have been the point? Go off to Tahiti, and paint nudes under the tropical sun? At the end of my life, I could have bought Tahiti, and somehow, that alters things. Only a young, and poor, man can live on the beach, and paint the nudes. We older men pine for soft beds, drinks by the pool, and well-cooked food. More men have died in comfort than have ever died in prison….”

“And so you went on?”

“Yes. Because always there was the hope that the next day would be different. I would wake up, energized, and do…”

“Do?”

“I don’t know what. But I knew it was something. Something with meaning—something that would challenge me and stir me and lead me to a place I hadn’t been before.”

“And that place was?”

“To the center, perhaps. To the core of decisions. To the place where I could stop and rest. It had been an effort, all those years, to keep up the pretense.”

“What was the pretense?”

“My success. Because to succeed in business is easy, for most men. We’re built that way, just as we’re built for sports. But the terrible moment in business comes when you start to believe it. Your corporation, or your business, defines you. You believe the money and the success is you. And then it stops being fun, and you stop seeing the purpose of it all, and somehow, you keep working harder and harder, like a junkie, seeking a lost high. And then it’s eleven o’clock at night, and you’re checking emails and worrying about the foreign markets—what is the yen doing now? And you hear your wife stirring in the other room, and you know that she’s going down to make herself a drink, because she’s been doing that more and more. And at dinner, she has that glassy look, and she’s speaking too carefully, and you think, ‘oh God, not again.’ You should go out, you should confront her, and then you get angry, and you think, ‘oh, just let her drink to death. To hell with her!’ And then you remember when having a bottle of wine was a rarity, a special moment, an occasion. How you savored it, and made it last! We would both be a little tipsy, and I would be amorous, and the sex would seem special, hallowed. But now you have a wine cellar, and spend more for a bottle than you could ever have imagined, and in the end, it means nothing. Your wife gets up, the maid clears the table, and you both go into the library. She reads, perhaps, and you watch a game on television. It is another night in your life together.”

“That is what it had come to?”

“That is what it comes to.”

“For everybody?”

“I suspect. Good, in a way. Who could keep up that youthful passion? A tenement apartment filled with roaches is where a young man should be. But at 75? 80? You want space, a cleanliness, and a maid to take away the dishes and clean up. And deal with the roaches.”

“And so you were happy?”

“That word again! It has no place, you know. It means nothing, and to have it or to seek it, or even to value it enough to think about it—well, all that is a mistake.”

“Joy, then?”

“Ah, joy. There may be a place in the lexicon for joy. It is, at least, the consequence of something real, as happiness is so often not.”

“Sorrow?”

“I certainly knew it. I tried neither to avoid it nor wallow in it.“

“And so, what did you learn? What was your life about in the end?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I was born naked, and I died well-clothed, but little changed for all that. I lived a straightforward life, and I did well. My children didn’t have to struggle in quite the way I had to, and that was a good thing, I suppose. No, I have nothing to complain of.”

The vultures had been circling all during the conversation. Suddenly, he flung open  his arms and embraced them.

     

Lady Refuses to Help

“I absolutely refuse,” said Lady, “and by the way, has anyone told you that you’re acting a bit off, lately? Maybe something about waiting all those hours under the tropical sun to vote? Anyway, the idea is out of the question….”

“You owe it to your customers,” I told her. “because if it is a fraud, as I very much suspect, then you could be held liable. One sharp attorney, and poof—there goes your business! Or what if Santana finds out? Now he’s running a business with a very possibly tainted product, and who’s responsible? You! Take heed, Lady!”

“Marc, this is ridiculous….”

“Well, if not tainted, then at least checkered. And definitely with a suspicious provenance. So since you’re there, it should be no trouble whatsoever to run over to Les Bouillens. Lovely day trip—be sure to pack champagne, foie gras, and ptarmigan.”

“Ptarmigan?”

“I don’t know what it is, either, but it goes on picnics. Oh, and you’ll have to take along a string quartet, since you’ll need plenty of Haydn during the meal….”

“And how are they to get into the car?”

“Send them down beforehand, with the butler, and the little men to set up the tents. Oh, and don’t forget the Sarouk rugs!”

“Sarouk?”

“Well, in a pinch, any heirloom oriental will, though really, they should be Sarouk. Things have to be done, as you know, comme il faut. You have your reputation to uphold, remember!”

“You know, the thing about you is that you start off refusing to do one insane thing, and then end up arguing about ptarmigan, string quartets, and Sarouk rugs. So no, I am not going to Les Bouillens, wherever that may be, and there’s nothing wrong…”

“Hah!” I told her, “people doubt that the Twin Towers were attacked, or that we walked on the moon, but everybody is perfectly willing to believe…”

“You might need to seek professional advice,” said Lady, “actually, why don’t you call your shrink? Several of the newer antipsychotics have been shown really promising for low-grade paranoia….”

“The stuff is sold in 140 countries,” I told her, “and also in Puerto Rico, where it costs $1.49 over at Walgreen’s. That’s 75 cents cheaper than the café, by the way….”

“But the ambiance….” she said, and in italics, since she gave the word its French pronunciation.

“Do you really expect me to believe,” I told her, “that all that Perrier comes from one little spring in the south of France? Les Bouillens? Sold in 140 countries around the world? As I recall, there are only 200 or so countries, so that means roughly three quarters of the world is being hydrated by one tiny little spring in the south of France!”

“Mon cher Marc,” she said, taking advantage of the fact that my name is spelled with a ‘c,’ “people do drink other things than Perrier.”

“Of course,” I told her, “wine—and do you think even the lowliest of vin du table is being sold for $1.49 at Walgreens? Hah—answer me that!”

“Marc….”

“Though you might want to take along a brass quintet, as well,” I told her, “since when you inspect the factory, you’ll need to have a fanfare when you enter the building. Gabrielli, I think—anyway, something baroque and majestic.”

“Of course,” said Lady, at last surrendering to reason, “and perhaps we should take along the entire choir of the Sistine Chapel, to sing us the Monteverdi Vespers of 1640—all 90 minutes or so—as a sort of spiritual offering before eating? Grace, or a prayer, as it were….”

“Regensburg,” I told her, “though you should ditch the ex-pope’s brother….”

“Get out of here,” she said, and that’s when I told her: I’m where I should be! She’s the one in France! Right on hand to expose the biggest fraud since tampered-with-Tylenol!

“Or maybe your back is hurting,” she said. “Anyway, you’re definitely not yourself….”

“I looked it up, and I very definitely think there’s a conspiracy,” I told her. “It all starts on the up and up. Here:”

The spring in Southern France from which Perrier is drawn was originally known as Les Bouillens. It had been used as a spa since Roman times. Local doctor Louis Perrier bought the spring in 1898 and operated a commercial spa there; he also bottled the water for sale. He later sold the spring to St. John Harmsworth, a wealthy British visitor. Harmsworth was the younger brother of the newspaper magnates Lord Northcliffe and Lord Rothermere.

“Well, that seems perfectly legit,” said Lady. “Though you do have to be careful about younger brothers…”

“Notice that ‘originally,’” I told her. “And then consider this….”

In 1992, Perrier was bought by rival Nestlé, one of the world's leading food and drink companies.^[8] Nestlé had to contend with competition from the Agnelli family for ownership of the business.

“You see? The worst rogues in the business, though I could go for a Nestlé Crunch right now. But remember the trouble the company got into, recently? You know, in California? Or was it in Michigan? Anyway, it was somewhere or another, where there was either no water or the water was tainted. And there Nestlé was, sucking up what water there was!”

“Marc? Where is this going?”

“It’s all the damn French,” I told her.

“But isn’t Nestlé Swiss?”

“Nestlé is a corporation,” I told her, “which means it’s a world unto itself. Anyway, the damn French sold the company to Nestlé, and then boom! The water was everywhere! People were giving it to their dogs!”

“I hardly think….”

“Well, the poodles at any rate….”

“Ridiculous,” said Lady, “I’ve had quite enough. Do you know, it’s quite impertinent of you to follow me, here, all the way in France. I put up with enough from you, back in San Juan.”

“Do your homework,” I told her. “A mass fraud of Leviathan proportions is being foisted on the world. Les Bouillens, indeed! Don’t force me to consult my legal team….”

But she’s gone!

“Where did she go,” I ask Naïa, who has been expertly ignoring this entire conversation….

“Out to get the ptarmigan,” said Naïa, and returned to her video game.             

Electoral Fraud in Puerto Rico

Yesterday, 5 June 2016, the Puerto Rico Democratic Party may have committed the greatest voter suppression of the 2016 election cycle.

Start with the most egregious: in the week before the primary, the party slashed the number of polling places from 1510 to 432. As a comparison, in 2008, there were 2306 polling places, and slightly under 400,000 people voted. According to one source, local officials estimated that up to 700,000 people might show up to vote. So why did the party reduce the number of polling places?

Ostensibly, there was a shortage of volunteer poll workers, since the local primary was being held on the same day, and they had been committed to the local campaign. And why were the national and local primaries being held on the same day? According to the party, it was a means of containing costs.

And so it was uncertain, in many people’s minds, exactly where they were to vote. In fact, I received an email from the Sanders campaign that allowed me to enter my electoral card number. I then received the information: I am 59, 6’2”, male, blue eyed. Oh, and I was to vote a mile or so away from my home in Old San Juan. So my husband and I planned to take the bus, zip into the polling place, vote, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

In fact, we arrived and found that the local primary had at most a line of ten or fifteen people. The Democratic Primary, in contrast, had a line of about 100 people. In addition, there were only two people with the list of registered voters. And so we began a long wait.

We had arrived at 1:45; I voted at 3:15. At that time, the line was essentially the same length as it had been when we arrived: it was going to be a long time before the poll workers could start counting the votes.

Elections in Puerto Rico historically have been comparatively clean, since up until now, we have chosen low-tech versus high. Which means that both parties (or all parties) have a representative working the polls, paper ballots are used, voters mark an “X” for their party or candidate, and the votes are counted manually and verified by all parties. As deeply green as I am, this is one use of paper that is completely justified.

Our line was one of two: we were the “orphans” from other polling places. And so there was a much shorter line of fifteen or twenty people voting in their usual polling place. So what was the final vote, and how many voters were able to cast their ballot? Well, here are two screens shot of the State Elections Commission, posted as of 1 AM this morning, ten hours after the polls closed.

 Several things are interesting: first, “reported polling stations 232 of 335.” 335? Wait, first it was 1510, then on Friday it was 432, and on Sunday, the day of the election, it was 335?

Second, Clinton has “won” by a nearly 60% lead. But that’s 36,000 votes: some 70% of the total. I admit it: I am math-challenged. Still, even I can tell you that if that 36,000 votes were from 50% of polling stations, then you would reasonably expect 72,000 votes for Clinton. So in 2008, almost 400,000 people voted: now, Clinton is winning with 60% of the vote, with almost 70% of the vote counted, and that’s only 36000 votes? These numbers don’t add up.

Third, there were irregularities at the polls. In regular elections, there are cardboard voting booths—flimsy affairs, yes, but they do assure privacy. There was none of that here, and so I calmly observed my brother-in-law as he voted for Sanders (easy—Sanders was on the right margin of the ballot). In addition, the finger-marking ink was not used (the ink is visible only to ultra-violet light).  

As well, the polls were open only from 8 AM to 3 PM. Puerto Ricans are religious: we go to church. So if mass ends around 11 AM, you need to eat lunch, you want to vote in the local primary, and then you have to go to possibly another polling place to vote in the Democratic Primary—well, that’s a scramble. Oh, and where is that polling place? Because in the space of a week, the number went from 1510 to (apparently) 335.

Nor was this all. In Puerto Rico, prisoners can vote. They do so, and then their votes are sealed in locked boxes to be counted with the non-prisoner votes. But the Sanders campaign is alleging that the Democratic Party didn’t certify their delegates to go into the prison: they had to use a well-known local lawyer, Manny Suárez, to get their way into the prison. Nor was that all: Suárez stated:

el pasado jueves “se celebraron sorpresivamente elecciones de las primarias presidenciales en forma adelantada para la Policía de Puerto Rico y nunca nos avisaron”.    

(Last Thursday, the presidential primaries were held by surprise in advance for the Police of Puerto Rico and we were never notified.)

Worse, Suárez alleges that the Ñeta gang, which controls many of the prisons, had threatened any members with death if they voted for anyone other than Clinton, as well as the NPP, or statehood party.

The result?

“Vamos a radicar un recurso legal en el Tribunal Federal pidiendo la anulación de todas esas papeletas. A nosotros nunca nos avisaron y cada una de esas papeletas es nula porque no tiene nuestra firma. En adición a eso, hay otros funcionarios del Gobierno que también votaron por adelantado y que entiendo que son los que van a estar activados el domingo”, apuntó.

(We’re going to file a legal suit in Federal Court requesting the annulment of all these ballots. They never notified us, and every one of these ballots is void because they don’t have our signature. In addition to that, there are other government official who also voted in advance, and who will be active on Sunday (ed. the day of the primary).

In addition, Suárez alleges that a local politician prominent in the Democratic Party, Kenneth McClintock, tweeted on Thursday that the prison vote was favoring Clinton. Given that the votes are supposed to be sealed unseen, how would he know?

Well, I though about all this as I waited in line, since I had quite a bit of time to occupy. And where, I wondered, was the press? Because there we all were, enjoying or not the unique pleasure of having our vote suppressed, and shouldn’t somebody be noticing? Ah, and then the televisions news appeared, and began filming people voting; as well, they interviewed several officials. It was WAPA television, and can I find their clip? No, though I did get the clip of the results of the primary. Unfortunately, the clip failed to load: you try it.

According to the print edition of the largest paper on the island, El Nuevo Día, the local Democratic Party president is well satisfied with the primary, although he admitted there were long lines. (You can read the electronic version here.) He is upset, however, by the allegation of one of Sander’s staff, Betsy Franceschini. Here’s what he said:

I am appalled at the remarks. Ms. Franceschini is playing a preemption game because she knows of a potentially serious issue regarding one of their poll workers who took two boxes full of cast ballots from one of the prisons and later that evening delivered them to a regional elections committee center, claiming she did not know what to do with them. The matter is under investigation.

To my knowledge, El Nuevo Día has said little about this, though in one story, they reported that it was the Sanders campaign that requested the reduction of polling places by two thirds. A photo of the long lines at the polls also appeared. The Sanders campaign responded:

Some Puerto Rico Democratic officials are claiming that the Sanders campaign requested fewer polling places in today’s primary contest. That’s completely false. The opposite is true. In emails with the party, Sanders’ staff asked the party to maintain the 1,500 plus presidential primary locations promised by the Puerto Rico Democratic party in testimony before the DNC in April, when the party was asking to have its caucus changed to a primary. They cannot blame their shoddy running of the primary on our campaign. This is just one example of irregularities going on in Puerto Rico voting today. We are the campaign that has been fighting to increase voter participation.

http://www.rawstory.com/2016/06/sanders-campaign-no-bernie-sanders-did-not-try-to-close-polling-locations-in-puerto-rico/

So what happened yesterday? Perhaps nothing tells the story better than the last line of today’s electronic report from El Nuevo Día:

En estas elecciones demócratas, participaron alrededor de 100,000 electores.

The lines were huge, the wait was long, and in the end, only 100,000 votes were cast. That’s 300,000 less than 2008. I was there, I saw it, and I can call it.

So I will!

Voter suppression!