Rush Limbaugh: Defender of Oppressed Rich

Rush LimbaughMy father just related something he had heard on the Rush Limbaugh radio show. There was an interview with a fourth grader who stated that he wanted to be President of the United States when he grew up. When asked, the boy said that if he were President, he would take money away from the rich people because they are greedy. This struck me as fairly typical, simplistic moral thinking for a young child. Thus, it just isn’t very interesting. But why did Limbaugh put it on his show? Clearly, it was to show how oppressed the rich are.

Everyone has his cross to bear, and I understand that the rich have their problems and deserve their fair share of our sympathy. However, of all of the people on earth who need sympathy, the rich are hardly at the top of the list. Conservative estimates indicate that five million people starve to death every year. Almost one billion are malnourished. By and large, the only things these people have ever done wrong is to be born in the wrong place.

I have little doubt that some of the rich feel bad that fourth graders over-generalize in stating that all of the rich are greedy when it is merely most. But I’ll save my greatest concern for starving masses. Anyway, with Limbaugh out there publicizing the plight of oppressed rich, my sympathy is hardly necessary.

Netflix is Just Not That Into Movies

NetflixMy biggest problem with Netflix is that the company just isn’t that into movies. I first noticed this when watching Continental Divide via Instant Watch. I liked this film a lot when I was younger, so I know it well. As I watched it, I was shocked to see that it had been cut—with lots of dialog replacement. But there was no disclaimer at the beginning of it. They just grabbed some TV station’s copy and streamed it. I complained to Netflix’s (and I mean this sincerely) fantastic telephone support people. But of course, nothing changed.

I had another experience like this recently. I watched Amadeus on Netflix Instant Watch. Without stating so, the movie that was streamed was not the original but rather the longer director’s cut. I don’t have a problem with this. I quite like the director’s cut; I think it is better than the original release. But there is no doubt that that the original release is a different film than the director’s cut. To see just how far this went, I ordered the DVD and sure enough, it was the original release. If Netflix really cared about movies—the way a real fan does—they would offer both the director’s cut and the original release. Instead, it is just catch as catch can, as though there were no difference between these films.

What all this means is that to Netflix movies are just commodities. Things that film lovers care greatly about do not even register in the Netflix universe. This goes along with the fact that Netflix often offers inferior versions of films. Until recently, they only offered the worst version of Mr. Arkadin, although I see now that they are offering all three, but the description of each is the same, so there is no way for the interested viewer to determine which version to get based upon Netflix’s information. (But I have you covered: get The Comprehensive Version.) They don’t even offer Chimes at Midnight or other great, but rare films.

At the top of my queue right now is the first disc of The Muppet Show. For stuff like this, Netflix is great. But for anything else, it is wanting.

Why No One Knows Medgar Evers

I am doing all kinds of research for a book I am writing. It is just a collection of biographies of a certain kind of person. I won’t tell you what it’s about, but I’ll give you a list of five of the people who will definitely be in it. Perhaps you will be able to figure out what connects them.

Milton Hershey
Albert Schweitzer
Walter Johnson
Jonas Salk
Paul Newman

One thing that links all these people is that they are all white and male. So I’m working on that. As part of that, I’m researching Medgar Evers. If you’re like me, about all you know about Evers is that he was the guy who was killed at the beginning of the film Ghosts of Mississippi. As I recall the film, he doesn’t even have a word of dialog. So the film, despite its honorable intent, really comes down to: important black man is killed, let’s get on to the story that involves white folk. So other than the fact that he lived in Mississippi, I started the week knowing nothing about him.

I’ve managed to order a couple of books about Evers, but the only one I’ve gotten my hands on is probably the least valuable to me: The Autobiography of Medgar Evers. The problem with the book is that he never wrote an autobiography. The book is just a compilation of “memoranda, telegram messages, personal notes, transcribed public speeches, [and] fragments of written tests.” Fortunately, it has brief introductory articles by Myrlie Evers-Williams (Medgar’s wife) and Manning Marable (who sadly died earlier this year).

The article by Marable is particularly interesting because he discusses a big reason why people like Evers do not receive their due credit.

Their undeserved obscurity and marginalization is partly derived from the politics of gender. As anyone who has seriously participated in grassroots, neighborhood organizing can attest, women are far more likely than males to emerge as the critical leaders in most working-class and poor neighborhoods. Women activists are far more prevalent than males in the building of civic capacity—whether within faith-based institutions or in groups engaged in educational reform, community safety, and/or public health. Day-to-day political-organizing work is rarely glamorous or exciting. Much of it is mundane, boring, and quite difficult: typing and processing letters; making numerous telephone calls; meeting frequently with small numbers of people at their homes; preparing and serving food; fundraising; finding places for people to sleep or to live; organizing childcare; driving people to and from meetings; negotiating with local ministers, businesses, and schools to obtain space for activities; sustaining communication between group members; and representing the interests and objectives of one’s group to other constituencies and organizations. Added to all of this is the profoundly human dimension: the loss of time and intimacy with one’s partner or spouse, children, family, and friends; the financial costs; the physical and emotional pressures; the burden of ostracism and harassment for advocating unpopular views. To be a “leader” in this context is to assume the burden of these necessary responsibilities and tasks. Within a society structured hierarchically by gender, women disproportionately assume these responsibilities. This was certainly the case within the Black Freedom Movement, especially in the patriarchal culture of the U.S. South in the mid-twentieth century.

The general “story” of the Montgomery bus boycott of 1955-1956 usually mentions the courageous individual action of Rosa Parks, a respected, middle-aged seamstress whose arrest for refusing to surrender her seat to a white man on a segregated public bus was the spark that started the public protest. Yet the focus then concentrates on the public leadership of local black ministers such as Martin Luther King Jr. and Ralph David Abernathy, ignoring other individuals who actually did as much—or more—to make that boycott successful. A key figure in this regard was college professor Jo Ann Robinson. The Women’s Political Council, an African American women’s group chaired by Robinson, was instrumental in the planning and building of the boycott. After Parks’s initial arrest, for example, Robinson mimeographed 35,000 handbills calling for a mass boycott of Montgomery’s segregated buses overnight. Members of the Women’s Political Council made enormous personal and financial sacrifices for nearly one year to win their victory over racism.

Marable provides me with two other names, in addition to Robinson, of unsung heroes of the modern civil rights movement that will help on the other aspect of my diversity problem: Septima Clark and Ella Baker. Time will tell.

New Robber Barons

I have been reading Hershey by Michael D’Antonio, a biography of the remarkable Milton S. Hershey, who is known as much for his humane treatment of his workers as he is for the candy company he created. To put Hershey’s life into perspective, D’Antonio provides a good picture of life at that time. Hershey came to power during the period of the robber barons and continued in business up through the end of World War II. I knew that the period around the turn of the 20th century was a bad one with high levels of income inequality. What surprised me was the fact that this period wasn’t really any different than it is today. At the peak of the robber barons, the top 1% of Americans controlled half of all the nation’s assets. In 2007, the top 1% of Americans own roughly 35% of all the nation’s assets. If you don’t include primary residences, this number jumps to 43%.

Unfortunately, the trend seems to be in the wrong direction. A hundred years ago, many businessmen thought it was important to make workers as happy as possible in order to keep the society stable. They understood that high levels of income inequality might lead to revolution. Today, the dominant philosophy is a Calvinist belief that the rich are morally superior. I dislike both inequality and social disorder. So I am none too happy to be living in this second period of robber barons. We could really use some more people like Milton S. Hershey.

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Little Bits

This afternoon I was flipping through the plethora of quotations I have collected over the years–searching for inspiration, killing time, same difference. I found one file name that piqued my curiosity: Escher Silliness. I’ve never thought of Escher as having a sense of humor per se. As it turns out, I’m the silly one.

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“My work is a game, a very serious game.” –MC Escher

To which I had added:

“It’s a game of cat-and-mouse. A game of kill-or-be-killed. A game with no room for mistakes–those are kept in a separate container. One slip of the pen, one misplaced etch can mean disaster. It is critical to know and understand one’s opponents. You could even say that you must BECOME your opponents. Ink blots, ruler nicks, constant interruptions–all clever tricks of a clever enemy. Beelzebub, Baby. That’s who I’m talking about.”

There is something seriously wrong with me. Unless anyone finds it amusing; in that case I’m brilliant.

Stephen Colbert: Dream Stalker

My dreams are usually very boring, even to me. Some are so mundane, I can’t remember if I had a conversation with my husband or just dreamt it. That’s not to say that I am incapable of having dreams that would raise Freud’s eyebrows; there are some dark, twisted, one might even say fucked up, bits of weird burrowed in the recesses of my psyche. Some of my sleep-shows have even included famous guest appearances by luminaries such as Michael J. Fox, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, John Krasinksi, and Michelle Obama, to mention only a few (I wish I were joking). Most only show up once, although, according to my official biographer, F.M. Moraes, I’ve dreamt about John Krasinksi before, I just don’t remember it. Obviously it wasn’t worth remembering, much like everything I did yesterday.

I know the thought of having celebrities and dignitaries waltzing through ones dreams sounds glamorous, but it isn’t. They’re just ordinary imaginary figures like you and me. My first celebrity guest was Michael J. Fox. This was many years ago, when his show Family Ties was on the air, and I was an impressionable, lonely young girl. You can imagine the thrill and romance of being near Michael J. Fox! It was as if we’d known each other for years as we discussed the sad state of the California school system (totally true). I must have bored him as he hasn’t been back since. A more recent vision was more inspiring: I watched helplessly (I’m the same person asleep or awake) as Michelle Obama, surrounded by burning buildings, led a group of young children to safety (also totally true). In hindsight, I probably should have written about these encounters as they happened (as my memory is virtually useless)–add some photos and forged autographs and I could publish a nice coffee table book.

Unfortunately, there is one celebrity who has disturbed my sleep and wandered through the back roads of my mind, with whom I have an issue. Who the hell does Stephen Colbert, alter ego of some guy of the same name (different pronunciation), think he is?[1] Swaggering into my dreams, trying to seduce me—perhaps the other way around. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I can say this with the authority of aroused personal experience: Stephen Colbert is an invader of dreams.

stephen_colbert.jpg Portrait by Todd Lockwood.

As a result of this stealthy infiltration into my vulnerable subconscious by a man of virile intelligence, armed with a laser wit that could have taken out Bin Laden ten years ago, and the dark, fathomless eyes of the Galadhrim, I must say I’m smitten. No. I’ll admit it. The truth is, in spite of his inexplicable alliance with the Catholic church, and rumors that his doppelgänger has a wife and three children, I would so do him. (Well, as long as no one was filming us and my husband wouldn’t divorce me.) For a self-proclaimed word-o-phile and amateur pedant, his wordplay is freaking foreplay! He might even appreciate some of my endearing attempts at twisting words into new, sexy playthings: “Elk and their ilk, never wear silk” or “I was taught naught but to tie a taut knot.”

Now, most of the time I’m not a fool or deluded and now is one of those times. I know exactly what would happen if I actually met Stephen (“May I call you Stephen?”)…. If I actually met Mr. Colbert, it would be magical. Meeting Tina Fey, for example, would not. She would say, “So you think you’re pretty funny huh? Tell me a joke.” Then, the only joke I can ever remember–a joke so offensive that I’ve only told it to three people whom I trust implicitly–THAT joke would pop into my head, causing the entire apparatus to come to a grinding halt. My brain would become one of those stupid fainting goats, and as I mentally play dead, Tina would sneer and say, “Take her away. She bores us.”

But it would be different with Stephen. I would be prepared! Obviously I’d need a new wardrobe, something that says, “Under this mannish, right-wing suit is something that would make Eliot Spitzer’s spitzer stand at attention.” I would also need new, longer hair: blonde and straight or brown and straight? I wish I had a gay friend to help with this… Oh, and I’d have my teeth whitened; veneered if I have time. I want a smile that’s ready for a sexy, head tossed back, I-live-life-to-the-fullest-and-I’m-up-for-anything burst of laughter. (I don’t want a grin that says, “We don’t hold with all that socialist dentistry bullshit.”) I’d also have to get a mani-pedi, waxing everywhere (even if it requires general anaesthesia), and a facial. Fortunately, Mr. Colbert doesn’t see race or color—no worries there! (Unless someone can be too white… what if I’m actually invisible?!) To seal the deal there would be a make-up squad, lighting specialists, and Spanx. We’re talking a lot of prep here, but Stephen deserves it.

After everything is in place (in and out of the Spanx), I would be introduced to the man with the sexiest brain on the planet (no offense to Stephen Hawking’s brain, but mine would shrivel up and die from the exertion of attempting to follow everything he knows about. Plus, I really like a guy who can make me laugh and the inevitable death of the universe is not amusing.) So there I’d be, looking as lovely as our technologically advanced beauty enhancers could manage, gazing into the eyes of a being who can, with the speed of a striking cobra, verbally eviscerate the unworthy. Stephen would take my hand, and say, “Tell me a joke.” At which point I would faint.

Maybe then he’ll stop toying with my emotions while I’m sleeping.


[1] In real life, Stephen Colbert pronounces his last name as it is spelled: cole-burt.

My Subconscious is Abusive

Why am I at odds with my subconscious? First it[1] ruffled the feathers of my comfortably sleeping Chicken of Depression by causing (yet another) dream in which my husband and daughter are angry with me and have formed a coalition to end my benevolent dictatorship. Apparently I’m becoming desensitized to such a hackneyed form of subliminal torment, because my mean-spirited little id switched tactics and stooped to a new low. Enter John Krasinski, the oddly attractive and highly likable actor who plays Jim on The Office. In my dream, I am, for some inexplicable reason, trying to get his attention in a romantic sense (I don’t remember the details. Seriously, so don’t ask). This was bound to go badly all by itself, but my id is so impatient, to move things along it reminded me of my age (among other impediments to such a miraculous union). Then, to drive the point home, it pointed out that even when I was young and fairly attractive, this young man would NEVER have given me a second look. “He’s married to Emily Blunt for Christ’s sake! And, hello, you two look nothing alike.” By this time, my conscious mind has started to pay attention. I became aware that I was dreaming and I actually got angry with my subconscious for being such a spiteful little bitch–and told it so. Who has dreams like that?! Is it any wonder I don’t sleep well? And to make it worse, I KNOW there are people out there whose inner voice is a goddamn cheerleader. “You are so awesome! Here, have a dream where George Clooney can’t keep his hands off of you. That could SO happen!”


[1] I say “it” rather than “she” only because my subconscious mind is malevolently androgenous, however, “bitch” still applies. (Interesting aside: Text Edit’s spell-check does not recognize the word androgenous, causing me to doubt myself and look it up in the stupid dictionary. Text Edit is also a bitch.)

P.S. Now I see that this blog software is also gender-specific, so Text Edit is not a bitch, just stupid.

Just Philately

CharadeWhen I was a physics undergrad, I was part of a clique of the best physics students—or so we thought. Along with Ken and Nancy, I looked down on students from all the other disciplines as well as all the other physics students—at least the ones who didn’t take all the upper division, heavily mathematical physics courses like statistical mechanics, digital signal processing, and of course, mathematical physics. In particular, we ignorantly referred to all other scientific disciplines as philately: stamp collecting. Apparently, we had not been exposed to genetics or geochronology or just about any other field of modern science.

As I learned many years later while researching one of my “dangerous” books, scientific philately is an enormously complex and beautiful part of science. Carl Linnaeus was one of the greatest scientists of all time—certainly on par with Newton, Maxwell, and Einstein—men I (rightly) considered heroes. Study of his classification of species is extremely rewarding and insightful. This is especially true as our knowledge of genetics increases and we see how accurate Linnaeus and his followers were in relating different species. But we were wrong on an even deeper level, because philately itself is anything but contemptible; it is a beautiful hobby that combines art, history, and economics—to name but a few—in a unique and rewarding manner.

I was reminded of this last night as I watched the 1963 film Charade starring the ultimate symbol of male perfection, Cary Grant and the ultimate symbol of revolting cuteness, Audrey Hepburn. This enjoyable little film is built on a foundation of our ignorance about the value of postage stamps. Three rare stamps serve as a kind of reverse MacGuffin[1]: everyone in Charade is looking for a quarter million dollars that is hidden in plain sight in the form of these stamps that have been known to everyone since the beginning of the film.

Here are the three stamps in Charade:

Charade Stamps

However, these stamps are not real according to the Internet Movie Database. But they represent real stamps:

The stamps depicted in the film are fictional counterparts of actual rare stamps, but have their values raised [lowered?] by one [order of magnitude?]. The stamps they represent are the Swedish orange[2] 3 skilling, the “Hawaiian Missionaries” 2 cent blue and the 81 para blue Romanian “cap de bour” on blue paper, in total worth about USA$3.6 Million in 2007.

It is unclear why director Stanley Donen and art director Jean D’Eaubonne chose to create similar stamps rather than using facsimiles. As you can see in this altered still, the stamps still look quite similar.

Charade Stampes: Real

Stamp Values

One apparent reason for using fictitious stamps is that the total value of the stamps is quite different. In the movie, they needed to be worth a quarter of a million dollars. Very rare stamps are worth quite a lot more than this.

The 1851 Hawaiian Missionaries Blue is worth $65,000 in Charade. In reality, it is currently worth slightly less than three-quarter of a million dollars. The next most valuable stamp, the 1855 Swedish Yellow 3 Skilling is worth only $85,000. I say “only” because this is a one-of-a-kind stamp. It sold for over $2 million back in 1996, and is estimated to be worth more than $3 million today. Strangely, the 1858 Romanian 81 Parale Blue that was worth the most in the film, is worth the least in reality. In the film, it is worth $100,000, but in reality is worth only $50,000.

The total real world value of the three stamps is thus $743,000 + $3,163,000 + $51,000; the total is $3,957,000, or roughly four million dollars! This is 16 times the film value of $250,000. However, Charade was released in 1963—almost fifty years ago—and the dollar ain’t worth what it used to be. Assuming a starting stamps value of $250,000 and the yearly U.S. inflation figures taken from InflationData.com, we get the following graph of the yearly inflation (the blue bars) and the value of the stamps at each year (the orange line), assuming they had increased in value only at the rate of inflation.

Stamps Value Over Time

Given these assumptions, the quarter million dollar starting value would produce a trio worth roughly $1.8 million. This is 45% of the real trio’s current value. However, there is no reason to think the samp values do appreciate at the rate of inflation (especially US inflation). Thus, it seems likely that the value of the stamps were not the reason why the filmmakers created their own stampls. It may just be aethetics.

History

There is much more to these stamps than their values, of course. The Hawaiian Missionaries will be of great interest to anyone who has read Sarah Vowell’s history of missionary conquest of the Hawaiian islands in the 19th century. These stamps were primarily used by these missionaries to write to their families back home. This is how the stamps got their moniker.

Even more interesting, a Paris gentleman, Gaston Leroux was murdered in 1892 because of his ownership of a 2 cent Hawaiian Missionaries (this is mentioned in the film). Nothing in his home had been stolen, so the police were stumped until one of the detectives—who happened to have an interest in stamps—noticed that the victim had a stamp collection with one stamp missing: a Hawaiian Missionaries Blue 2 Cent. The police soon discovered that Hector Giroux—a friend of Leroux—also happened to have this same very rare stamp. Giroux soon confessed and was hanged; the mystery was solved!

The 3 Skilling Yellow is notable because it is supposed to be blue. Apparently, the printing element that is used to make the 8 Skilling Yellowish-Orange broke and so the element for the 3 Skilling Bluish-Green was used. When they went back to print the 3 Skilling Blue, the yellow ink from the 8 Skilling changed the 3 Skilling (theoretically) Blue stamps into 3 Skilling (actually) Yellow stamps. Only one such stamp is know to exist. Also, I am making assumptions about this process. It is never well described and no one knows for sure anyway.

There is shockingly little information available about the Romanian stamp. The following is a description of a single stamp being auctioned in Switzerland at Corinphila:

81 parale blue Attest

In English, this reads:

81 parale blue on grey-blue wove paper, a superb mint example without gum, with huge margins all round, very fine appearance and without faults, an excellent crisp impression with minute spots as are characteristic of the nature of the delicate wove paper utilized and are not faults. A wonderful example of this classic rarity. Just 37 examples are recorded unused, one being cut round, 15 with more major faults and at least five housed in museum collections. Illustrated in Edition d’Or on page 49 and in Handbook I on page 365, pos. 2. Signed Heimbüchler and H. Köhler; cert. Heimbüchler (2010)

The starting bid is 40,000 CHF (Swiss Francs), which is equivalent to roughly $49,500.

Charade

In a sense, there is something very silly about assigning so much value on what are, in the end, tiny pictures of ink on paper. Then again, that is all that cash is, and people get very excited about that. Each stamp tells a story. Plus it works as a great basis for Charade. And for a story-junkie like me, that means a lot. I guess I’ve matured a bit since the time when I thought anything was “just philately.”


[1] A MacGuffin is a literary device used to give a story momentum. In general, it is an item that one or more characters are determined to acquire. It usually doesn’t matter what the MacGuffin is, and in many cases, the audience is never told what it is (e.g. the contents of the case in Ronin.). All that matters is that the character wants it and this motivates her actions.

[2] As can be seen by looking at any pictures of this stamp, or reading about it, it is yellow-orange, but primarily yellow.

Rachel Maddow is Making Sense

I have not been watching Rachel Maddow much these last few months, because I haven’t found her that interesting. However, she was in good form this Friday, especially when she presented a new take on the Republican Party’s presidential nomination process. According to her, it is not about all these marginal candidates thinking they can actually win. Instead, it is about people like Michele Bachmann trying to leverage their popularity into riches in the form of Faux News shows, Conservative Book Club best-sellers, and high-priced lecture tours.

Certainly, this is not the case with Tim Pawlenty, whose exit from the campaign is an indictment of a process that is about nothing but money, and shows why the process (on the right away) can’t nominate any but the most reactionary candidates. Nor is it the case with Mitt Romney or Rick Perry, who have the cash (their own or rich backers’) and extreme policies (always or molded for the occasion). But for Bachmann, Newt Gingrich, Rick Santorum, and even Sarah Palin (whether she runs or not), it is clear that Maddow is right: the presidential nomination process is about becoming or continuing to be a conservative celebrity.

Update

What is with Chris Hayes’ eyes? Can it be that he has gotten them fixed so he doesn’t have to wear glasses on his new show? If so, this is a sad day. I like his glasses. They add greatly to his nerdy credibility. Say it ain’t so, Chris!