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I remember it clearly. It wasn’t quite an epiphany, but it qualified as a significant insight. Back in late September, 2001 I was heartened by the notion that the silver lining to 9/11 was a tangible sense that our inane reality TV culture had been knocked to the canvas, replaced by a real bipartisan sense of unity and higher purpose.

Things were moving fast, and of course the ugly finger prints of Dick Cheney were starting to proliferate, but America seemed to be snapped out of its stupor. The idea that anybody could get their 15 minutes had lost its luster, now family and friends and community seemed paramount… who gave a crap about roommates stabbing each other in the back? Or kids self-destructing within their own nastiness? Yes, for a while it was kind of glorious….and then it was over. And almost 20 years later we’re more vapid than ever. Oh, and we elected the genre’s most grotesque caricature POTUS.   Like a yo-yo dieter, following discipline and self improvement with a binge that doesn’t stop, our culture has more worthless flab than ever. What the hell happened? And what will it take to get us back on the wagon?

If 9/11 represented one of the worst days in US history, it also posed an opportunity and a challenge. It seemed obvious at the time, if not to many in the Bush Administration, that a proper response to the attack would in large part analyze and better understand the whole reason the cabal succeeded beyond their wildest dreams: that we were not prepared for men, not just ready to die for their cause, but employing their death as the lynchpin to execute their plan. It occurred to nobody on those planes until it was too late that their hijackers planned to die. No negotiations, no heading to Cuba, no airport shootouts. Their  deaths were both the means and the end of their horrible scheme.

It struck me at the time, and still does today, that unless we better learn why men would enthusiastically sacrifice themselves to cause us harm, we will never be able to deploy any sort of viable response to confront them. From a policy and societal standpoint 9/11 gave us differing ways to go.  We could allow its devastating carnage to petrify us and retreat as a nation behind a military that would surely unleash the wrath of God on somebody.  This approach would paint swaths of the world with a broad brush, and allow the trauma we suffered to dilute what foreigners could offer in fear of the threat they conjured up.

An offshoot of this thinking would be to turn inward, retrenching from our world leadership role. This, of course, would by any account allow the terrorists a victory, not to mention create a plethora of other problems. Moreover, as a democratic system, and destination for many a world refugee, retreating from our missions abroad could only discourage our interest in other peoples and render us less hospitable to those wishing to come here.

A different  way would be to view 9/11 as a tragic aberration, a freak, a horrible crime carried out by maniacs, whose fanaticism provided the blind spot needed to carry out their insanity. Until 9/11 we could not process planned suicide on our shores. Now was the time to better understand its genesis. Certainly there was no reason not to unite the world against the wretched Taliban in Afghanistan, who had been committing outrage after outrage since taking over in Kabul. But our guiding priority had to be to understand why educated men would methodically plan their own destruction to harm us. It seemed obvious that to better grasp this issue meant engagement not just confrontation, and diplomacy not just the military. Dealing with the threat of fanatical elements within Islam with more nuance than a zero-sum crusade would require courage and tolerance, but good policy usually flows from exactly those attributes.

We all knew watching the Towers come down that things would change. So extreme a horror, shared in real time by the entire nation, was going to have a lasting foot print….everybody understood that. Less clear was how the path we chose going forward in response to terror would effect our culture and the society it defined. Xenophobia is by definition boring because it excludes. The military is boring because it relies on routine to instill discipline and training.  Fear is boring because it views most things new as threats and seeks to avoid them.  To the degree the 9/11 attacks were allowed to dim our enthusiasm for new frontiers and understanding, and to the extent our interaction with other countries and people’s was going to be a military exercise, our cultural vibrancy would suffer.  Why wouldn’t our cultural life be defined by the limitations of our national security policy? To the extent it was bold and engaging, we could be a creative, dynamic society, staging new entertainment based on discovery.  To the degree we met the world with wariness, equating it’s unknowns with danger, we would rest on our laurels and watch reruns. Downtown Abbey or Jersey Shore? Our choice.

Sadly, we know the route we took, and we are living with the consequences. Can we ever get to and give the third option a shot? What trauma will we have to endure to achieve the clarity necessary to consider it? I have no idea, but perhaps we can ponder the question over a 3 Part Reunion Special of The Real Houswives of Atlanta.  What do you say? BC

 

 

I am lame in countless ways, prominently among them is my failure to secure satellite radio for my car. This limits me to an FM/AM buffet ranging from Classic Rock greatest hits played over and over to  Mark Levin (nuff said).  One exception has become my favorite channel – The Bluegrass Foundation, which is fully devoted to the music and history that truly defines Appalachia.

While I am no expert on the subject, I have become a big fan of the genre. It’s hard not to love the detailed string work and sad harmonies of music dating back generations, with vivid tales of woe. Anybody who steeps themselves in Bluegrass for any time at all quickly recognizes some prominent topics which thread through its offerings. Undying devotion is big, of course religion plays a huge role, unfaithfulness and betrayal are well represented, as is the strains of poverty.  And as everpresent as any subject through the years is the hardships and dangers of the coal mines.  It is hard to find a sadder set of songs in the entire discography of American music than Bluegrass’ tales of early death and daily hardships at the hands of Appalachian coal mines, punctuated by an underlying narrative of poverty and exploitation. A coal miner’s life is nothing but sorrow to hear it told in a  sad Kentucky melody.

On April 5, 2010, part of the Upper Big Branch Coal Mine, located in the bowels of Montcoal, West Virginia, exploded violently, killing 29 miners. It was the worst US mine disaster since 1970, and by the time the Mine Safety and Health Administration (MSHA) issued their final report in December of 2011, it had labeled the coal dust explosion an “entirely preventable tragedy” brought on by a plethora of “unlawful policies and practices”. The 1000-page report cited the mine’s operator, Massey Energy, as “flagrant” in its negligence of basic safety protocols and criminally responsible for the loss of life. The report noted the mine was literally a tinder box and it was common knowledge working in it amounted to Russian roulette.  When asked during proceedings why they didn’t protest the situation and push for change, one miner on the stand said with resignation that mine owners simply “buy off judges and have political connections.” Indeed, what emerged from the Big Branch disaster was a portrait of corruption and disregard for miner safety and well being so pronounced some degree of reformation was enabled… it could not be ignored, said Joe Manchin, West Virginia’s Governor at the time.

And who is this skel who ran Massey Energy with the greed and avarice fully blamed for the deaths of 29 miners? Surely he must be ruined and reviled, living a life of shame and disgrace. Not exactly. Actually, after pleading a litany of felony counts against him down to a misdemeanor  beef of “conspiring to violate mining standards”, and serving less than a year in country club conditions, Don Blankenship, former Massey Energy CEO, has decided he wants to be a US Senator; and it appears, after loaning his campaign millions of dollars, he is closing with interest past the GOP primary field, setting the stage for another party character test in the general election.

Of course, nobody seems to have bought Trump’s regressive myths about the wonders of a career in coal mining more than his wretched base in West Virginia. And it is that group that Massey and his hapless primary opponents are angling for. Which has transformed Massey from a nefarious mine baron, directly responsible for what amounted to mass murder, to just another Trumpie neophyte, busy convincing the wretched core he can provide the POTUS with a better BJ than his opponents.

And what can we expect from the GOP if Blankenship wins the primary and faces Blue Dog Manchin in November? Pulleease!! Do you really have to ask?! My Lord! What’s a little mining accident? Hell, in Alabama they were all in for a guy local mall security had APBs out for back in the day. What is there you don’t understand about the word “accident”? This is not a slippery slope, it is an ice fall. Can you say “Trump Rally”?! He won’t be able to get there fast or often enough. And despite what increasingly appear to be Mitch McConnell’s futile efforts to sway the primary away from Blankenship, even as amoral Democratic machiavellians undercut his opponents, with Senate control in the balance, the tedious turtle will swallow the sliver of pride he still possesses and at least look the other way come fall.

In a landscape where there is no bottom, underground explosions appear to be easily forgotten. Where is Lester Flatt when you need him.  BC

 

 

 

Surely one of the worst frauds perpetrated on American non-fiction readers is The Art of the Deal. One hundred percent ghost written, by an author, who now fully discredits his own work; it details a protagonist who never existed, who puts forth a gospel he never had the first clue about and had as much to do with his personal approach to business as a comb to my personal appearance.

Talk to any of Trump’s wretched core for even a couple of minutes and one will fully appreciate how important the idea of his obsessively cultivated business acumen is to his credibility as POTUS. Ask about any of Trump’s countless list of peccadillos and the first fall back will be “well he’s a businessman, not a politician.” “Being so successful in business, he’s always played by his own rules” has become a Fox/AM favorite, regurgitated by his defenders.  And the myth of Trump the business titan started, proceeded and has been largely sustained, through thick and thin, by the Art of the Deal.  Indeed, of all the lies Trump has used for the clothes of his smoke and mirrors existence, none is more enduring than the 1987 bestseller Tony Schwartz, it’s real author, deems the worst mistake of his life.

But what makes it so odious? Why is its principle narrative so skewed, so inaccurate that it is actually used as a principle basis for indicting its protagonist based wholly on the dichotomy between the words on its pages and the public record of his actions? Let’s explore that.

Negotiation is based on the principle of enforcement. That is, both parties assume that once a deal is reached its provisions will be carried out to the advantage or disadvantage of each party. Without the acceptance by each side that whatever they agree to will actually be reliably maintained there is no point to the exercise.  Now, the underpinning of these guarantees can take various forms. Under the best of circumstances the honesty and mutual respect of each participant can be enough…. a simple handshake can underwrite the entire enterprise. More frequently, certainly these days, paperwork and legal strictures are required to assist good faith. But much of the time the free market and the benefits of best practices does the job.

As a businessman for near 30 years, who has done countless deals, I can tell you there are two main reasons to uphold your end of the bargain.  First, screwing clients takes a lot more time, effort and stress than keeping them happy. Second, and more importantly, if you don’t care about keeping clients satisfied securing new business becomes your principle revenue source because none of your current customers are recommending you. A very hard way to go.

Which leads us back to the myth of Trump, the great negotiator. I am a big proponent of the “two kinds of people” way of looking at things. For example, there are two types of people in the world… those that excel in english and history, and those that love math and science; ocean people and mountain people; those who live to eat and those who eat to live, etc.

In business this simplistic view would establish those that rely and trust in a handshake and a person’s word, and those more inclined to a contract and its provisions.  Trump, has become fully notorious and aptly ostracized as falling into a third, very select category: those who abide by neither, wholly untrustable by word or signature. He is in that tiny, contemptible, universally reviled sliver of a percentage who refuse to honor any agreement, no matter how broad or specific, how lax or detailed.

If one had several years to spend, they could peruse the thousands of legal actions involving Trump for breaking his word and refusing to abide by his legal obligations. Could there be a more depressing task? The stories are way too numerous of companies going under after suffering the misfortune of believing that a signed contract ensured payment in full for services rendered to Trump entities. They leveraged their business to fill an order they “won” from The Donald. They went out on a limb because they thought they had “bagged the elephant” and were heading to the next level.  They overextended themselves based on the assumption that they had come to an agreement with the great negotiator, bested the other competitors and proved themselves in his eyes, little realizing they were simply the sucker du jour.  They learned the hard way that Trump has never “negotiated” a thing… he has simply agreed to terms he never had any intention of honoring; that’s not deal making, its theft.

It is now a common truth that nary a vendor exists today stupid enough to extend the Trump Organization credit in any form; COD for any goods is now required.  This is certain verifiable fact.  There are a couple words that most always are applied to businessmen who conduct themselves this way… felon is one, bankrupt failure another. But for one notable exception, however, there is another title…. President of the United States. Cry for your country!  BC

“Governor Haley, the President wants you to come to the White House. He has reservations about the Russian sanctions. “

”Tell him that dog doesn’t hunt anymore. No more meetings alone with him. He’s disgusting. I made it clear we can talk on the phone.”

“Governor, the President is on the phone”

”Hello Mr. President, how can I help you?”

”Nikki, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Donnie, we have history.”

“Mr. President, you chasing me around a desk isn’t history. Let’s stay professional here. You owe it to the office.”

” Look, Nikki, who could help themselves? You’re a beautiful woman for Christ’s sake! I had to move on you! You’re all I think about.”

”Er, that’s very flattering Mr. President, but we have a job to do. What’s this about you having second thoughts about the new round of sanctions I just announced?”

”Oh, Right. Listen Vicki, they won’t fly. Vla… er, I mean my gut tells me they are counterproductive. Let’s scrap em. Tell everyone you were confused.”

”Confused?! What are you talking about. We discussed everything with the General last night! This is what we agreed on! This is what I announced! I’ve been on all the Sunday shows, for God’s sake!!!”

”And you looked spectacular. Love your lips.  But this comes from the top, sweetie. They’re history. Make it happen!”

”You are the top, sir! You authorized this!”

”Listen, Mitzi, I changed my mind. Vladimir and I have an incredible summit coming up. We’re going to do great things. He says these will get in the way. I tried to convince him we had to do em, but he’s tough… former OGB, you know, man of action. I like that”

”When did you talk to him! It hasn’t been 18 hours since we settled this thing! WTF, Mr. President.”

”Special line, honey, he knows I’m always available. We’re talking peace here. Global security. Stop being a hater and debase yourself nationally. Get on the train, girl.”

”What about my credibility?! Nobody in the chamber will take me seriously! I’ve spent 15 months creating a brand… er, I mean promoting your agenda, Mr President. I can’t go back on my word. What will they call me?!”

”Indian giver?!, hee hee, Just joking dear. Besides, you don’t have to go back on your word, Sarah already put out the story…just nod that beautiful noggin of yours. Cmon, take one for the team here. I promise next time I’ll back you 100%!!! “

”What do you mean she’s already put it out?!”

”Sean’s running with it too, babe. It’s done. Might as well get your head on it, er… around it. Whatever. Listen, Nick, I want to get some golf in before I do some tweeting and pull some serious executive time. Abe is coming in and he thinks he’s so damn smart. Stresses me out. You’re doing a fantastic job; let’s have lunch… gotta go.”

”Mr. Presss… Dammit!! Not again. This is no way to conduct policy. What the hell was I thinking. Nothing is worth this. Christie is right; I can’t trust that fat ass as far as I can throw him. Bob, sanctions are off… and what about that group I’m meeting with in Iowa. Let’s get the spin going on this….” BC

 

 

I have a wonderful friend and former colleague, let’s call him Jim, in many ways a second father, who always listened and counseled me on family challenges I would confront as my kids grew. Parenting a child with autism is tough for the most enlightened, and believe me, I never claimed to be Father Knows Best.

This is a godly man, strident and sharing in his personal relationship with Christ, a devotion that seems to have always provided him with a serenity I envied. He has two fully separate families and is the type of patriarch one would surely do well to emulate. He is kind, and devoted, fully caring, a wonderful friend to have…. until you discuss current events. Suddenly a switch goes off, and his voice gets a bit more terse. When he chuckles, it is with a strain of cynicism. And when pushed for facts he feels should be self-evident, the serenity is gone, replaced by grievance and exasperation.  Sean Hannity makes it all so sensible, so easy to digest. Why can’t you see that?

I always abided Jim’s allegiance to Fox/AM, but since Inauguration we have become estranged.  I was up in Maine mourning for my nation when I saw he had posted on FB, maybe the only time he had ever done so, a few minutes after Trump’s wretched 16 minute diatribe… “So thankful for my God and country” I suppose the rapturous moment got the best of him.

Jim has reached out by phone several times, but our conversations have been brief and stilted, my patience at a premium, and his ability to make small talk sorely tested. The last time he left a voicemail I simply erased it without much thought. He is an older man, in receding if not failing health, and at some point there is no doubt I will get a call that he has passed. I have no doubt about the regret I will feel for distancing myself from him; it will haunt me, I am certain.  I accept full blame for our falling out, and feel shame for the occurance  Yet and still, I move on.

I am not narcisstic enough to believe my situation is unique. And I am neither popular enough to afford the loss of friends, nor cold enough not to suffer the void such cutting of ties leaves, but I appear unable to get past abiding allegiance to Trump and Fox/AM.  Whether that means I am simply an asshole, or actually more obliged to principle than I realized is I suppose a symptom of a society under duress, it’s patience stretched thin.

Yet and still, one thing can’t be in doubt, and if it ever does become a debatable point, our ruination will be complete… what comes out of this White House and the relentless segments on Fox and the AM dial is a Shit River of lies and distortions, in full service to a narrative founded on our worst inclinations and overtly anathema to everything I was taught to be proud of my country for. The fact that it infects most of the GOP enables a crisis that threatens a catastrophe.

I suppose if we survive this nadir in which we have allowed our governance and national political life to descend I will have to reckon with the question of whether I panicked and allowed important relationships to suffer. Whether I was the very embodiment of what I decried. But from where I sit now, as our POTUS vomits dictums to a team of cowering sycophants, and relentlessly repeats his scurrilous lies about the institutions that make our freedom possible, that will be a good problem to have, since we will still be a going concern.

I’m sorry Jim.   BC

1. When I was 7 years old my mom enrolled me in Bucky’s Boys Club, run by a very loud and energetic old man named Bucky Harris. As I acclimated my first day, there seemed to me to be a countless number of kids, many older and more assertive than me. The highlight of the afternoon was swimming in their pool, which had a diving board, something I had, believe it or not, never experienced up to that point in my young life.

Now understand that we lived only a couple of blocks from Lake Michigan, and I had already spent countless hours in the water, and assumed that I knew how to swim.  So when Bucky barked out for a division of campers into swimmers and non-swimmers, I just figured I was a swimmer even though I had never actually been in the deep end of a swimming pool. Well, we all lined up at that diving board and one by one kids, some more tentatively than others, walked the plank and jumped into the pool. As my turn approached it suddenly dawned on me that in fact I never had jumped into water over my head and I was actually clueless about the proper technique to survive what now seemed a reckless action. This realization, coupled with the anxiety being thrust into the public eye, rendered me both thoughtless and speechless as I proceeded to simply march off the board and commence drowning in front of the entire camp.

It was Bucky, himself, who actually dove in and saved my sorry ass, and as he got me out of the pool, he seemed to my pathetic eye the most pissed off human being I had ever met.  I suppose I was coughing/gagging a bit, and surely looked to be one of the lamest kids he had come across, but when he actually addressed me, it was calmly but direct. He asked me my name and I told him. Billy, he said, see what happens when you don’t tell the truth? I started to stammer that I really did know how to swim, but even to my searching 7 year old brain, the absurdity of my entreaty was evident. I vowed to myself then and there two things: 1) Learn to really frickin swim, not just in the shallows of a lake, but in water over my head; and 2) never BS when the consequences are both dire and imminently verifiable.  Anyway, I think that’s what I promised myself.

This childhood memory serves as an analogous point of departure for our current national predicament. Our POTUS knew from the minute he came down the escalator at Trump Tower to announce his candidacy ala ugly racist diatribe that he couldn’t even dog paddle his way through a policy discussion on any issue he would face. And  it was equally clear from the beginning that he didn’t give this little bump in his road to sowing chaos on the electoral process a second thought because he never dreamed he would have to jump off the diving board. Even as the other campers dove out of the race, transforming Priebus’ February declaration before the Iowa Straw Poll that there had never been such a collection of political talent into a signature example of Fox/AM delusion, Trump stayed in line for the diving board,  figuring the general election voters would surely keep him dry and safe.

From Labor Day to Election Day he ran as exactly the wretch he was, devoted only to creating the narrative to explain his landslide defeat, laying most on a “rigged system”, and a co-conspiring GOP.  He had much to look forward to after his trouncing; he would surely profit handsomely on the adulation of his wretched core base, in combination with a beautiful partnership with nihilist media, fully facilitated by Steve Bannon.

But then….. he had to jump in the pool!! And this is where we have been since last January. In the deep end, floundering and desperately awaiting our Bucky to save us. Trump thrashes about every hour, now resigned to his fate, but fully unwilling to learn any stroke that may get him to the side without causing further damage. His is a singular quest to preserve himself from the sinking ship he never wanted to captain, even as his passengers flounder helplessly, many actually abiding, even cheering his stewardship.

It is our intent to shed light on our predicament while holding vigil for Bucky to arrive, all the while conceding he may have left the building. Regardless, there is a story that matters happening right now, and we’re not going to let it play out unobserved, without at least throwing in our two cents. From Mar-A-Lago to Youngstown…. This is The Dystopia Report! BC