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Friday, 22 November 2013

Wierdness - DEAD PRESIDENTS

The first US president to be assassinated was Abraham Lincoln in 1865. The last – so far – was John F Kennedy, fifty years ago today. A century separated the two men’s election – 1860 for Lincoln, Kennedy in 1960.
Most Americans still refuse to believe Kennedy’s killer, Lee Harvey Oswald, acted alone, insisting he was either framed or part of a conspiracy. Curiously, many believe a lone nut did murder Lincoln – whose assassination actually was part of a documented plot[*].
Kennedy’s death was quickly followed by the swearing in of Vice President Johnson; thus, he became the first southerner to hold the office of president since Lincoln was succeeded by his VP – Johnson[†].
Both Presidents Johnson, governing in difficult times, became increasingly unpopular and mistrusted. Bitter, facing opposition from within their own parties and almost certain defeat, neither sought a second term.




[*]John Wilkes Booth was head of a small group of radicals and Confederate spies. They planned, initially, to kidnap Lincoln on the road to his summer residence and hold him to ransom for the South’s independence. When the President’s travel plans were cancelled, they settled on a synchronised round of executions to decapitate the Union Government.
While Booth was shooting Lincoln, Secretary of War Stanton was set upon in his bed – where he’d been recuperating from a carriage accident. Stanton escaped serious injury but his son was stabbed wrestling with the attacker, who fled.
Secretary of State Seward survived because his would-be assassin lost his nerve at the last moment.

[†]Andrew Johnson of Tennessee. Kennedy’s successor was, of course, Lyndon Baines Johnson of Texas. 

Thursday, 21 November 2013

More Historical Weirdness - W and Q

The United States, thanks to the vagaries of its Electoral College, has had two presidents elected without winning the popular vote. Both were sons of two-term vice presidents, later single-term presidents, of the same name.
Both rejected the appellation “Junior”, instead distinguishing themselves from their fathers by their middle name or initial – John Quincy Adams, and George W Bush.
The fathers were both vice president to popular two-termers, succeeded to the presidency, and lost after one term to slippery characters who also shared a name – John Adams was vice president to George Washington, and lost to Thomas Jefferson; George Bush served Ronald Reagan before losing to William Jefferson Clinton.
Both fathers were hampered in re-election by a decidedly odd third-party candidate. In the case of Bush, snr, it was eccentric millionaire Ross Perot. For John Adams, it was Aaron Burr of New York – who later not only killed a Founding Father in a duel, but also tried to make himself Emperor of Mexico.
There, the comparison ends. John Quincy Adams served just one term. Like his father, he suffered from an inability to play populist or party politics. His presidency, however, was only a comma in a long, distinguished career.
Entering the Diplomatic Service in his teens, he played important roles in the Netherlands, Prussia, Russia and Britain. At home he served in Congress and cabinet. It was Adams who largely conceived and negotiated the modern boundaries of the continental United States. Returning to Congress after the presidency he was an early, lonely voice in the fight against slavery. He finally died, at an advanced age, on his feet on the floor of the House.
George W Bush, of course, won re-election to a second term. It was hardly important, though. He did all the damage in his first.


Friday, 15 November 2013

Short Flights of Historical Weirdness: DID YOU HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE IRISH JAILBREAK?


File under, “Irish inventions that sound stupid till you find out they actually worked”:
On 3 February, 1919, Michael Collins[1] and Harry Boland[2] broke Eamon de Valera[3] out of Lincoln Gaol in England.
Exactly how did Harry and the Big Fellow manage it, to whisk the leader of Ireland’s rebel government away from His Majesty’s boarding-house? They used files and a duplicate key, of course.
Files and a duplicate key they had smuggled into the prison ahead of time . . . baked inside four cakes.
Not exactly a submarine with a screen-door, now, is it?




[1]1890–1922: Legendary figure of the Irish War of Independence; signatory to the Anglo-Irish Treaty (6 December, 1921); head of the first Irish Free-State Government. Ambushed by anti-Treaty guerrillas and killed in the ensuing fire-fight, 22 August, 1922.

[2]Collins’ friend and collaborator; joint party-secretary, Sinn Fein, and president of Irish Republican Brotherhood (1918); minister in rebel Irish cabinet. Sided with de Valera against Collins, joining Republican MPs who walked out of the Dail (Irish Parliament) in protest against the Treaty. Killed fighting against government forces in the opening days of the Civil War, 31 July, 1922.

[3]1882–1975: Statesman and revolutionary. Born in New York of a Spanish artist father and Irish mother; raised in Ireland by his grandmother and an uncle.
Commanded a battalion of Irish National Volunteers in the doomed Easter Rising (Dublin, 1916); the only commander to escape execution, thanks to his American birth; rose to prominence in the rising’s aftermath.
President of Ireland during War of Independence; resigned in protest when the Dail approved the Anglo-Irish Treaty; fought against the provisional government in the Civil War (1922–3).
After defeat in the war formed Fianna Fail party (1926), taking most Sinn Fein supporters with him; head of Irish government, 1932–48, 1951–4, and 1957–9. In 1937 promulgated a new constitution establishing the Republic of Eire.
President of Eire, 1959–73.

Saturday, 2 November 2013

ANSWERS TO A FRIEND'S TWO QUESTIONS or Portraits of the Artist as Old Man and Young Twat


My friend, Parkstreet, has a project going at the moment. He’s asking people to conduct two interviews – one with their eighteen year-old self, one with themself at eighty.
To participate, go to:
Here’s my effort.

I
Answering the first question involves two trips back in time. Or, more precisely, one trip, two different locations.
            One on one, eighteen year old me is attentive and philosophical. He doesn’t tell me what he thinks of me. Instead, he listens. He lets me talk about myself and asks thoughtful questions. He likes to help people feel good about themselves, but also to see themselves – the better to make their own decisions. Besides, he doubts his ability to say anything intelligent or useful.
So he talks in clichés. The closest he comes to actual advice, or judgement, is, “Do you know what you’re good at? Are you doing it? Then keep it up. The rest will sort itself out.”
             I’m tempted to offer some advice of my own; to nudge him in a direction conducive to my own well-being. He’s a sweet-natured kid and, given what he’s been through already, I’d like to spare him some of what’s coming.
I resist the urge. Sure, if he thinks I’m his friend I could get him to do just about anything – others have and will – but it wouldn’t stick, and later he’d resent it. Beneath the gentle acquiescence he’s a stubborn, rebellious creature; telling him what to do is a sure way to get him to do the opposite. He learns best when he learns for himself, even if he has to repeat the experiment a few times to be certain.
            That’s the private interview. If we meet in company, things go a little differently. For a start, he’s probably drinking. He still asks questions and listens to the answers, but he’s not being helpful. He’s scanning me for weakness. Petulantly chain-smoking, gazing out half-face and heavy-lids from behind a wall of dark hair, he waits for the chance to cut me off at the knees in front of an audience. That, to him, is being clever.
            He doesn’t know why he dislikes me, he just does. It’s instinctive. Maybe I remind him too much of the guy described above. Anyway, he’s surprised we’re still alive at my age and for some reason holds it against me.
He already makes more money than I do. That’s not important to him right now, but in a year or two he’ll think it is. I want to tell him, just to see the look on his face, how much time he’s about to spend in sales and marketing. To this half-baked idealist – who, on a camp-bed on the building site where he labours, fills candle-lit notebooks with bad poetry – that constitutes a monstrous sell-out.
He’s mildly surprised that we married, and so young, though not surprised the marriage broke down. That’s what marriages do.
My mobile phone on the table elicits a sneer. So does the news that I’m on speaking terms again with our father. He’s disappointed we didn’t do more with music. He’s pleased we’re still writing, but doesn’t think I’m doing it right; still believes art should turn the world upside-down. I think art reflects the world or turns it inside-out.
The conversation doesn’t go very far. Eventually, he abandons trying to make me look like an idiot. Instead, when I respond to some bit of pseudo-Nietzschean twaddle with the observation that Nietzsche was a great writer, but also a syphilitic loon, he just loses it and takes a swing at me with his chair. A bouncer and a barman wrestle him out the door.
In the end, who cares what this asshole thinks? Not me.

II
The old man opens the door and ushers me inside. We could have met at a cafe – or in the abstract for that matter – but he wanted me to see where he lives.
            He’s still nearly as tall as me; not at all stooped (I’ve already been thanked for taking better care of myself, especially our teeth). And he still has his hair.
            He doesn’t say if he owns the apartment, but whoever does obviously looks after it. There is no mould or broken fittings. His furniture’s nicer than mine. Not new, but well made.
            From the corner of my eye, in one of the rooms off the hallway, I think I see a woman. I can’t tell if she’s real or only the shadow of a ghost of a memory. I don’t ask – for the same reason I don’t look for photos of a wife, kids or grandchildren.
             “This is where I work,” he says, showing me in to his study. I recognise from my own library some of the books lining the walls, and he’s added two- or three-times as many again. Some, on a little shelf near the desk, are his own. The desk faces away from the window. He indicates two armchairs and we sit.
            “I’ll be as brief as I can,” he begins. “Since you’re short on time.”
            “I am?”
            “Yes, you are. Where are you now, exactly? Thirty-eight? Okay. You’ve arrived at an important point. You’ve done some hard work in the last eighteen months, but now you’re flailing.
            “You’ve gotten clean and done a lot to straighten your head out. Congratulations. But you’ve fallen in to your old familiar trap – trying to do what you feel you should do, at the same time as what you think others think you should do. And, surprise, surprise, you’re fucking them both up.”
            While speaking he’s been looking over my shoulder at nothing in particular. Now, for the first time, he fixes me from under a raised eyebrow. “You’re really not as stupid as all that,” he jabs. “You know that leads right back to the hole you’ve just tunnelled out of.
            “You’re new to doing what’s good for you, so let me help. The people you care about only want to see you do well, whatever it is you do, so choose a road.
            “That angry smart-arse you still carry inside had one thing going for him – once he made a decision he sure as hell got things done. You don’t need to like him, just use him.
            “You know you can live on almost nothing. Do it for another six months and work at something you can be proud of. You’ve got the beginning and the end of a decent novel; write the middle. You’ll either succeed or you won’t – you can always whore yourself later. Demand for proofreaders and content-hacks won’t dry up any time soon.
            “You’re fantastic in a crisis and fuck-all use any time else, so pretend you don’t have any option. Because you don’t. It’s either self respect, or making just enough lucre to destroy yourself. Make your crises worthwhile.”
            He stands and curtly guides me back up the hall.
            “What else can I say? Don’t spend too much time alone – You don’t notice so much, but others notice it on you. Be kind to your family. Make time for your friends.
            “And, oh,” he winks as he closes the door. “Try to keep me in mind.”

Friday, 1 November 2013

LEE HARVEY OSWALD

Oswald killed Kennedy.
That simple statement, three weeks out from the fiftieth anniversary of the event, remains more controversial than it needs to be. In any group of five people it’s likely at least two will vehemently disagree, while a third – and possibly a fourth – will have “unanswered questions”.
It was the CIA. It was the Mob. It was pro-Castro Cubans. It was anti-Castro Cubans. It was the military-industrial complex. It was some combination of the above – maybe all of them. There were two gunmen. There were four. Even Lyndon Johnson, Kennedy’s successor, didn’t “discount the possibility” of a conspiracy – commies, of course (Johnson himself was yet another at whom the finger has been pointed).
All the conspiracy theories ignore one important piece of evidence: the person of Lee Harvey Oswald. Once you understand a little about this enigmatic figure, hidden for fifty years in plain sight, no further explanation is required. The assassination can be seen for what it was – a simple, senseless act of murder.
Why is it important? Stick around, I’ll tell you later.

Profile

Loner. Misfit. Malcontent. Ideologue. All the usual clichés apply. Father, either absent or brutal. Mother, by turns indulgent and manipulative (Interestingly, while the first mass-media assassination has yielded interview upon interview with just about anyone who was in Dallas that day, there are precious few with Mrs Oswald. She always demanded money first).
He was nobody’s dupe, nobody’s patsy, nobody’s sleeper-agent. These demand either gross stupidity or respect for an authority beyond oneself. Oswald possessed neither.
Here was a guy who taught himself Russian, then read the classics, before defecting to the Soviet Union. His diary entries from the return trip reveal profound disillusionment. He’d hoped to discover a paradise of freedom and equality. Instead he found hypocrisy – just another society where, in his eyes, the politico-military elite oppressed the people by means of centralised government. He could have that back at home.
It’s at about this time, it seems, that his thoughts began to coalesce. No definite plan yet, but the germ of an idea. If the world was going to change, he’d have to strike the blow himself.

Objections and Evidence

Conspiracists raise countless objections to Oswald being the shooter or, if he was, to the idea he acted alone. I’ll deal, briefly, with just three.
First and most famous, the “magic bullet” – also known as the “pristine bullet” due to its being, it is said, improbably intact after doing impossible damage. This, Oliver Stone notwithstanding, is nonsense. Repeated computer reconstructions and ballistic experiments have shown a single bullet would not only follow the course described in (what doubters call) the official version, but would arrive in much the same condition.
The first objection intersects the second. We’ll call it “Back, and to the left” – Oswald couldn’t be the only gunman because of the nature of the wound, and the way the President’s body reacted to the head-shot. There had to have been a second sniper, in front of the motorcade, on the grassy-knoll.
Again, live-fire experiments – on everything from ballistics gel to live goats to gel-packed human skulls – have reproduced identical wound-patterns with a shot from behind.
And then, as he had on most days for twenty-five years, Kennedy was wearing a back-brace. The Zapruder film shows what happened. At the moment of impact the President’s head pitches forward for an instant. Then the combined force of the exiting bullet, the back-brace restraining his torso, and his skull exploding like an overripe watermelon, jerks him upright and back as he slumps over sideways. Isaac Newton would have understood.
Finally, we’re told that Oswald possessed neither the time nor the skill to make the shots. To the contrary, Oswald, an ex-marine, was a proficient marksman. He had a serviceable rifle with a telescopic sight. He had an excellent firing position with good visibility and little cross-wind. He had a clear target moving slowly along his line of vision. And he had seven-point-one seconds to discharge the three recorded shots.
These facts alone – viewed dispassionately – render flights of fancy about magic bullets, doppelgangers and puffs of smoke on the grassy-knoll superfluous.

Oswald’s Razor

Lee Harvey Oswald was an incurable malcontent. He held strident yet amorphous political views, based on not only the rejection but the destruction of all authority. Abortive attempts to find his place in the world – the Marine Corps; Russia; a rejected application for residency in Mexico – fuelled a growing resentment.
Reeling from one frustration to the next, he began to lash out. Oswald frequented various, often opposing, political organisations, causing trouble wherever he went. Seven months before the Kennedy killing he fired a bullet into the Dallas home of Major-General Edwin A Walker. Walker (unlike Kennedy, unencumbered by a surgical corset) was able to take cover. Thwarted again, Oswald went back to trouble-making – until fate delivered the most powerful man in the world to the street under his window.
As we’ve seen, there is no good reason to believe Oswald didn’t kill the President. The School Book Depository was immediately searched, and an improvised sniper’s nest discovered at the sixth-floor corner window.
Descriptions – and the name – of a man seen leaving the area led, within the hour, to Oswald being stopped in the street by patrolman JD Tippet. In front of witnesses, he shot Tippet four times. Lest there be any doubt about the eyewitness accounts, they led officers to a cinema nearby. Here, Oswald was arrested, still holding a gun. The chain of events is incontrovertible.

Unseen Hands

So, why is any of this important? Belief in conspiracy theories is rarely harmless. At best, it distracts us from real problems. At worst it leads to dangerous extremes.
It’s a palliative, a white-noise ego massage. We’re in on the secret. We know the truth but are relieved of responsibility. “They” are much too powerful – we can do nothing but bleat.
Whether it’s the Kennedy assassination, the charge that the Royal Family killed Princess Diana, or the belief that the US Government caused 9/11, conspiracist-thinking can have unforeseen consequences.
The first two instances – leaving aside the simple, human pain of those caught in the crossfire – have led to endless inquiries, chasing absurd leads, employing public resources that could be much better used elsewhere.
The third is more interesting. While millions believe the Bush Administration carried-out the 9/11 attacks, the Administration’s own belief in a global Islamist conspiracy diverted its attention from the small group that actually did the deed – leading them to invade Iraq in search of non-existent weapons of mass destruction.
Conspiracy theories come in many flavours. Which ones we choose to believe is dictated by our political, social, intellectual or ethnic prejudices.
Fifty years on from Dallas, we’re also seventy-odd years from a bigger, more brutal event that scarred the twentieth-century.
It’s worth pausing to reflect on just what, in favourable circumstances, can be accomplished by a small, angry man with big ideas.
And on what can happen when enough, otherwise rational, people give credence to the notion that history is directed by unseen, all-powerful hands.