FinermanWorks

At midnight, July 1, 1997, in an elaborate pageant that marked the end of a historical epic, the sovereignty of Hong Kong was transferred from Great Britain to China. Concluding their 156-year rule of the colony, the British departed with pomp and ceremony: splendid uniforms, regimental bands, and formal banquets. It is a British art. However, the Chinese were in business suits, and showed no nostalgia for the Victorian relics. Britain’s Prince Charles and China’s President Jiang Zemin stood on the same dais, the personifications of their countries in this historical act: the old empire was giving ground to the new world power.

Ironically, that was how the history of Hong Kong began. In the early 19th century, however, China was the old empire and Britain the new world power. China had become the relic of a great nation. When Europe was stirring from the Middle Ages, China’s might, culture and wealth were unmatched. In the 15th century an emperor had disbanded the Chinese navy. The outside world could not threaten his empire and had nothing to offer it. His arrogance would become China’s policy for the next four centuries. The Chinese civilization acclaimed by Marco Polo, the culture that invented gunpowder, the printing press and eyeglasses became complacent and stagnant. The Chinese had the first cannons but they had not improved them since the 16th century. Against the encroaching powers of Europe, China could not even defend herself. Foremost of these new powers was Great Britain.

In the 18th century, British ships were plying China’s shores, eager to trade for silk, porcelain and especially tea. This trade, however, was one way. China was selling but not buying. The imperial government regulated commerce, restricting European imports into the empire. Furthermore, China would only accept silver bullion as legal payment. (The Chinese had invented paper money but evidently did not trust anyone else’s.) This trade deficit with China—and the drain on bullion–was undermining Britain’s economy. British merchants, however, eventually found a way to reverse the trade imbalance: selling opium.

Smoking opium was a vice long known to China, and the opium poppy was easily cultivated in British-controlled India. (The local rajahs did not care, so long as the opium was only for export.) A ready supply of the drug increased the Chinese demand for it. In the 1770s, the British were importing 75 tons of opium a year into China; the imperial officials initially overlooked it. By the1830s, the opium traffic had grown to 1400 tons a year. Now, China was running a trade imbalance with Britain; worse, an estimated 4 million Chinese men were opium addicts. Confronted with this crisis, China sought to stop the opium trade.

In 1839 an imperial viceroy confiscated 1200 tons of opium from British merchants. He further threatened prosecution of traders and sailors involved in the drug traffic. The viceroy even wrote an open letter to Queen Victoria, criticizing her for permitting “her barbarians to poison the Chinese people” with opium. Her Majesty may never have seen the letter, but the British press certainly did. You can imagine the headlines: “Heathen Chinee Insults Our Queen”; “Opium Fiends Call Us Barbarians.” (Rupert Murdoch had his role models.) While the British government could hardly condone the specific opium trade, it could champion the general principles of the Free Market. Furthermore, it would never allow British subjects to be tried by a foreign power, especially one that insulted the Queen. So, for such impeccable causes as free trade, sovereignty and royal dignity, Britain went to war with China.

Britain had a population of 26 million; China had over 400 million people. Yet, it was China that proved hopelessly outmatched. Britain had the best navy in the world and her army was equipped with modern weapons. This conflict, known as the First Opium War lasted from 1839 until 1842 but only because the British were in no hurry. “I say, shall we take Canton this afternoon or would you rather play cricket?” With their unchallenged mobility and superior firepower, the British were free to blockade, raid and conquer at their leisure. In 1841, the British seized a large island a mile off the Southern coast of China. With its deep-sea anchorage this island—Hong Kong—made an excellent base. The war ended with the Treaty of Nanking; the humiliated Chinese basically turned over their ports and customs enforcement to the British, they paid for the confiscated opium, and ceded Hong Kong to its conquerors.

So, you can understand if, 156 years later, China’s President did not seem nostalgic for the departing British. Indeed, if he had a sense of whimsy, he was imagining a different history; with the fleet of Imperial China anchored in the Thames as Chinese merchants exploited the British addiction to tea.

While writing an article on Hong Kong, I made a disconcerting discovery. No reference work seemed to agree on the exact size of Hong Kong. Of course, I never expected any accuracy from Wikipedia; according to that popular if dubious source, Hong Kong is the capital of Kansas and has dated the Olsen Twins. However, I could not even find a surveyed certainty from the Encyclopedia Britannica; two different editions had two different answers. I was left with two alternatives: I could either describe Hong Kong as “sort of around 400 sq. miles” or avoid the point altogether. When in doubt, it is wiser to say nothing; if I had observed that on Jeopardy, I would be thousands of dollars richer. (Hell, I might have won the Tournament of Champions.)

At least, this factual diversity was unintentional. In public relations, you routinely see creative alternatives to the truth. “Who is to say that arsenic is really dangerous? And even if this purely natural ingredient were in our company’s cold cream, what harm could it do if you don’t eat the cold cream?” I once worked for a man who had a genuine enthusiasm for lying but was oblivious to details. In three separate editions of “Who’s Who”–all within the same decade–he listed three different dates of birth. If you are wondering, he was getting younger. However, he never bothered to adjust the date of his marriage. So by the third version, he had gotten married at the age of 16.

Knowing him, I imagine that he is now younger than me; and he got married in utero.

Pat Buchanan has inspired me before. This satire on the 2000 election was published in Salon. Let’s see how it has aged.

Pox Populi

According to Pat Buchanan, “George W. Bush is no Marcus Aurelius.” Then, which Roman emperor is the Republican heir? Five centuries of Caesars and their perpetual assassinations offer us some 80 emperors to use as presidential similes. Let’s see who fits whom?

All of the candidates want to be Constantine, the first Christian emperor. The 4th century tyrant actually would be an appropriate choice. Constantine (c. 312-337) embraced Christianity and tried to impose it on everyone, but he never personally practiced it. Morality and mercy would have constrained his hold on power. Yes, most of his slaughtered rivals were pagans; they also were members of his family. He was ecumenical in killing Christian relatives as well. Proclaimed in his lifetime as “the 13th apostle” and “Christ’s regent on earth,” the ruthless hypocrite did not bother to be baptized until he was on his death bed. Constantine is not merely a role model for modern politicians; he is their patron saint.

George W. Bush is no Constantine; otherwise, Jeb would already be dead. Nor is Bush the new Marcus Aurelius, but he could be that emperor’s son: the fatuous, petulant Commodus. The princeling (c. 180-192) was more of a contrast than a successor. Marcus Aurelius was a statesman, philosopher and soldier; Commodus was a jock. The young patrician possessed no distinctions other than his father’s name and a talent for carousing. Commodus’ reign was only as good as his advisors and his temper, and the former rarely survived the latter. He hated to be distracted from his chief interest: professional sports. The emperor preoccupied himself with managing a gladiator school. His tantrums finally compelled some endangered advisors to organize a fitting plot. The imperial jock got a fatal headlock from a professional wrestler. If George W. Bush does not have an unnatural fear of Jesse Ventura, perhaps he should.

Al Gore might aspire to be Marcus Aurelius, but he lives the plight of Claudius. Stolid, lumbering Claudius (c. 41-54) was the stooge and the successor of Caligula. Although kinsmen, the two were incongruous. Caligula was a charming sociopath; even most of his victims liked him. Claudius was an awkward introvert; people could not decide whether he was a buffoon or a bore. Among his less prurient caprices, Caligula made his horse a senator and Claudius a consul. The horse commanded more respect. When Caligula was assassinated, the Republicans in the Roman Senate overlooked the ludicrous possibility that Claudius would succeed to the throne. The Imperial party and the Praetorian Guard really did not want him either, but there were no other male adults in the dynasty. Claudius was unavoidable and inevitable. He also was underestimated. Dull, plodding Claudius turned out to be a good emperor. Perhaps Al Gore shouldn’t mind the comparison.

Steve Forbes has proved his abilities by being born rich. That achievement apparently qualifies him to be president. Forbes has the presumption and precedence of Didius Julianus, the man who bought the Roman Empire. The Praetorian Guard could overlook any vice in an emperor but stinginess. Emperor Pertinax had every virtue but generosity, so he did not survive his bodyguards. The impulsive Praetorians seized the throne but had no one to occupy it. Then the extravagantly rich Julianus (c. 193) showed up at the Praetorians’ camp and proceeded to bid for their loyalty. Another patrician competed in the auction for the Empire, but Julianus outbid him. His purchased Praetorians then cowed the Senate into acclaiming him the emperor. The Praetorians’ loyalty lasted two months. When an ambitious general marched on Rome, the imperial guard switched sides again. Julianus did not live to regret it. He now is remembered as a joke, which may yet be Steve Forbes’ real achievement.

Bill Bradley may hope to be Marcus Aurelius, but he threatens to be Julian the Apostate. Both emperors were brilliant, profound and virtuous; however, Marcus Aurelius was also competent. Julian (c. 361-363) tried managing the Empire like a graduate course in philosophy. By the 4th century, Rome verged on collapse. Corruption and strife had completely demoralized the Empire. Constantine imagined that Christianity would be a cohesive and subservient force for the government. Instead, the Christian sects were fighting each other when they weren’t persecuting everyone else. Julian intended to revive the Empire by offering a new faith. As the alternative to libertine paganism and dogmatic Christianity, Julian endorsed Neoplatonism. His approach certainly had intellectual appeal. Pagans had fun, Christians had solace but Neoplatonists had metaphysics. There weren’t many converts. The Christians resented Julian, while the pagans were just bewildered. Julian still has a loyal following among history professors, and Bill Bradley can count on that constituency, too.

Jesse Ventura might seem original, but he is the reincarnation of Maximinus Thrax. The peasant who became an emperor, Maximinus (c. 235-238) possessed theatrical strength and size. He could haul a loaded wagon or fell an ox with a single blow of his fist. That remarkable power also was useful for slaughtering barbarians, and Maximinus rose through the ranks of the Roman army. The general still retained his peasant manners and, seeing no reason why an ineffectual patrician should be emperor, Maximinus usurped the throne. The new Roman Emperor did not like Rome and, during his reign, never bothered to visit his capital. He preferred fighting the Germans to contending with patrician society. For their part, the patricians loathed the vulgar usurper and constantly conspired against him. Maximinus was not shy about executions, and he attempted to purge aristocrats from the officer corps; but he was one man against the Roman establishment. A plot finally succeeded, ending the reign of a brutal tyrant and the best emperor in a 50-year period. Jesse Ventura could do worse.

Pat Buchanan, unlike the other candidates, would hate to be Marcus Aurelius. The pugnacious pundit is no stoic. Furthermore, Buchanan would rather fight for the German barbarians than against them. We must find another emperor who matches Buchanan’s physique, manner and philosophy. Think of a porcine sadist, a flamboyant bigot and a preposterous megalomaniac. Of course! If only Pat Buchanan were 30 years younger, he would be a perfect Nero.

salon.com | Sept. 25, 1999

As a writer in today’s market, I knew that I had to compete against Indian college sophomores (and they don’t even have to be English majors). But as I just discovered, my prospective employers insist that I take steroids and make a decent cup of coffee. Here is what a prominent accounting firm expects from an experienced writer. (This is an ad I really received!)

Description: At KPMG LLP, you can count yourself among some of the best and the brightest. We’re proud of our talented people. We are currently seeking an Internal Communications Manager to join us in our Chicago office.

Responsibilities• Conduct daily floor inspections and fill out appropriate check lists in an effort to help ensure facilities are clutter free and fully stocked
• Order supplies with Procurement team and help ensure supplies are replenished daily
• Monitor inventory of coffee, condiments and paper supplies
• Review conference room and hoteling schedules daily and provide necessary set-up and break-down utilizing established checklist procedures

Qualifications
• One year of experience performing general office duties and familiarity with office equipment such as computers, copy machines, video equipment, and LCD projectors
• Experience using MS Office Suite including Word, Excel and Outlook
• High school diploma or equivalent
• Able to lift a minimum of fifty pounds
• Excellent verbal and written communication, organizational and administrative skills

Well, in the age of George Bush, a speechwriter no longer needs a college education or even basic coherence. With Power Point, corporate communications is at a level with cave drawings: point and grunt. We superfluously literate might be more useful in the corporate cafeteria. “Does anyone need speeches or condiments?”

But a speechwriter really does need to lift a minimum of fifty pounds. The executive ego is at least five times that mass. I am surprised that more of my colleagues aren’t in wheelchairs.

And when I am not lugging crates and cleaning coffee pots, I could proofread the job announcements for KPMG and possibly spare the morons in Human Resources some embarrassment.

Last weekend Patrick Buchanan told African-Americans that they should be singing “Zippity-Do-Dah”.

America has been the best country on earth for black folks. It was here that 600,000 black people, brought from Africa in slave ships, grew into a community of 40 million, were introduced to Christian salvation, and reached the greatest levels of freedom and prosperity blacks have ever known.

Actually, more than one million signed aboard the Middle Passage pleasure cruises to North America but half of them apparently did not complete the tour. Those midnight buffets can kill you.

And lest he be thought an ingrate, Mr. Buchanan will certainly want to thank England for its solicitous attention to Ireland. Eight centuries of companionship! But for Britain’s encouragement, the Irish might never have learned the English language or realized the excitement of adhering to Catholicism. The Irish construction industry can never repay its debt to Oliver Cromwell and the urban renewal he inspired in the towns and villages he visited.

England also demonstrated a consistent concern for Irish health. Lest they succumb to indolence and cholesterol on the more fertile lands, the Irish were encouraged to take a vigorous hike to the Western half of the island. There, they could enjoy a real aerobic workout on soil that was perfect for an all-potato diet. Thanks to these British benefits, some Irish became “entrepreneurs”; the luckier ones received scholarships to Australia. (The rest earned public recognition as the patrons of British carpentry.)

And when the potato crop failed, the British landowners wouldn’t think of letting the Irish stay on infertile land. The open road awaited them with ample ditches where they could lie down and sleep away their troubles forever. Those who made it to a port and still had the few pence for fare enjoyed the benefits of Britain’s maritime policies. There was no need to encumber migration with safety or hygiene minimums for ships; so in the 1840s the Irish enjoyed a Middle Passage of their own. Arriving in America, they found the American Protestants were just as friendly as the British ones. All those signs “No Irish Here” were laments rather than threats. And what could better an expression of a warm welcome than a flammable Catholic Church?

But the Irish soon demonstrated their assimilation by giving a similar reception to the next wave of immigrants. The Italians, Slavs and Jews got a boisterous Irish welcome, a type of cordiality that Pat Buchanan still observes. Ask any Hispanic. Buchanan is living his American Dream, making the best of being the worst.

Last weekend I saw a double feature: the charming “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day” and the horrifying “Never-Ending Commercial.” An exhausting pastiche of ads and trailers, “The Never-Ending Commercial” promoted cars and vacuum cleaners, neither of which were sold in the theater lobby. There were also features on upcoming television shows; if I really were interested in Gene Simmon’s and Shannon Tweed’s cohabitation, I would have stayed home to watch. While one could understand some trailers for movies coming next week to the theater; “The Never-Ending Commercial” was plugging films that are still in production. They may never be finished or released, but we still had to sit through the ads. (No, you can’t leave your seat because you don’t know when the actual feature will start.)

I can’t recall most of those distant productions but one did make an impression. You can see the setting is 18th Europe; a coach pulls up to a palace, and all the bewigged extras start talking about “the duchess.” She does this, she says that, she shocked whom, etc. However, the audience only knows her by reputation; we are denied a view of her. Then suddenly a very tall figure emerges but we still are denied the sight of any face. The intentional mystery sparked a frightening thought: Oh my God, it is another Will Ferrell farce. However, we finally see the face of Kiera Knightley, who looks as if she really hates her foot-high wig. She is “The Duchess”, and quite a celebrated one at that: Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.

Beauty is not uncommon in the aristocracy; it is the predictable result of the same selective breeding in show dogs. Intelligence, however, is rare; and Georgiana possessed a mind as dazzling as her looks. In her day (1757-1806), women could not vote in Britain, but the Duchess certainly had her say. The politically astute Duchess was a patroness of the Whig party, but she was more than just a hostess for teas. With her considerable charm and wealth, she helped determine the party’s slate. And she was more than a power behind the scenes. The political pioneer publicly campaigned for Whig candidates; the cartoonists of the day caricatured her exchanging kisses for votes. If that were the case, that probably would have guaranteed the Whigs a landslide.

(Even without the gorgeous Georgiana, the 1780s were a propitious time for Whigs. Twenty years of Tory mismanagement had cost the Empire a number of colonies in North America.)

In her private life–which is to say her scandals, Georgiana also displayed an admirable enlightenment and a modern perspective. She was never so preoccupied with her adulteries as to neglect her husband, the Duke. In fact, she helped him in selecting a mistress. Of course, the Old Guard thought her notorious. Indeed, her family did have a tendency to produce beautiful and free-thinking iconoclasts. Her niece Caroline was a memorable patroness of the arts, abandoning her husband to run off with Lord Byron.

And what was the family name of these strong-willed, trend-setting, rebellious women: Spencer. Yes, someone should have warned Prince Charles.

From a British perspective, the Seven Years’ War might have seemed effortless: victory after victory after victory. Britain gained domination over India and conquered Canada. The few setbacks were just enough to keep James Fenimore Cooper interesting. But all those triumphs did come at a cost–quite literally. Waging a world war is expensive. Britain’s national debt nearly doubled in those seven years, from 72 million pounds to 129 million.

Nor could its new Canadian empire immediately recoup the expenses. Maple syrup was not likely to become a staple of the British diet. Compelling some British regiments to wear bearskin hats would not quickly offset the cost of taking Quebec. Furthermore, peace was no bargain either. To garrison Canada and protect the American colonies from the tribes of the original landlords, a standing army of 10,000 men would be required and at a cost of 200,000 pounds a year. The Exchequer thought “Would it be too much to expect those loyal and grateful colonists to defer some of that cost?” So, on this day in 1765, Parliament passed the Stamp Act.

The surchanges on printed material, ranging from a half-penny to a shilling, was expected to raise 70,000 pounds a year. That was one third of what Britain would spend to protect the colonists. However, the Stamp Act raised rebellion rather than revenues. No matter how legitimate the expenses, the Americans did not like having taxes imposed upon them. It was a violation of their rights or at least British etiquette: no taxation without representation. Parliament backed down and repealed the Stamp Act, but the national debt could not be easily cancelled. Since the Americans had actually started the French and Indian War, and had simply dragged Britain into it, the Crown felt justified in asking the colonists, “Would you like to pay for your damn war?” But the colonists felt free to say, “No.” Neither George III nor his Tory ministers had the tact or charm to coax the Americans into compromise. (A Whig government would have.) The pompous, badgering presumptions of the Tory government drove America to Revolution.

Ironically, while Britain was losing money and colonies in North America, it was making a fortune in India. The management of subcontinent was completely different: greedy, amoral, ruthless and so obviously successful. Britain basically subcontracted the control of India to a corporation: the East India Company. The British company was the Halliburton of its day, a private business with a lucrative–really quite incestuous–arrangement with the Crown. When its dealings required “muscle”, the Company was free to borrow the British army or navy; but the sly, insidious approach was preferred. The Company offered its services to the various rajahs and princes of India, providing “western” efficiency–at a considerable fee–while the Indian royalty was lulled into indolence and dependence. Company officials made fortunes as military advisors and tax collectors for the Rajahs. Occasionally, the incomes were so astronomical that Parliament had inquiries; after all, partners-in-crime don’t like being cheated of their share. The Company also preoccupied the Indian populace by the hallowed strategy of “divide and conquered”, princes, sects and castes were pitted against each other. And there was the company in the middle–arbitrating, encouraging and profiting.

Unfortunately for Britain, it never thought of using a similar strategy in North America. An Englishman can’t be treated like a Wog. But in hindsight, why not? What if a West India Company had been given license to manage the American colonies? The India Company approach might have set up the Lees as the Rajahs of Virginia, and then toy with the Randolphs and the Byrds about supplanting the Lees. Maryland and New Jersey would have been advised about the aggressive policies of Pennsylvania–those Quakers aren’t as pacificist as they claim–and Pennsylvania would have to be protected against its neighbors. (And New Jersey can’t really trust those Maryland Catholics.) The Dutch and the English of New York would be at each others’ throats–with only the Company to stop the bloodshed that it had incited. With 13 colonies, the Company could create and manage 52 crises–one for every direction.

And for these indispensable services, the Colonists would gladly pay pounds in taxes to the Company; and the Crown would get its share in shillings without any of the blame. Yes, the Colonists would finally catch on; Americans might have won autonomy or independence under a mystic pacifist named Lincoln. By that time, however, American taxes would have paid off Britain’s debts for several wars, and Sir Andrew Jackson would have won the battle of Old Orleans–against Napoleon.

John McCain, presidential candidate and aspiring rabbi, explained to Israel that Purim was the Jewish Halloween. Yes, each year my tribe’s children dress as witches, trolls or supermen–or their Jewish equivalent–Joan Rivers, William Kristol and Superman. This year, a number of the adorable little tykes went as Ben Bernanke collecting money for Bear-Stearns.

Now I am eager to hear Rabbi McCain’s further explanation of Jewish holidays. I imagine the following…

Hannukah is the Jewish Christmas, in which we celebrate the birth of our many Jewish Messiahs: Moses, Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Lenny Bruce and Bob Dylan.

Passover is the Jewish Easter, commemorating the Jewish rebirth from slave labor to white collar jobs. The holiday recounts how the ancient Jews spent 40 years wandering around New York until they found their way to Florida.

Rosh Hashonah is the Jewish World Series, in which everyone competes at the Temple to flaunt who had the best year. (Bear Stearns brokers will be out of the running for awhile.)

Yom Kippur is the Jewish Lent where we atone for God’s continued incompetence and His implausible excuses for failing to live up to our expectations. However, in accordance with the highest standards of Jewish parents, we blame ourselves rather than that celestial brat. If only there were a Stanley Kaplan for deities….

Five years ago today, Iraq became wedded to George Bush. Who would have thought that they would last this long? Even the best man Dick Cheney confided that it would be a one-night stand. “Shock, awe, goodbye ya’ll!” We all knew that George Bush intended to seduce the entire Middle East, impregnating freedom everywhere. But, as our Alexia the Great discovered, once you have embraced Iraq you stay embraced.

For the Fifth Anniversary, the customary gift should be wood. If you want to express your admiration for George and Iraq, you might consider one of these appropriate offerings. Gallows always are a popular entertainment in Baghdad; better that than watching Al Jazzera. New doors might be appreciated, too. George seems to have kicked in quite a few during the courtship and honeymoon. Democracy doesn’t knock; it barges in.

But the most welcome gift would be wooden containers, a place to store such mementos as freshly deceased relatives. Balsa wood boxes would suffice. There is no need for them to be bulletproof; after all, the relatives weren’t either.

So, Happy Fifth Anniversary. And John McCain tells me to start shopping for the 100th.

Yesterday was my birthday, and I am now afraid to weigh myself. Two birthday cakes might seem excessive, but both the key lime cheesecake and the lemon layer cake (with white chocolate frosting) do protect me from scurvy. I am sure that the chocolate raisins also have some medical justification. At least my other appetite was indulged, too: a book on Byzantine art.

I certainly would like to thank all of you who wished me a Happy Birthday.

On the other hand, I am tempted to cancel the subscription of everyone who didn’t. Why should I be any less petty and vindictive than George Bush or Caligula? Am I supposed to be too mature? Considering that I am gorging myself on two birthday cakes and chocolate raisins, I don’t think my maturity has yet to occur.

But I am going to relent. Perhaps I am just too lethargic to be a conscientious tyrant. Even Caligula found that tyranny could be exhausting. When told that Judea refused to worship him as a God, Caligula considered whether or not to exterminate the province. He finally decided that “people who don’t worship me are misguided rather than criminal.”

I can be that lenient.