FinermanWorks

On this day in 1804 Aaron Burr became the most envied man of his time. Everyone wanted to kill Alexander Hamilton. A bastard by birth and then by choice, Hamilton was a misanthropic megalomaniac. Yes, Hamilton was brilliant–and he would be the first to tell you. If he ever tired of that subject, he’d tell you how inferior you were.

I am surprised that Oliver Stone hasn’t come up with an assassination theory….

Kevin Costner as Benjamin Rush, “In fact, the trajectory of the entrance and exit wounds proves that Hamilton was shot 47 times. The autopsy further indicates that that his breakfast consisted of Dolley Madison donuts loaded with arsenic, cyanide, and rusty nails; however, I am told that was his daily preference….”

I know that most of you are not status-craving snobs; otherwise you now would be reading the Huffington Report. Nonetheless, if only to improve my social standing, I want to encourage you to join the aristocracy.

This is not as difficult as you might think–if you don’t mind being French. The French aristocracy is really quite democratic. The most tenuous relationship could allow you to assume a title. If you actually had a titled ancestor–no matter how distant–then you can sport that moniker, too. Every child of a comte is also a comte or comtesse–as are the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, etc. Actually, it is surprising that everyone in France doesn’t qualify.

By contrast, in Britain only the oldest son gets the title. Younger sons and their sons still get good tables but not “the real status.” Winston Churchill was the grandson of a Duke but was still technically a commoner–although a decidedly upper class one.

So just marry or be adopted by a French aristocrat. (There are plenty of threadbare comtes who will do it for the money.) If your current family might object to being abandoned–or if it wants to social-climb with you–you have another route to the heights. Buy a property with a title. Yes, in France a deed of title can be quite literal: the property comes with a title. Let’s say that there is a tract of land that is registered as Cul de Sac. If I buy that property, I then am allowed to call myself Eugene Finerman de Cul de Sac. Doesn’t that sound prestigious?

The French certainly think so–and who are we to disagree? For example, remember Valery Giscard d’Estaing, a former President of France. So you thought with that name he had to be an aristocrat?No, his ancestors actually were on the safe side of the guillotine. His grandfather bought the Estaing property and the family then acquired the “de” veneer.

Unfortunately, all these routes to the social heights must be paved with money. If you have a convenient fortune, just make an outrageous contribution to a successful presidential candidate–and hint the country where you would like to be ambassador.

(This is my latest article in Boss Magazine’s series on history.)

Hollywood movies have created our image of the American West: a lawless land tamed by the six-shooter. Yes, the prospector and the cowboy were part of the saga, but the West really was won by the farmer. The plow did more than the gun to settle and build, literally breaking the ground that turned wilderness into farmland. Venturing into the Great Plains, where the prairie grass grew as high as six feet, those first farmers—sodbusters– had been drawn not just by the hope of a better life on the frontier. They had a guarantee from the Federal government: free land to anyone who would farm it for five years. That guarantee was the Homestead Act of 1862.

Although the Native American tribes disagreed, the Federal government had title to the Great Plains, the territory extending in the Midwest from the Mississippi River to the Rocky Mountains, as part of the Louisiana Purchase. But a vast, undeveloped prairie was of no value to an expanding nation. The territory needed to be populated and cultivated, and the government was willing to give land to any adult willing to farm there. The Homestead Act created an orderly process that fostered the settlement of the West.

The need for such a policy would seem obvious, but it took a Civil War to enact the legislation. During the 1850s similar bills had been proposed in Congress and passed by the House of Representatives. In the Senate, however, the proposals were defeated by Southern opposition. There was a political calculus to this: the South feared that the Western territories, once sufficiently populated to qualify for statehood, would enter the Union as states opposed to slavery. The South had a smaller population than the North (12 million vs. 18 million), a disparity evident in the demographically proportioned House of Representatives. However, the Senate’s composition was based on the number of states, and the slave states had a rough parity with the free states: 15 versus 18. But new states might tilt that balance, so the South opposed any legislation that promoted Western settlement.

But in 1862 the South was conspicuously absent from the U.S. Congress. The Homestead Act finally passed; and was signed by President Lincoln on May 20. Going into effect on January 1, 1863, the Act permitted any U.S. citizen, male or female, over the age of 21 to acquire 160 acres of land in the public domain. The applicant would need to file a claim at the nearest government land office and pay a registration fee of ten dollars. (Ten dollars in 1862 would be the equivalent of 1500 dollars today. So it was not a trivial amount but still a bargain.) Within six months of the application, the settler had to establish residency on the property. After five years of farming the land, the settler would be granted the deed of ownership. On January 1, 1863, the first day of the Homestead Act, 418 people filed their applications.

The land was free but not effortless. Just getting to the frontier was a difficult and expensive journey. The settlers traveled by covered wagon. The most common type was called the Prairie Schooner, a small and sturdy vehicle that could traverse the tall grass of the prairie. Its wagon ruts often were the only roads on the frontier. The Prairie Schooner might cost $75, more than $11,000 in today’s dollars. Four feet wide by twelve feet long and a canvas cover that reached ten feet, that wagon had to hold the settler’s family, the essential possessions including farm tools and seed, and at least a six months’ of food.

There were guidebooks at the time, and prospective settlers were recommended to take the following supplies: 150 lbs of floor, 20 lbs of corn meal, 50 lbs. of bacon, 40 lbs of sugar, 10 lbs. of coffee, 5 lbs. of salt (to preserve meat), and 15 lbs. of beans. Additional meat presumably could be killed along the way. Yes, guns were part of that essential inventory.

Everything that could be required had to be taken because the frontier had no convenience stores. The pioneer had to be self-sufficient. Of course, that packed wagon required draft animals to pull it; a team of six oxen or ten mules would suffice. (At $150 each a draft horse was a luxury, costing ten times the price of a mule.) Adding up the costs of the wagon, the draft team, the farm tools, and all the supplies, a settler was likely to have spent a minimum of $1000, our equivalent of $150,000.

The settler would want to arrive on his claim in the spring, making full use of the growing season and have a harvested crop in the first year of his residence. Plowing the soil also provided the farmer with the construction materials for his first home. The Homestead Act required the settler to build a home on the land; so did common sense. No one would want to endure a prairie winter in a covered wagon. However, the common building materials of the East—wood and stone—were not found on the Great Plains. So the prairie itself would provide the building blocks. The sodhouse, composed of bricks of soil, because the standard home of those early pioneers. Each sod brick was approximately was 18 inches wide by 24 inches long, and weighed about 50 pounds; and the bricks had to be checked to remove any wildlife, especially snakes. It required an acre of sod, 3000 bricks, to build a one-room house just 16 feet wide and 20 feet long. The sod construction was solid and insulating: warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and also bulletproof. It was ugly and practical, exactly what the pioneer needed and no more than that.

If the settler could last five years, if the harvests proved worth the struggle, then the land was his. The local land office would grant the settler full title to the acreage. But, in fact, most applicants failed in their attempt at farming. The land grant records indicated that fewer than half of settlers held on for the required time. Despite that high toll, the Homestead Act was encouraging a Western migration and the settlement of the Great Plains.

In 1860, Nebraska’s population was 28,841; by 1870, it was 122,993. Nebraska became a state in 1867. The settlers moved further west. In 1870, Colorado’s population was 39,864, by 1880, it was 194,327. Colorado entered the union in 1876. South Dakota and North Dakota became states in 1889, and Wyoming in 1890. The development of the transcontinental railroad greatly improved travel to the west, but it was Homestead Act that gave people a reason to go there.

Ten percent of the United States—270 million acres– was settled through the Homestead Act. By 1900 over 600,000 claims had been filed. The Act remained in effect until 1986 encouraging settlement in Alaska, our last frontier. Today, the wagon rut trails of the Great Plains have been paved over by superhighways. The grass prairie now yields crops that feed America and the world. This is the legacy of the Homestead Act and the pioneers who pursued its promise.

Although the United States does not have an official village idiot, this country will protest China’s human rights abuses by sending President Bush to the Beijing Olympics. A State Department spokesman explained, “We are going to let the President be himself.” Mr. Bush’s itinerary will include using Ming vases as bowling pins, betting reporters who can urinate the farthest standing on the Great Wall, and greeting the Chinese officials with “No tickee, no washee.”

President Bush may go unnoticed, however, because no one will see him through the Beijing smog. China had attempted to improve its catastrophic environment in time for the Olympics. To lower the city’s 140% carbon dioxide levels, the government encouraged the population to breathe less. Known hiccuppers were arrested. Beijing hoped at least to improve ecological appearances by adding blue dye to the air. The finance ministry, however, realized the potential for product placement of the carbon dioxide-saturated atmosphere. Chinese posters now advertise “The effervescent air of Beijing–It’s Like Breathing Coca Cola.”

Fearing the environmental hazards of Beijing, many of the Olympic teams have suggested moving to a safer locale–such as Bhopal, India. Acknowledging those concerns, the International Committee is making several adjustments to the games. Medals can be awarded posthumously. All athletes will be allowed to compete in hazmat suits. In this year’s decathlon, the goal is to complete any one of the ten events. And swim teams are encouraged to provide their own water.

Musing:
It is Jesse Helms’ first day in Hell. I hope that he was forced to watch Venus and Serena Williams compete at Wimbleton. Better yet, I hope that Helms’s head was transmuted into the tennis ball.

Reflection:
Yesterday, one television network honored our Independence Day by broadcasting a “Law and Order” marathon. Well, the series did premiere in 1776. The first season’s cast had David Garrick, Sarah Siddons, Colley Cibber and–of course–Steven Hill.

Trauma:
I just survived another encounter with corporate reality. Despite my refusal to run up any debts to enrich its usurious soul, my bank has extended my Visa card for another few years. However, in order to activate my new card, I first had to call “customer service.” The voice answering my call identified himself as “Hubert.” R…E…A…L…L…Y! He certainly didn’t sound like a Hubert; of course, he could have been named for someone his great-great-grandfather killed in the Sepoy Rebellion. Unlike him, I had some credibility in my identity and was able to prove that I was Eugene.

Yet, before my card could be activated, Hubert first had to tell me about all sorts of wonderful programs and benefits that the bank wanted me to have. Furthermore, none of these proffered gifts would cost me a cent….except for a minor details that were equally unintelligible in English and Hindi. But Hubert was going to sign me up unless I repeatedly said, “No.” Which I did, insistently–because he did not choose to believe me the first few times. Whether surprised or offended by my refusal, Hubert ventured, “May I ask why?”

Of course, I did not have to give him my reason–but when have I ever been reticent? I told him, “The bank is not a philanthropy. It is simply looking for any opportunity to charge me fees and interest. Well, I am not a philanthropy either, and I will not give away my money for bank services that I don’t want.”

I think that Hubert finally accepted my answer. But I will carefully check my next bank statement.

Thomas Jefferson was the copywriter of the Declaration of Independence. Yes, alas, our country’s founding document is a masterpiece of product placement. In fairness to Jefferson, the shameless hucksterism was not his idea. Poor Tom was manipulated and bullied by the business manager of the Continental Congress.

The Congress had hired a young Scotsman, an economics major at Columbia, to get corporate discounts on quills–and maybe a few “comps” at Philiadelphia taverns. But the teenage “go-getter” took the initiative of selling advertising space on the Declaration. The income covered his salary as well as a consulting fee for John Hancock. Any money leftover would be sent to the Continental Army. So Jefferson was told that he had to insert the commercial plugs into his writing.

Some of Jefferson’s most stirring prose was actually ad copy. Consider his evocation of “Nature’s God.” That was not an expression of his deism but an endorsement of a then popular laxative. (The combination of tobacco and pork fat really is effective.) Unfortunately, many of the advertisers were infuriated by misprints in the Declaration. For example, there was to be an ad touting the inn of Aileen and Abel Wright; but no one wants to stay at an “Un.” And you can imagine the indignation of the wig manufacturer The Hirsute of Happiness. The corrections were made on the second printing of the Declaration, but no one apparently read it.

Many of the delegates at the Continental Congress resented the blatant commercialism and their exploitation as celebrity endorsers. (Only Ben Franklin was allowed to market Ben Franklin!) The Declaration was almost voted down; by and large, the delegates preferred the tyranny of George III to that of Alexander Hamilton. The American Revolution was saved when Jefferson added a codicil to the Declaration; only then, the delegates eagerly pledged “our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.” Surprisingly, it took 28 years before a hitman collected on the contract.

The plan of Field Marshall Douglas Haig had an undeniable logic. A week-long bombardment–1,500,000 shells of heavy artillery–along a 20-mile front in northern France would obliterate any German defenses. Then, 150,000 British soldiers would simply occupy the valley, leaving the exposed remnants of the German lines prey to three divisions of cavalry. And tally-ho Berlin! The British soldiers were told to take along their full kits–70 pounds of equipment and supplies–because this operation was really more of a relocation than an attack. Battalions were even ordered to move in formation: eight lines of troops, five yards apart. It would be good practice for so many raw recruits. That splendid procession occurred on this day–July 1–1916.

However, the procession was not quite as splendid as expected. While the British artillery had rained 1,500,000 shells on the German defenses, some logistical misunderstanding resulted in the use of shrapnel instead of high explosives. That would have been fatal to any number of German sunbathers who chose to ignore the bombardment, but it had negligible effect on the trenchworks. Furthermore, the British underestimated the quality of German engineering. They assumed that the German trenchworks were just as shoddy as the British. (On the contrary, if you like the engineering of German cars, you would really love their trenches.) So, in fact, the German fortifications were still largely extant and bristling with the finest quality machine guns. The British bombardment had only succeeded in eliminating the element of surprise.

So began the first day on the Somme.

General Haig expected 150,000 men–in three waves–to advance up to three miles, overrunning two lines of German fortifications. However, only 100,000 men participated in the attack. In some sectors, the second and third waves could not move past the dead and wounded of the first wave. Some regiments had casualties of ninety percent; in effect, they ceased to exist. Despite the odds and obstacles, moving under fire with the weight of a full kit, British troops succeeded in taking some sectors of the Germans’ first line of trenches. Some British soldiers even reached the second line of trenches; the lucky ones were captured.

General Haig expected the attack to continue the next day. The division commanders told him that it was impossible; the generals did not even know how many men they had left. It took three days to get an accurate account of the losses. Of the 100,000 men who made the attack on July 1, 20,000 were dead and 40,000 wounded. This proved to be the worst day in the history of the British army. By contrast, the German losses seemed almost frivolous: 8,000 dead and wounded, 2,000 captured.

And this was just the first day on the Somme. The slaughter would continue through November. At the cost of 620,000 casualties the Allies would gain five miles, and they never achieved the breakthrough that would end the war. But if this was a Pyrrhic victory, the Germans still had little reason to celebrate. Their casualties amounted to 450,000.

Douglas Haig was not courtmartialed, demoted or transferred as military attache to Brazil. He remained the Field Marshall of the British forces, After the war, he was made an earl and received an award of 100,000 sterling. (He did not need the money; the Haig family had a very successful distillery.) History’s judgment, however, has been less generous: “the butcher of the Somme”.

Barack Hussein Obama must be a Moslem because of his middle name. Using that same irrefutable criterion, one must conclude that John Sidney McCain is Jewish. Just say the name Sidney and you conjure the images of a schlub accountant, a wisecracking deli man, or the retired garment worker in Florida. What do they have in common? Certainly not a foreskin.

Yes, I know that Sidney McCain does not look Jewish. But neither did Kirk Douglas until he turned 75. (So any minute now….) And the evidence is already there: Oy, is he a Sidney! Consider his campaign pledges. He denounces pork barrel legislation; so what has he got against pork? He also promises to cut government spending: the man just does not want to pay retail. As for his personal life, the stereotype holds true: his second wife is a younger, blonde shiksa. And what real Gentile would willingly hang around Joseph Lieberman? (Even we Jews are tempted to give the little nebbish a wedgie and steal his lunch money.)

Now that the world knows the truth, beware of a President Sidney. Would you want to see state dinners replaced by Sunday brunches? Do you want “The Star Spangled Banner” to be replaced by a Gershwin tune, even if it is easier to sing? (“Strike Up the Band” sounds patriotic but “I Got Plenty of Nuttin’ would be a more accurate state of the union.) Would you want an America run like a Hollywood studio? Well, that actually might be an improvement. If only we could be sure that Sidney McCain were as good as Louis B. Mayer.

The city-state of Venice was a republic by default. None of its ruling families was able to eliminate or terrorize its rivals. So the aristocrats agreed to share power but only among themselves. Their idea of a republic would be our idea of a country club. The club—the Grand Council–had 450 members; and the rest of Venice’s population amounted to 140,000 waiters and caddies. (But the club members were good tippers.)

However, even the Grand Council did not govern Venice. The club’s steering committee and executive board managed the day to day affairs of the mercantile empire. There was also the club president: the Doge. The Doge was elected for life, but the election process would have bewildered a Byzantine.

It was as much a lottery as an election. First, 30 members of the Grand Council were chosen by lot.  From this group, 9 were chosen by lot. Those 9 members selected 40 members of the Grand Council; and from the 40, then 12 were chosen by lot. The 12 would select 25 members; and a lottery would pick 9 of them. They would elect 45 members, and then a lottery would choose 11 from them. The 11 would choose 41 members–who actually would elect the Doge. Oh, the Doge had to receive at least 25 out of 41 votes.

And you thought that our Electoral College was stupid. Yet, this convoluted system served Venice for five centuries, from 1268 to 1797.

Furthermore, this bewildering process did enrich our vocabulary. In the electoral lottery, each member received a wax ball which had to be broken open. If his wax ball contained a piece of parchment with the word “lector”, the lucky member proceeded to the next stage of the election. The word for these wax orbs was “ballotes.”

That does sound familiar.

Karl Rove described Barak Obama as an Ivy League, martini-sipping, country club elitist. Barak Obama denies that Barbara Bush is his mother.

Zimbabwe tyrant Robert Mugabe has announced that he is taking a leave of absence in order to run John McCain’s campaign. The new campaign manager criticized his candidate’s only theme: ‘Vote for McCain or the terrorists will kill you.’ According to Mugabe, the threat is too weak and vague. “Which terrorists? Somebody Muslim? I don’t want people to respond to our ads by public burnings of Omar Sharif’s bridge column. We have to focus the paranoia. No, our theme should be ‘Vote for McCain or WE will kill you.’ Voters will believe that. Homicidal hysteria is the one issue where Republicans still have any credibility.”

SCHOLARS SET DATE FOR ODYSSEUS’ BLOODY HOMECOMING

Using clues from star and sun positions mentioned by the ancient Greek poet Homer, scholars think they have determined the date when King Odysseus returned from the Trojan War and slaughtered a group of suitors who had been pressing his wife to marry one of them. It was on April 16, 1178 B.C. that the great warrior struck with arrows, swords and spears, killing those who sought to replace him, a pair of researchers say in Monday’s online edition of Proceedings of the National Academy of Science.

Now that the “Odyssey” can be taken as gospel, this divinely-inspired book should be taught in high school biology classes. We all know that puberty turns boys into pigs but “Odyssey” tells that it can be done literally. In fact, the Odyssey should be the core curriculum of all classes. Don’t worry–Odysseus is consistently heterosexual. The book’s advice for dealing with unwelcome house guests should be the basis of our immigration policy. (Perhaps Odysseus could have spared the lives of any of Penelope’s suitors who were willing to do yardwork.) The Odyssey can be also be the foundation for an improved criminal justice system; blinding certainly discouraged Polyphemus and is likely to have the same effect on drunks, cannibals and the annoyingly handicapped. Finally, Homer’s divine work offers us a winning strategy for Iraq: a giant wooden horse. If that ruse ended one war in Asia, why not another?