FinermanWorks

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.

March 22, 1765:  Parliament Passes a Perfectly Reasonable Law

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 the 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 pacifist 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.

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.

I had a certain dread awaiting the broadcast of “John Adams.” As a subscription cable company, HBO feels that it has an artistic obligation to saturate irrelevant prurience and gratuitous nudity in its programs. As you might know from watching the series “Rome”, the empire’s genuine decadence was not venereal enough for HBO. The network had to fabricate more scandal; who would have thought that Marc Antony needed that help?

So I expected David McCullough’s history to be rewritten by Larry Flynt: “The Fondling Fathers.” That actually would be an accurate appraisal of Ben Franklin, but history would not justify an R-rated “John Adams”. The Boston Tea Party was not a panty raid on Radcliffe, and Martha Washington and Abigail Adams never “comforted” each other. Would we see an unbuttoned Gwinnett? My only hope for a reasonably accurate interpretation was the choice of casting: John Adams was to be played by Paul Giamatti, not Lorenzo Lamas. Adams was short, pudgy and plain. The same could be said of Mr. Giamatti. (His nudity would certainly be gratutious and possibly an atrocity.)

I prepared myself for the broadcast with three pieces of key lime cheesecake and about a quarter-pound of chocolate raisins (my pre-birthday dinner). As long as I kept eating, I would continue to watch. (The Boston Massacre had no effect on my appetite; however, I would not recommend eating while seeing close-ups of small pox victims.) My desserts lasted about an hour; my enthusiasm for the series has yet to wane.

If you have HBO, you really should see “John Adams.” If you don’t, ingratiate yourself to someone who does subscribe. (Be R-rated if necessary; Ben Franklin would approve.) Giamatti does capture the complicated character of John Adams, a man who was highly intelligent and principled, ambitious but drab, well-intentioned yet abrasive, an adoring husband but short-tempered father. Laura Linney never has difficulty portraying an attractive, intelligent woman; her Abigail Adams conveys a remarkable woman who is the perfect complement to her husband; her pragmatic intelligence lends a necessary common sense to his esoteric brilliance. She would have made the far better politician of the two; and they both know it! Laura Linney certainly imparts the frustration of a talented woman in an age and society that stifled her abilities and relegated them to domestic duties.

Yet, these excellent performances are not the best reasons to watch “John Adams.” The real wonder is the painstaking, detailed portrait of 18th century life! For example, we know that fashion dictated that men of a certain class wore wigs. However, this series literally looks beneath the wig. In order to ensure a decent fit, the men had to shave their heads. We see men in the privacy of their homes with their glistening, bald pates. And the fact that Ben Franklin eschewed wigs was in itself revolutionary. The series is replete with such fascinating and grungy details. This period would not have been the cleanest or most fragrant time. But the entire society is there for us to see: a panorama of life in the 18th century. It may only be backgrounds, but you are looking are at the ships in Boston Harbor or the streets of Philadelphia. History has come to life. And yet it is computer animation, but you wouldn’t know it. The word “wonderful” rarely is used in its original context, but the historical settings are truly extraordinary.

I will be watching the rest of this series. It is a better dessert than the key lime cheesecake.

Reacting to the evidence of economic chaos–$4-a-gallon gasoline, $1000-an-ounce gold and $3000-an-hour hookers–President Bush is blaming the use of Arabic numbers. “What was the price of gasoline when people was using Roman numerals? We didn’t have these problems then. Nope, them Arab digits have made price-raising too easy. Condi noticed that inflation and intifada sure sound alike.

“So, in the name of national and economic protection, I am placing Social Security under the Department of Homeland Security. All them securities belong together anyway. In our war with Arab numeral terrorism, I am ordering that phone numbers now be in Morse code. Let me reassure the public that our schools are safe; they haven’t been teaching math in years. Of course, your tax forms will have to be done in that Roman ciphering, but you can blame the Democrats for even having taxes.”

To ensure efficient compliance with the Latinate tax requirements, H. & R. Block will be hiring Jesuits.

Looking up one topic, I often find fascinating tangents. For example, in my research on Generaleastimmo Santa Anna I became diverted to the topic of Spanish snobbery. While Santa Anna was not an aristocrat, he was in the second best stratum: a Criollo. We would recognize the term in its French spelling, Creole. Being a Criollo meant that Santa Anna was of pure European blood. That certainly distinguished him from the vast majority of Mexico’s population whose genetic foundation was Spanish rapists and native victims.

The specific term for Santa Anna’s impeccable pedigree was “liempieza de sangre“–the cleanliness of the blood. Such lineage meant more than social status; it was a prerequisite for any position in the Spanish civil service, an officer’s rank in the army or admission into the Jesuits. (The Jesuits, unlike the civil service or the officer corps, also required brains). To qualify for such distinction, one had to prove a racial purity going back four generations. This strident snobbery was not incited by a fear of an Aztec great-great grandparent but rather of a Jewish one.

In the 14th and 15th centuries, many Spanish Jews found conversion preferable to massacre. These “conversos” initially found no social restrictions on them. The more successful ex-Jews were even encroaching on the aristocracy. A threadbare grandee could be quite ecumenical about marrying the heiress of the nouveau riche, nouveau Catholic. This infiltration was occurring throughout the upper classes, and the Old Order began to panic. Just because “they had stopped being Jewish” did not mean “they” had stopped being insidious. These reactionary “blue bloods” were the first to regard the Jews as an indelible, incorrigible race rather than–in the words of the Church–“a blind people” whom conversion would cure.

So in the 16th century, the Old Guard persuaded the Crown to enact the laws and restrictions of “liempieza de sangre.” Now any aspirant to rank or office had to prove that all sixteen great-great-grandparents were born Catholic, using their umbilical cords as rosaries. Given the fluid social mobility of preceding two centuries, many Spanish aristocrats found themselves either barred or forced to forge Gentiles on the family tree. Consider the irony: it was easier for a Spanish peasant to prove his racial purity. (Sancho Panza brags about it, while Don Quixote maintains an intriguing silence on the topic.)

Furthermore, one exception had to be made to the Blood Laws restrictions: the monarchy. Had the Laws been enacted in 1492, Ferdinand and Isabella would have had to expel themselves. The Queen of Castille was one eighth Kosher, and the King of Aragon was 3/16ths. The fact that they were first cousins did not dilute the fraction in their children. Their grandson and successor Charles V, thanks to his all-Aryan dad, got the fraction down to about 3/32s but then he had to marry his Portuguese cousin (and she was about one eighth). So His Most Catholic Majesty–and pinup of the Inquisition–Philip II is approximately 3/16th you-know-what. In fact, an antagonistic Pope made an Anti-Semitic remark about Philip. Philip and his heirs did make a practice of marrying their Austrian cousins, finally diluting the Jewish factor to an acceptable Gentile fraction–but also increasing the tendency toward congenital idiocy.

And while one could denounce Santa Anna as an incompetent tyrant, he could not be called loud or pushy. His pedigree proves it.

America has become Victorian. In the 19th century, two prominent British politicians, prophesized for leadership, were ruined by scandals.

Scandal Number One

Charles Parnell (1846-1891), the leader of the Irish representatives in Parliament, was a veritable kingmaker. Shifting his bloc to the Tories or the Liberals, he could determine who would be Prime Minister. However, Parnell was not quite so adroit in his personal affairs. A Captain O’Shea noticed that his wife’s younger children seemed to resemble Mr. Parnell, and the indignant husband began divorce proceedings. Mr. Parnell’s name was conspicuous in the accusations.

A certain Church prominent in Ireland does not approve of divorce. Parnell only outraged the Church further when he married his divorced mistress. From pulpits and in the Irish press, Parnell was condemned. With his status as a pariah, he was abandoned by the Irish members of Parliament. Under the strain, Parnell died soon after of a heart attack.

“The Uncrowned King of Ireland“, Parnell had been a proponent of Home Rule for this country. He alone seemed capable of controlling the sectarian rifts between the Ulster and Catholic Irish members of Parliament. Prime Minister Gladstone needed that solid Irish bloc to support his bill for Irish Home Rule. Without Parnell’s leadership, the Ulster members joined with the Tories and blocked the passage of Home Rule. The best chance for a peaceful integration of Ireland into the United Kingdoms was lost, and the consequence was to be rebellion and civil war.

Parnell might have been consoled to know that he would portrayed by Clark Gable in a Hollywood saga.  Unfortunately, it also was Gable’s worse role.

Scandal Number Two

Sir Charles Dilke (1843-1911) might have been a likely Prime Minister. Unfortunately, the Liberal star in Parliament was accused of being a little too liberal with other men’s wives. Balancing both his wife and his married mistress were not the problem; any Victorian gentleman could manage that. However, Dilke found himself dragged into a divorce court, accused of adultery with his mistress’ married daughter.

That woman further accused Dilke of infecting her with syphilis. Dilke denied any involvement with his mistress’ daughter. The evidence was circumstantial. Both had the disease but not necessarily from each other. Furthermore, she seemed to have had a number of intimate acquaintances.

The Court acquitted Dilke of this particular adultery, but the press and public opinion did not. His prospects for leadership were ruined.

And Dilke’s scandal never even merited a movie. 

Eugene

N.Y. GOV. SPITZER LINKED TO PROSTITUTION RING

New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer, who rode into the governor’s office after his time as the state’s crusading attorney general, has reportedly admitted his involvement in a prostitution ring.

Of course, this was just a misunderstanding. The former attorney general thought that he was involved in a prosecution ring. He presumed that he was participating in a moot court, a group of lawyers just trying each other. That young lady attorney certainly could take a deposition.

In view, however, of the public outrage over Gov. Spitzer’s conduct, he must behave in a manner appropriate for a public official guilty of hypocrisy and moral turpitude: he should offer to become Republican.