Beyond the Law?

Enron’s Ken Lay—Convicted But Died Before Sentencing

Enron’s Ken Lay—Convicted But Died Before Sentencing

There is one class of people who are almost untouchable when they commit economic crimes while at the helm of their companies: I am referring to Chief Executive Officers (CEOs), to which I might also add Chief Financial Officers (CFOs) and Chief Operating Officers (COOs). To date, there has been no major prosecutions of the bank and securities firms CEOs who were responsible for the Great Recession of 2008—despite the fact that they, in many cases, knowingly put together subprime mortgage securities backed (essentially) by hope and pixie dust.

There have been cases of CEOs who have served time (or are serving time). These include:

  1. Jeff Skilling, Enron
  2. Martha Stewart, Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia
  3. Sanjay Kumar, Computer Associates
  4. Dennis Kozlowski, Tyco
  5. John Rigas, Adelphia
  6. Martin L. Grass, Rite-Aid
  7. Joseph Nacchio, Qwest
  8. Walter Forbes, Cendant
  9. Richard Scrushy, HealthSouth
  10. Bernie Ebbers, WorldCom

Ken Lay of Enron would have joined that list, but he died of a heart attack before sentencing. For more information about the above, click here.

There are class action suits, but these have a way of punishing the innocent and leaving the guilty scot-free. For one thing, it is the shareholders who suffer, not the executives. In many cases, it is the shareholders who have  initiated the cases and suffer from the resulting devaluation of their securities. And probably the biggest beneficiaries are law firms specializing in class action cases. These boys make out like bandits.

Whether CEOs wind up doing the perp walk is not the main point. I would be happy to see blame ascribed and large fines levied.

Thomas Bewick and His Tail Pieces

Bewick Depicting Himself as a Traveler Drinking Water from His Hat

Bewick Depicting Himself as a Traveler Drinking Water from His Hat

Thomas Bewick (1753-1828) was one of Britain’s great unsung artists. Known as an engraver and a naturalist (he authored A History of British Birds), he won the admiration of no less than John James Audubon, who visited him in 1827:

As length we reached the dwelling of the Engraver, and I was at once shewn his workshop. There I met the old man, who, coming towards me, welcomed me with a hearty shake of the hand, and for a moment took off a cotton night-cap, somewhat soiled by the smoke of the place. He was a tall stout man, with a large head, and with eyes placed farther apart than those of any man I have evr seen: a perfect old Englishman, full of life, although seventy-four years of age, active and prompt in his labors. Presently, he proposed shewing me the work he was at, and went on with his tools. It was a small vignette, cut on a block of boxwood not more than than three by two inches in surface, and represented a dog frightened at night by what he fancied to be living objects, but were actually roots and branches of trees, rocks, and other objects bearing the semblance of men. This curious piece of art, like all his works, was exquisite.

The illustration described by Audubon is shown below and constitutes one of the artist’s famous tail-pieces, which were dashed off to fill blank space at the end of a chapter.

 

The Tail Piece Described by Audubon

The Tail Piece Described by Audubon

This is not to detract from Bewick’s carefully observed engravings of birds and mammals of his native Northumberland. It’s merely to admit that I am not as acute an observer of nature as Bewick was and could not appreciate them as much as other naturalists such as Audubon and Sir Joseph Banks.

One image that afforded me some amusement was of a traveler urinating on the wall of a Roman ruin:

How Not to Appreciate a Roman Ruin

How Not to Appreciate a Roman Ruin

Note the shadow of the traveler cast on the wall, something one doesn’t usually see on a casual illustration of this sort. But Bewick was always meticulous in his observations.

 

Downbeat on Tweet

Do I Really Care?

#WTFDoICare

Several months ago, I started signing up for Twitter. When I was asked to name three Twitter accounts I was interested in following, I couldn’t think of a single one. I just wasn’t that interested in following anyone. And what would I tweet? There was that 140-character limitation that encouraged users to murder the English language. And when Twitter and tweets were in the news, they were usually from political or entertainment figures like Donald Trump or Kim Kardashian—on whom I do not care to waste my time.

What is more, that whole hashtag convention struck me as forcing one’s thoughts into other people’s channels. Nope, not for me.

Þorrablót

Now Tell Me You’re Not Hungry

Now Tell Me You’re Not Hungry

Those of you who are vegetarians can stop reading now. Following is a piece from today’s Iceland Review about how Icelanders celebrate the start of Þorri.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the old month þorri, which generally is celebrated with traditional Icelandic food, enjoyed at large gatherings called þorrablót, held in various places throughout the month.

The food, typically served as buffet, includes the items listed below:

Dark rye bread, slightly sweet and slowly baked, commonly called þrumari or thunderer, because of the thundering it frequently produces at the rear end of those who enjoy it.

Dried fish, or harðfiskur: extremely addictive, despite its distinguished, strong smell. It’s most frequently enjoyed with a bit of butter.

Putrefied shark, served in tiny cubes the size of sugar cubes, but quite different in taste. These cubes are not for the delicate, but a delicacy to others.

Brennivín, also known as Black Death or aquavit, brewed from potatoes. This beverage is ideal for getting the shark down your throat.

Rotten eggs. The best ones are said to come from the West Fjords. They are indeed rotten and smell rotten.

Rams’ testicles which have been boiled and then cured in whey. You will be spared any further description.

Pressed meat from the heads of lambs, or head cheese, often cured in whey. Don’t let the description scare you away. This is considered delicious.

Liver sausage, made from the liver of sheep, is every child’s favorite. Its cousin, the blood sausage, is also popular, but together we call them slátur, meaning slaughter.

If none of the above is to your liking, rest assured you will like the hangikjöt or smoked lamb, which cannot be missed.

Note that the food above is proof how well our forefathers made use of their resources and let nothing go to waste. For preservation, meat was either smoked or stored in whey, and fish was dried.

So, if you’re invited to a þorrablót, don’t let the chance go by to experience it. Dress up and be ready to dance after dinner. [Or something.]

About Those 72 Virgins …

Well, I Guess That’s What the Egyptians Thought

Well, I Guess That’s What the Egyptians Thought

Since I have passed threescore years and ten that is marked as the Old Testament’s standard limit for a length of a life, I am aware that there are many things that I am doing for the last time. Will I ever again see the streets of Buenos Aires? What about the glaciers and waterfalls of Iceland? Can I ever realize my dream of taking the Trans-Siberian Railroad all the way from Moscow to Vladivostok? Or, nearer at hand, what about the hills of San Francisco or the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon? Or even Descanso Gardens and Huntington Gardens?

Let’s take a look at what Psalm 90:10 actually says:

The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.

When that day finally comes when I cross over, will I be angrily denied my access to the seventy-two large breasted virgins promised by Islam because I have not died fighting the infidel? Will St. Peter slam the pearly gates in my face because I once cussed out an aggressive panhandler? Will I be reborn in Brazil as a microcephalous infant due to my new mother’s having contracted the Zika virus? Will there, perhaps, be nothing? Or will there be a something I cannot imagine?

Because of the limitations inherent in our condition, I will continue to soldier on. So far I have been doing pretty well, considering. I’ll try to put off the “labour and sorrow” as long as I can, knowing full well that nobody lives forever.

Perhaps I write this because I am bummed out by all the famous people younger than me who recently died, like David Bowie and Glenn Frey and Natalie Cole and even the guy who played Leatherface.

I continue to walk the earth, but with a lighter step.

“Eternal Brood the Shadows on This Ground”

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

There is no doubt that H. P. Lovecraft owes a debt of gratitude to Edgar Allan Poe. He made an interesting attempt to pay a tribute to his forebear with this sonnet, which was published in Weird Tales in May 1938:

Eternal brood the shadows on this ground,
Dreaming of centuries that have gone before;
Great elms rise solemnly by slab and mound,
Arch’d high above a hidden world of yore.
Round all the scene a light of memory plays,
And dead leaves whisper of departed days,
Longing for sights and sounds that are no more.

Lonely and sad, a spectre glides along
Aisles where of old his living footsteps fell;
No common glance discerns him, tho’ his song
Peals down thro’ time with a mysterious spell:
Only the few who sorcery’s secret know
Espy amidst these tombs the shade of Poe.

If you look closely, the first letters in each line spell out the poet’s name.

295 Days

That’s How Many Days There Are From Now to Election Day

That’s How Many Days There Are From Now to Election Day

The nastiness began early last year as a whole host of candidates declared themselves for the 2016 Presidential Election. We, who pride ourselves as a nation that produces first class entertainment, have fallen down on the job. On the contrary, our elections have caused consternation among our allies and emboldened the growing number of peoples who hate us. Is this really the most powerful nation on earth? Or is this some Three Stooges pie fight?

My mailbox is filling up daily for requests for me to donate money to the Democratic Party so that they could:

  1. Buy advertising space on television, which I do not watch
  2. Pay for more frequent robocalls, which I hang up on within seconds

All of a sudden, I am receiving numerous calls from “surveys.” I stay on the line with them only long enough to say, “We do no participate in surveys.” Apparently, I am not the only one, because a recent New Yorker article indicates that the response rate is down to eight percent or less, down from a majority a couple decades ago.

We have grown to hate our politics, our politicians, and in fact ouwhole political process. And, instead of slinking off into a dark corner somewhere, the whole political process continues to gather steam and explore new ways of getting into our faces.

To make matters worse, I shouldn’t be surprised if the 2020 Presidential Election cranks up before the current race is resolved.

Get ready for an ugly year!

Slim Memed

Yasha Kemal (1923-2015)

Yasha Kemal (1923-2015)

My Turkish friend David urged me to read Yasha Kemal’s Memed, My Hawk (1955). As part of my Januarius program of reading authors I’d never read before, I decided to look into it. It was nothing short of amazing. The following is from my review of the book for Goodreads.Com:

Yashar Kemal is probably the best known author from that most admirable of Middle-Eastern peoples: The Kurds. His Memed, My Hawk is a folk tale of injustice by a cruel landlord turning a young farmer’s son to brigandage. At the same time he is a brigand, he is scrupulously justice, especially when dealing with the poor and the innocent.

“Slim Memed,” as he is called, is a hero created by an author who doesn’t believe in heroes. In his introduction to the New York Review Books edition, Kemal writes:

I have never believed in heroes. Even in those novels in which I focus on revolt I have tried to highlight the fact that those we call heroes are in effect instruments wielded by the people. The people create and protect these instruments and stand or fall together with them.

PICMemedMyHawk

Still and all, Kemal was to write three more books featuring Slim Memed. For the first one, he was shortlisted for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1973. That award was won by the Australian Patrick White. I think it should have gone to Kemal.

Kemal’s villain is the landlord Abdi Agha, one of the most craven and beastly characters in all of literature. It is not until the end that Memed shoots three bullets into his chest, killing him; but he had been spiritually dead for years after Memed killed his nephew and wounded him.

 

Kit Smart and His Cat

Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

Christopher Smart is one of the minor joys of 18th century English poetry. Unfortunately, he had a little mental difficulty which led to him being locked away in an asylum, mostly for his religious mania: He was known for kneeling down in the middle of a busy thoroughfare and launching into prayers.  His friend Dr. Johnson had some affection for the man and his work:

I did not think he ought to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted on people praying with him; and I’d as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. Another charge was, that he did not love clean linen; and I have no passion for it.

Included here is a selection from his long poem “Jubilate Agno,” which he wrote while an inmate of St. Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics. Consider it a gift to those of you who are cat lovers.

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider’d God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord’s poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually—Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.

When Terrorists Control the News Cycle

It’s All a Matter of Timing

It’s All a Matter of Timing

I first discovered this during the Iraq war starting around 8-10 years ago. The forerunner of ISIS, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi’s al-Qaida in Iraq, never had to go all out against their American enemies: One attack every few days would keep the news cycle forever buzzing. By the time the story was ready to go to an inner page, there would be a new improvised explosive device (IED) that caused American casualties, and the fearmongering would start up again at full volume.

The bombing in Jakarta was, I really believe, such an incident. Of the seven deaths, five were up the suicide bombers themselves, so the butcher’s bill was negligible. Or it could be as little as the guy in France who attacked a police station with a meat cleaver, only to be met by a hail of bullets from the flics.

Key to this strategy is (1) maintaining a high level of fear (and ISIS knows that Americans are a bunch of scaredy cats) and (2) repeat every couple of days, preferably in a new part of the world. Next time, maybe Iceland or Paraguay or Bermuda. Make people think the ISIS baddies are everywhere and all-powerful. That serves as a potent recruiting aid to bring in new fighters and their molls, especially since there are so many millions of young suburbanites around the world who have little or no moral compass.

I think the best way to combat this strategy is to steer clear of the news: Don’t let it control your life. And feel free to sneer.