Saturday, October 15, 2022

Words and Numbers

 In a coffee shop with an old friend on Friday, we found ourselves speculating about the intersection between math and language. It is the peculiar place on the left-right brain spectrum where my mind often settles, for some reason.

When it comes to math, I like the logic and the specificity, and the certainty that there will be an answer, once enough patience kicks in.

When it comes to language, I like the cadence and trajectory, but also the Old Germanic specificity of English. Well, actually, I also like the layers of meaning and adaptability of English, thanks to the Norman invasion and other historical events that altered the course of the Anglo-Saxon dialect with French diversions.

Maybe, when it comes to it, what I really like most about English is using it to achieve ambiguity, which is quite unlike math. Whenever I can convey multiple meanings with my words, that suits me just fine.

There is a very specific, math-like reason for this. As a journalist, I prefer to avoid being placed in a position where I’m expected to tell people what they should think. That is simply not my job.

My preference is to present the facts as we’ve discovered them to be and let my readers draw their own conclusions.

That’s what I aspire to. Let the math of language meeting the language of math. Where certainty meets its polar opposite. Of course I fail as often as I succeed. It’s the law of averages.

NEWSLINKS:

Friday, October 14, 2022

The Coward

It’s simple. Every American should have watched yesterday’s final hearing of the Jan. 6th committee, but if they missed it, thank god for CSPAN. The committee saved the best for last of its nine hearings.

At the end of the hearing, committee members unanimously issued a bipartisan subpoena to Donald Trump to explain his role in the violent riot at Congress on January 6, 2021.

He’ll never comply, of course, because he lacks the courage to take responsibility for the events that occurred that day and because he would have to commit perjury to deny his guilt.

It’s hard to believe we are already 21 months out from the events of that terrible day and there is so little hope of justice in this case.

The man guilty of planning the riot and inciting the rioters sits in his mansion in Florida, hiding behind lawyers and guards, while a few of his hapless followers get convicted and sent to prison.

But that is no surprise. It’s simple. Trump is not only is a criminal, he is a coward.

I would normally leave it at that but there was bigger news yesterday. The Supreme Court told Trump to shove it.

NEWSLINKS:

Thursday, October 13, 2022

"My Father's War" (Afghan Conversation 44)

This is the latest in a series of conversations I have been having with an Afghan friend about life under the rule of the Taliban.

Dear David:

When my parents were young, in the 1980s, Afghanistan was immersed in a ruinous civil war. The Communist party was in power in Kabul. Before that war, the political and social situations had been relatively favorable for ethnic and religious minorities such as Hazara. So when all ethnic groups rebelled against the central government, Hazaras were among the leaders of the rebel groups. Some political analysts and historians believe that their rebellion against the central government was a big mistake. 

My father says that when he was young, far fewer people were attending school. No girls’ schools even existed in our village. Clergymen told the villagers that schools were against Islam and said they should be avoided. 

When my father was in school in Bamian, the rebels burned the school down. My father returned to his hometown. Then he joined the Islamist rebel groups himself and fought for several years against the central government. The Soviet Union sent troops to defend the communist government, which had the effect of unifying the ethnic groups against the foreign army.

During the years that followed. the Mujahaddin emerged, partly funded by the Americans, and they eventually spawned Al Qaeda and the Taliban. We all know the rest of the story – 9/11, the American response, 20 years of war, and the American withdrawal last year.

In many ways Afghanistan has never recovered from the events of my father’s youth. One way or another, we have been at war ever since.

NEWSLINKS:

 

Wednesday, October 12, 2022

Freelance Writer

I first published this essay in 2007.

***
The year 1975 was going to be, to my way of thinking, a make-it or break-it kind of year. I was determined to try and succeed as a freelance journalist by selling my research, reporting, writing or photographs. Or anything else people would buy.

I was living communally in a purple Victorian in the Haight, six adults and my neice, then around seven years old. So living costs were very low, and our old white van had been replaced by a 1966 red Volvo 122-S sedan with a B-18 engine, and supposedly the easiest car to repair then on the road.

Sadly, my skills at repairing cars were limited to changing the windshield blades, and even then, I tended to buy the wrong size, or install them backwards.

This was still no small matter of low self-esteem for me, only a few years out of Michigan where everyone knew how to repair cars. Not only that, they all seemed to know how to build houses, raise crops, fly airplanes, and shoot game.

By contrast, I couldn't do any of those things reliably; rather, it seemed to me there must be a type of magic that if you only could tap into it, would help you make mechanical things get right again.

It would be decades before I learned that logical thinking and patience were all that were required.

Sadly, I possessed neither.

So not to digress further, the year 1975 dawned with me determined to make something of myself. As I look at photos from that era, I see a striking young man, tall, slender but athletic, with dark hair to his shoulders, intense blue eyes, and an easy smile. 

This was post-Sixties San Francisco. I would have been embarrassed to admit that unlike virtually everyone I knew, I had never tried LSD, cocaine, or mushrooms. I had smoked dope, of course -- everyone did that -- it was like drinking a latte today.

But, in retrospect, even good old marijuana yielded bad trips for me. The first time I smoked it, in college, a girl convinced me to go to a party and do it. I was game, but I quickly became so paranoid I felt certain she, and everybody else there, was trying to get me. (For what, I wasn't sure.)

I remember stumbling home that night in Ann Arbor, seeing this girl and others behind every tree.

Now, I wonder: What was that all about? I came to be able to smoke it casually, as everyone did, soon after. But neither drugs nor alcohol held much appeal; I could easily alter my state, if I wanted to, by simply revisiting my childhood battle with rheumatic fever, or my much more recent week of delirium under the cloud of typhoid/salmonella in India in early 1971.

In fact, my unpublished novel from that era contains weird scenes about elephants trampling me and faces peering down at me in the night, under mosquito nets, seeing whether I was regaining consciousness or not.

Most of time, in reality, I was not. But the weird thing was, even when I was unconscious, I think I could hear some of what was going on around me, like the snatches of conversation that sweep back to you from the people ahead, walking into the wind out on the Berkeley Pier in the Bay.

***

Whenever I move a piece of furniture around here, we encounter some forgotten bag or box of stuff. Most of it belongs to my kids, big and small. Some of it is leftover from girlfriends or wives. This week, my ten-year-old recovered a file I had long since misplaced. It was hiding behind the couch, nestled among what I gather is a major cache of his favorite, long-missing "Star Wars Miniatures."

So, he got his and I got mine.

Here is what mine says:

I was a spectacularly unsuccessful freelancer through August of 1975. My total gross earnings were $945.50 from nine sales. I earned $145.50 for four articles for Pacific News Service, all of which were syndicated widely to newspapers around the country. New Times magazine in New York paid me $275 for three different types of work -- a research job, one article, and one photo.

(My notes indicate that my wife actually took the photo but that I was given the credit, and I don't want to even speculate why that was the case. Also, I recorded that the payment was three months late. In 1975, the $75 photo fee represented substantial income and was badly needed.)

I got two other checks during this eight-month period. Rolling Stone paid me $75 for a photo, and then (jackpot!) $450 for an article.

The topics behind all this effort?

* Chemical threats.
* Search for Patty Hearst.
* The Klamath Indians in Oregon.
* The LA skid row Slasher.
* Timothy Leary as a snitch.

***

Why, dear reader, would I bother you with this odd set of detail? Because, as it turned out, this was the last stretch of time before I became what Americans consider to be a "success."

The very next month, after these records stopped telling their story, I and my partner, Howard Kohn, broke the biggest story of that year, and the biggest story in Rolling Stone's history.

Our boss, Jann Wenner, was immensely generous. I remember the job offer (which I accepted) and a huge bonus ($5,000, I believe). He also bought me my first suit, at Wilkes Bashford.

The rest of 1975 is unwritten in this old, yellowed, hand-written spreadsheet. But the rest of that year is well documented for history, in the form of thousands of newspaper articles and tapes of all three major U.S. network TV broadcasts. We scored what in media terms was a major homerun.

So this old, yellowed paper is from the precious months before "success." I never had an inkling about what it would feel like to suddenly be thrust into the public eye. To have reporters following your every move; to have prosecutors issuing subpoenas to try and force you to reveal confidential sources; to have radicals issuing you death threats; to have groupies begging you to meet them after work.

I was so naive and so unprepared for all of this, back in 1975.

I did my best, which is to say I muddled through. But I also managed to escape the limelight and melt back into a different corridor, one that felt like the right fit. Still within Jann's organization there on Third Street, I coordinated an investigative unit that did stories about all sorts of important issues. A brief golden age of original investigative reporting on political and economic and environmental issues ensued at the magazine.

The results over the rest of 1975, 1976 and early 1977 are a legacy I am proud of. I introduced Lowell Bergman to Jann, and Lowell was hired. Together, we did some great stories.

When it all came crashing down, half a year after my first daughter was born, just before Christmas 1976, the dye had been cast. Lowell and I and a gentleman named Dan Noyes would go on to create the Center for Investigative Reporting.

Jann would go on to become a billionaire. Many of his other writers Like Hunter Thompson as well as photographer Annie Leibowitz would become legends.

Tonight, as I look at those hand-written entries from so long ago, I am reminded that for any young freelancers out there, your success may be waiting just around the next corner, so persist.

Just keep writing.

NEWSLINKS:

Tuesday, October 11, 2022

Remembering Molly Ivins

(NOTE: It’s been 15 years since I wrote this. Molly had just passed.)

It's time to say goodbye to a great journalist, gone too soon. Today, it was Molly Ivins, dead of breast cancer at 62. She will get many well-deserved eulogies. I can only add my few personal memories. 

She was in town on the speaking circuit one night in the early '90s when Doug Foster, our mutual friend, invited us to hang out at a downtown bar for a late-night drinking session. We were both at our best, which is to say our worst, so the jokes were flying back and forth as waiters shuttled bottles of her favorite spirits. Night turned into the next day.

She was most definitely a woman who could drink me under the table. 

Molly's caustic humor not only was contagious, she could be inspirational to progressive audiences. Her story telling was legendary. She gave no ground to those politicians who asserted claim over her Texas. If Bush thought he represented the true Texan, Molly begged to disagree.

She dismissed him as "Shrub."

Molly was the keynote speaker at the 25th anniversary of the Center for Investigative Reporting, in 2002. She personally introduced the three of us who had co-founded CIR back in 1977. Her speech was an old-time, shit-kicking, raucously profane political screed.

Tonight as I watched a fuzzy video of that event, I was struck by Molly's deeply personal identification with what we at CIR had always tried to do.

"Progressives are thought of as terminally earnest...(but) if we couldn't laugh, we'd go insane." Molly joked her way through the event that night, some lines delivered so fast in her droll Texas drawl that the audience had trouble keeping up with her.

Laughter erupted again and again. She was skewering the mainstream press, politicians, and anyone else within range.

But she also was cognizant that young journalists were present, idealistic and fresh-faced. For them, she was momentarily earnest: "Yes, you can make a difference." But, then, she added, "The best way you can learn [to become a good reporter] is to listen to older journalists sitting around in bars..." 

Finally, she turned on herself: "You know, I've spent my whole life being obnoxiously cheerful." An unabashed optimist. That's who Molly Ivins really was. 

We need more like her. Let's hope some of the journalists from the next generation were listening.

***
I remember one other, quite different time.

Molly was promoting another book in 1998 and was on her book tour. By now, she was extremely well known, and audiences everywhere looked forward to her visits.

But on this particular day, she was sitting in the waiting room of a web-based magazine, waiting for an editor to get out of a meeting and see her. The receptionist was young and didn't know who she was. The staff milling around also was clueless. As I saw her across the lobby, Molly seemed very alone, awkwardly thumbing through a magazine, probably wondering why she was even there that day.

I went over and renewed our acquaintance. I sat with her until her appointment. She seemed grateful for the connection.

I know I was. 

Good-bye, Molly. The next world just became a much funnier, more irreverent place. Even as ours became one giant heartbeat less so.

NEWSLINKS:

 

Monday, October 10, 2022

Paying Attention

So there are only four weeks left until the midterm elections. This applies to every citizen in the U.S. The main things at stake are certain seats in the U.S. Senate, all the seats in the U.S. House and various state and local races.

Nationally, here is the main issue. A majority of Republican candidates for the Senate and House have chosen to adhere to Donald Trump’s claim that the 2020 election was stolen from him.

Trump is lying. The 2020 election was not stolen.

No doubt the overwhelming majority of GOP candidates running as so-called election deniers realize that Joe Biden legitimately won the 2020 election, but are adhering to Trump’s line because they think it will help get them elected.

They are counting on the possibility that most Republicans voters are not paying attention and will just vote for the party candidate regardless of the consequences of their vote.

But this time, those consequences include serious, perhaps fatal damage to our republic. That is not hyperbole. The patriotic thing for Republicans to do is to reject the election deniers’ bid for office.

They should vote for the Democratic candidate or just sit this one out.

Our democracy depends on it.

NEWS LINKS:

 

Sunday, October 09, 2022

Mediating Conflicts

Watching the Golden State Warriors and their coach Steve Kerr trying to manage the situation over Draymond Green striking a fellow player, Jordan Poole, during a practice session, makes me glad I’m retired.

Having to deal with two employees who are in conflict with each other was one of the worst aspects of the jobs I held, and it happened more often than anyone wanted to admit.

Competition among teammates is natural. After all, they’re usually not related or even friends before getting hired. Most often they didn’t even know each other until recently. And if you are a good manager, you try to bring together diverse teams of people who represent all the different communities in our society, which increases the risk of conflicts.

Journalism may not be as fiercely competitive as pro basketball, but it has its moments. Some of the hardest cases I faced involved people who not only didn’t like each other, they fundamentally disagreed with each other — politically, philosophically, or over tactics or who should get credit for what.

All of that stuff is thorny to manage but at least none of my employees ever came to blows, so far as I know.

I’ll say this: If there is one coach who can handle this it is Kerr. He’s demonstrated time and again not only that he is a winner but that he is a man of principle who speaks his conscience and doesn’t avoid difficult situations.

And this is a difficult situation. Both Green and Poole are stars — Green is the bigger star, older and larger physically, which only make what he did all the more unforgivable.

Kerr hasn’t really shown his cards yet. Green is spending time “away” from the team, which may indicate he’s been suspended and he also sounds contrite in his public comments, which may be too little too late in this case. There is some effort by the Warriors to trace who leaked the security video that caught the punch, but that is a diversion and very much beside the point.

The fight happened and there have to be consequences. It can’t be hushed up because the public knows about it. Green already had a tarnished reputation in many fans’ eyes.

No, I do not envy Kerr in this one. Then again, I’m glad I’m retired.

NEWS LINKS: