Happy Halloween.

Something scary for Halloween.  As a recovering Mormon who turns to alcohol in times of need, Desultory Eclecticism has a special place in its heart for recovering alcoholics who turn to Mormonism.  Please, take Jesus' advice, and for 9 minutes, "Become passerby."  I don't understand it; you don't understand it; Harvard symbologists (if only they were real) wouldn't understand it. Just enjoy it.

Desultory Eclecticism is interested in anyone with information about the "Swords Into Plowshares" figurine featured in the above rant.  Having eaten out of bowls stamped "сделенно в CCCP", changed bulbs in light fixtures labeled "сделенно в CCCP", ridden trains and subways with factory plates denoting "сделенно в CCCP", hitched rides in its fair share of Krushchev-era Ladas  which were "сделенно в CCCP", Desultory Eclecticism is at a loss as to why a statue gifted to the United Nations by the autarkic, atheistic Soviet Union depicting the sentiments of a Isaiah 2:4 Micah 4:3, and the Book of Mormon's own II Nephi 4:12, was made into a paper-weight with a half-quote, in Russian--"to my dear, modern devotee"--from a man too obscure to warrant his own wikipedia page, then stamped--in English--"MADE IN USSR".

The Incurious Case of Alex Zinc

WEAVER: My name? Alex Zinc.
JUDGE: Where were you born?
W: Oh, in Nuremberg--that illustrious ancient city; rightly famous, honest judge.  First, because certain laws were passed there, that are of no interest here.  Second, for a debatable trial.  Third, because the best toys in the whole world are produced there.
J: Tell me...how you lived; and don't lie.  It would be useless here.
W: Oh, I was hardworking, your honor.  Stone on top of stone; deutsche mark after deutsche mark.  I founded a model industry.  The best buckram, the finest felt were made by the Zinc Company.  I was a humane and diligent boss: honest prices, generous salaries, never a complaint from my consumers, customers.  And above all, as I was telling you, the best felt produced in Europe.
J: Did you use...good wool?
W: Oh, extraordinary wool, your honor.  Loose, or in braids; wool of which I had the monopoly; black wool, and chestnut; tawny and blonde; and more often...gray...or...white.
J: From what flocks?
W: Oh I don't know!  It didn't interest me.  I paid for it in cash.
J: Tell me, have your dreams been tranquil?
W: Well...usually, yes judge.  Though...sometimes...in my dreams...I've heard grieving ghosts...groan.
J: Weaver, step down.

Primo Levi?, as quoted by Ralph Williams

This week's The New Yorker  attempts to answer why, in the Information Age, so many are so virulently misinformed, transcending even the willful ignorance that allowed Alex Zinc to purchase Birkenau "wool" with a clean conscious (not conscience).  Desultory Eclecticism, in an attempt to perpetuate its own brand of misinformation, prescribes (with the caveat that, in the fearful words of Yahweh, when people work together "nothing will be restrained from them which they have imagined to do" Gen 1:6, and that one good individual planting himself on his ideals can do quite a bit as well)  prayer:

God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish the one from the other. 

Reinhold Niebuhr

Still in the USSR?

The New Yorker,  August 3, 2009 

“Soviet” is the name of a hotel that stands on the left-hand side of Leningrad Prospect in Moscow. On the other side stands a kebab house, which had long earned the nickname “Anti-Soviet”—not because its clientele or kebabs were subversive but because of its position: directly opposite the “Soviet".  

Last month the owners of the café decided to make a brand out of the Soviet-era joke and put up a sign “Anti-Soviet”. But they chose the wrong moment and inadvertently caused a political scandal which speaks volumes about Russia.  

On September 7th the Moscow union of pensioners and veterans, a name that oddly unites those who fought in the war with those who served as commissars, guards in the Gulag and secret policemen, complained to the local authority about “the inappropriate political pun” and urged that the name be changed in order not to irritate those who “respect the Soviet period in our history”.

The Economist, October 15, 2009 

A recent Economist article touches on a political-cultural tug-of-war rarely covered well in Western media, and The New Yorker's cover of August 3rd paints an accurate picture of it: the Soviet past is not dead; it isn't even past.

Even in Ukraine, the CIS state that may have suffered most under Stalin , foreign travelers are immediately struck by the persistence of Soviet-era landmarks.  Every village with a paved road has a Lenin statue (or three) and a Great Patriotic War memorial.  Main streets are still named Lenina and Sovietskaya.  In Mykolaiv, a medium-sized city near the Black Sea, the avenue named in honor of Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Bolshevik secret police, has thankfully been renamed 3rd street; but at it's main bus stop, at the intersection with Prospekt Lenina, the small pavilion's old sign remains prominent: DZEREZHINSKOVO.  A Soviet Rip Van Winkle would not find himself at home in Ukraine--or Russia--2009, but he would certainly find enough of the familiar to be thoroughly confused.  Why?

How to remember your parents' (not your grandparents'; not your ancestors'; your parents') tragedies and triumphs--tragedies and triumphs on a biblical scale, destruction and celebration that dwarf 9/11 and the 4th of July fireworks--and forget their context?  A large minority of Ukrainians, in the midst of their second economic crisis since independence, will wax nostalgic--after a few glasses of vodka--about the good old days of the Brezhnev era.  Given a moment to reflect and an opportunity to vote, almost none would return to the cave.  Even Russia, perhaps disingenuously, celebrates Independence Day, marking the end of Soviet rule in the country.  

So why Prospekt Lenina and the ubiquitous statues?  Why not remove that red star atop the steeple on city hall?  Faulkner would understand, even if I don't.  The Soviet Union passed from the sands of time in 1991, the Confederate States of America in 1865.  South Carolina removed the confederate flag from its state house in 2000; expect the last red star to come down in 2126.  Robert E. Lee monuments still dot the South; wait for the last one to disappear, then wait 150 years; the final Lenin should come down.  The war memorials, of both, never will.  

Україна має талант

Easily the most amazing thing Desultory Eclecticism has ever seen.  And it touches on some of the themes of an upcoming post.

Opening Day

The Washington Post does all the heavy lifting for us in setting up the upcoming (well, scheduled for mid January) Ukrainian Presidential election.  Desultory Eclecticism will be taking a field trip to do first-hand research during the last week of December.  Expect several more posts on this topic before all is pushed back multiple times and ultimately decided sometime in late Spring.  Let's hope Desultory Eclecticism's dark horse candidate, Арсеній Яценюк, can regenerate some momentum.

Party Paradox

Desultory Eclecticism loved Keith Olberman as a SportsCenter anchor but thinks he's on the douchier side of broadcast journalists (and that says a lot).  The following, however, despite the petty sniping, is largely spot on.


The talking head at the end of the segment makes a valid point sandwich, squeezing an intelligent observation between thick slices of bready sarcasm: Presidents have a much easier time accomplishing across stereotypes.


No Democratic President as unpopular as Bush 2006 could have passed the Medicare Prescription Drug, Improvement, and Modernization Act, run such massive budget deficits, or pushed for sensible immigration reform, without running afoul of tea baggers ; likewise, no Republican President would get positive coverage from Keith Olberman for increasing drone strikes in Pakistan (Juan Cole has continued to criticize the tactic despite the change in administration).  Paradoxically, throughout the 20th Century it was Democratic administrations, perceived as 'weak on defense' even then, who got us into wars (Hoover, WWI; Roosevelt, WWII; Truman, Korea; Kennedy/Johnson, Vietnam)* and achieved welfare reform and balanced budgets (Clinton), while Republicans warned us about "The Military Industrial Complex " (Eisenhower), finally got us out of Vietnam (Ford), presided over the largest budget deficits (Reagan), and passed sizable tax hikes (Bush I).   


The stereotypical party images are not entirely arbitrary.  Obama will get his healthcare reform bill.  He will also escalate in Afghanistan.  He will have a much easier time implementing the latter, just as, say, Romney, would have had a much easier time with the former (McCain was too unpopular with "the base"; but the fantastic Sarah Palin...). 


*Gulf War I (Bush I) lasted 100 hours and accomplished its mission precisely because that mission was so prudently circumscribed.  In hindsight, Desultory Eclecticism is hawkish on providing military aid to rebelling Shiites in the aftermath of the conflict.  Bush I took a less hawkish position; the revolt was forcibly put down; the millennia-old culture of the Marsh Arabs  was destroyed; a Democratic Secretary of State justified sanctions that led to the deaths of millions of ordinary Iraqis; Saddam Hussein remained in power for another 13 years.  Meanwhile, George Pataki can blame 9/11 on Clinton.

Глупый француз II

Yesterday, on Desultory Eclecticism...And now, the thrilling conclusion of Anton Pavlovich Chekov's "The Stupid Frenchman."


"Could it be that I'm dreaming?" the clown wondered.  "This man wants to die!  Yes, yes, he wants to die.  It's evidenced on his sad face."


"This service...there's nothing to be said," growled the neighbor, addressing the Frenchman.  "These long intermissions aggravate me horribly!  From portion to portion you're obliged to wait half an hour!  And so your appetite is given over to the devil, and it puts you in danger...now it's three o'clock, and I have an anniversary dinner at five."


"Pardon, monsieur," Parkour turned pale, "but you're already eating dinner!"


"N-no...what sort of dinner is this?  This is breakfast...pancakes..."  Here they brought the neighbor his stew.  He poured himself half a dish, seasoned it with cayenne pepper, and began to gulp it down.


"Poor thing..." continued the horrified Frenchman.  "Either he's sick and doesn't notice his dangerous situation, or else he does all of this intentionally...with the aim of suicide...My god, if I'd only known I'd stumble on such a picture here I wouldn't have come!  My nerves can't stand such scenes!  By the looks of him he's an intelligent man, young...full of strength..." he thought, staring at the neighbor.  "He could yet bring glory to his Fatherland...and it's highly possible that he has a young wife, children...Judging by his clothing he must be rich, rich enough...yet something compels him to decide on this step?  And he couldn't choose a different mode to die?  The devil knows how cheaply life is valued!  And how base, how inhuman am I, sitting here and not even walking over to help!  Perhaps he can yet be saved!"  Parkour resolutely stood up from the table and approached the neighbor.


"Hear me, monsieur," he addressed him in a soft voice, "I don't have the honor of being acquainted with you, but, nevertheless, believe me, I am your friend...Couldn't I help you with anything?  Remember, you're still young...you have a wife, children..."


"I don't understand you!" the neighbor shook his head, staring into the Frenchman's eyes.


"Oui, why hold back, monsieur?  I see it perfectly!  You, sir, are eating so much that...it's difficult not to suspect..."


"I eat a lot?!" the neighbor was amazed, "Me?  Really now...how am I supposed to eat if since the very morning I haven't eaten anything at all?"


"But you're eating a horrifyingly large amount!"


"Well, why are you so worried?  I don't have to pay you for it!  And in general I don't eat too much!  Look around.  I eat like everyone else!"


Parkour looked around in horror.  The waiters jostled and bumped each other carrying whole mountains of pancakes.  At the tables people sat eating the mountains, and salmon, and caviar, with the same appetite and daring as the pleasant looking gentleman.  "Oh, what a strange country!" thought Parkour, exiting the restaurant.  "Not only the climate, but even the stomachs are strange!  What a country, what a strange country!"

(trans. Michael Wasiura)