bloodygranuaile: (plague)
2018-10-15 01:52 pm

A spectre is haunting the U.S.

This past six weeks or so in Clare Making Good Decisions, we have the following: Decide to do a DSA presentation on American history right when I get back from Vegas. Wait three weeks before putting in a request at the library for Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. Pick it up from the library and panic that it's like 700 pages long. Remember that you picked up a shorter book on American socialist history from Verso at one of their ebook sales last year. Then, even though it is less than two weeks to the presentation and you only have it blocked out and not fully drafted, procrastinate on finishing the slides by reading all of John Nichols's The "S" Word: A Short History of an American Tradition... Socialism first — much of it in the bath, with the Kindle in a plastic bag, in order to panic less.
 
Anyway. The "S" Word is pretty much the right book for the job here, although I should have started reading it at least a week earlier than I did instead of reading all kinds of Thomas Paine that wasn't Agrarian Justice. At about 300 pages, it's short enough to be readable but long enough to give a decent treatment to the figures it discusses and the stories it tells. 
 
This book is very definitely Of Its Time, and in this case, its time was the year 2010, given its January 2011 publication date. While the history it covers is presented more or less chronologically, the framework for the whole book is basically Glenn Beck Is Wrong About Obama Being A Socialist (and about Thomas Paine being a right-libertarian, and about... well, everything). It's a very strong reminder of the particular flavor of bananapants stupid the political discourse was at a particular political moment, and man, there is basically nothing I miss about 2010. I graduated college that year, and it sucked. (To be clear: I loved college. The 2010 job market, not so much.) 
 
The author himself is not quite a socialist; he identifies with the Midwestern progressive populist tradition, which has a strong history of socialist influence but is not always explicitly anti-capitalist. The book is also not necessarily pitched toward socialists; Nichols is very clear that his purpose in writing the book is, besides dunking on Glenn Beck, to give Americans of any political stripe a better appreciation for the actual history and influence of socialism in America so that we can broaden the political discourse and not be a bunch of idiots. The book is somewhat implicitly aimed at the liberal-left half of the political spectrum; it is full of values assumptions that would not necessarily speak to American conservatives, like that slavery was bad and helping people is good, not to mention the notion that it would be a positive development to broaden the political discourse and not be idiots. 
 
I was pleased to see that the chronology of this book kicks off with lots of appreciation for Thomas Paine, the most left-wing of the Founding Fathers, and contains much about both his politics in life and his influence on later generations of American, French, and British radicals. Paine, obviously, was not actually a socialist, since socialism wasn't a thing back then, but he was a definite intellectual precursor to it, and many of the 19th-century early socialists were referred to as "Paineites," which is a great term that we should start a caucus for. 
 
Moving on from Paine, Nichols discusses figures as diverse as the poet Walt Whitman, labor activist Fanny Wright, Tribune editor Horace Greeley, a radical young lawyer called Abraham Lincoln (who was in correspondence with Karl Marx during the Civil War), and Socialist Party heads Eugene Debs and Norman Thomas. A big chunk of the book is dedicated to Victor Berger, the first Socialist elected to Congress, who was blocked from taking his seat by the rest of Congress, TWICE, because he was elected at the height of the First Red Scare, and then launched a bunch of high-profile lawsuits to "put teeth" into the First Amendment. Nichols also discusses the "sewer socialists" of the early 20th century and the few holdouts that continued electing Socialist leadership well into the 20th century, such as Milwaukee. 
 
Another chapter is dedicated to A. Philip Randolph, mentioned in many high school history books in passing as the founder of the first majority-black labor union, the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. It turns out that organizing that particular union was a massive 10-year endeavor, and somehow Randolph still had time to do like 50 other awesome things that nobody ever told me about. He stared down FDR into desegregating the defense industries and Truman into desegregating the armed forces. Later, he mentored a young Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and was lead organizer of the March on Washington in '63. From this, Nichols segues into the role of socialists in the "new left," and the occasionally strained relationship between the "old left" and the "new left." 
 
Toward the end of the book there's some very interesting stuff about the career of Michael Harrington, which should be of especial interest to DSA members, particularly new ones who might not know anything about Harrington other than that he founded DSA (and that people occasionally try to use him as a club for or against their comrades in poorly defined sectarian infighting). I've never read any Harrington but everything I've read about Harrington makes him sound like a very interesting character, so I should maybe read some of his books one of these days (I have been saying this since I joined DSA, though, so what really needs to happen is for somebody else to run a Harrington reading group and I may or may not attend). 
 
In terms of actionable lessons that current-day socialists can take from the book, there are some, although they're probably a bit open to interpretation, since we're already a) not afraid of the word "socialism" and b) aware that Glenn Beck is a twit who doesn't know his arse from his elbow. Leaning on constitutional redemption rhetoric seems to be a good idea, one that's not always effective immediately but which can eventually make inroads in a way that straight anti-Americanism generally doesn't. Another lesson is that socialists can get quite a lot of stuff done when they can convince non-socialists to back them up on a specific issue or policy, but this often has the effect of eventually disempowering them as a unique voice — it is never really the socialists or socialism itself that goes entirely mainstream. Also, we really need to get louder about claiming the memory of activists who have been watered down into respectable single-issue reformers in the public memory. 
 
Anyway. I need to finish this presentation, don't I? Aaaaaaaahhhhh.
bloodygranuaile: (sociability)
2018-09-27 03:20 pm

The brief but glorious history of sewer socialism

 Hey, I actually attended a DSA reading group for more than one session! I've not had the greatest track record with actually attending reading groups, probably because I am already in five million book clubs. But the Electoral Working Group's read of Richard W. Judd's Socialist Cities: Municipal Politics and the Grass Roots of American Socialism ran only three sessions, of which I have attended two (one via Zoom, god bless Zoom) and will be attending the last one on Friday. 
 
Socialist Cities covers the successes and failures of the Socialist Party in the early years of the 20th century, mostly in the Midwest. Much of the book focuses on various cities in Ohio between 1898 and 1924, although states like Pennsylvania and Wisconsin make appearances, and there's a chapter dedicated to Flint, Michigan. The book specifically focuses on municipal electoral politics, and the accomplishments -- and, sometimes, lack thereof -- of Socialist parties in electing members, enacting a policy agenda, and navigating the institutions of municipal politics. 
 
The "navigating the institutions of municipal politics" is by far the most interesting stuff, although I've already talked a lot of it out at length at book club so I don't feel like reiterating all my thoughts here. But let's just say: HOO BOY there are a lot of things that sound familiar! We see the Socialists's opponents playing all kinds of procedural hardball, breaking longstanding norms and rewriting the rules every time they could to block the Socialists from enacting their agenda, even for things that the other parties would have supported if it hadn't been the Socialists proposing it. While the Socialists were often beset by infighting, because that's how we do, their ideological opponents managed to set apart some pretty big political differences to form blocs and fusion tickets with the sole object of preventing Socialists from taking power. 
 
There are also some moments of humor in the book, not the least of which is some poor dude saddled with the last name of "Sharts." And there are even moments of triumph -- some of the early Socialist mayors and city councils did pull off some impressive feats of "sewer socialism," such as establishing health departments and improving city services. One small town in Pennsylvania even managed to abolish the police (granted, the police force was only two people to start with). 
 
An interesting topic in the book is not just the relationship between American socialism and American liberalism, but the specific interplay between Socialist movement politics and the politics of the Progressive movement, which was a more middle-class type of reform orientation that sometimes aligned with the Socialists but often didn't. This is an especially valuable bit of context to work through today, when the identities of socialism, liberalism, and progressivism are so thoroughly confused and mashed up with each other in the popular discourse.
 
While the prose style isn't thrilling, neither is it particularly dense; the result is a thoughtful, concise, and readable account of pre-World War I electoral radicalism in American politics. It's also a good source from which modern U.S. leftists can draw Useful Lessons From History when strategizing about electoral work, although, being leftists, I am sure different people will draw different conclusions. 
bloodygranuaile: (plague)
2018-09-19 06:01 pm

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag

 I have a lot of friends that are into superhero stories. Like most of my friends, these tend to be fairly left-wing friends, and ones with strong critical thinking skills about literature and whatnot. They haven't shied away from or gotten defensive about the discussions going on in SF/F right now examining the strengths and weaknesses of superhero stories as a genre, the inherent sort of regressiveness of the individualistic, vigilante, strongman sort of narrative deep in the structure of the superhero concept even when an individual superhero story takes on other, more progressive politics. And some superhero stories do take on politics pretty head-on, with powers that embody the fantasies of marginalized people or directly rebuke regressive myths.
 
Libba Bray's The Diviners series is, pretty much, a superhero story, though that word is never used in it. It's about a bunch of teens that all have special powers, powers they don't understand and that society doesn't really believe exist. It takes place in the 1920s, which is a fun twist, but overall, so far so X-men.
 
I've never before read a superhero story, especially not a YA gothic historical fantasy novel, that was so explicitly about eugenics
 
Earlier in the series the eugenics was lurking a little more in the background while the main plot revolved around Ouija boards and solving highly occult-signified murders, but as the series has progressed, the story of the Diviners has gotten more and more explicitly mixed up with a storyline about the myths of American progress--a storyline about medical experimentation, who counts as a person and an American, the violence of industrial capitalism, the narratives of "progress" and "science" used to provide cover for bigotry and exploitation. 
 
We're currently at a tumultuous time in American history that has no small number of parallels to the 1920s. It's a time when we're being called to confront the sins of our past, where the inherent contradictions of trying to build -- or telling ourselves we're building -- a land of liberty and justice for all, on a foundation of genocide, slavery, and land theft are coming to the forefront. It's a time when technological advancement is being turned to regressive, invasive, and inhumane ends. It's a time when the government is disappearing people, although the government has done that to those it considers expendable throughout most if its history. It's a time when white supremacists are marching through city streets and anti-immigrant sentiment is high.
 
Sadly, there are no flappers. That's going to come back into style real soon, right? We're going to make this happen. Rouged knees and cupid's bow lipliner, the whole deal. It's not any dumber than purple highlighter.
 
Anyway. We're on to Before the Devil Breaks You, the third installation of what I thought was going to be a trilogy but is apparently going to be a quartet, which means Jake Marlowe isn't dead and the man in the stovepipe hat isn't defeated, although we do certainly learn a lot about both of them over the course of the book, in addition to learning a lot of other things about our main characters and how the Diviners were made and what Project Buffalo was really up to. It's a huge sprawling complex narrative spiced up with delightful banter, lots of toothy murder ghosts, some arson, some drunken escapades, and other fun stuff like that. The Italian anarchist dude who I have wanted to have a plotline for two books now finally gets a plotline, which sadly relies heavily upon Bad Ideas Anarchists Were Really Into In The 1920s And From Which Their Reputation Has Never Really Recovered, by which I mean blowing stuff up. Johann Most has a lot to answer for. This is also the book wherein everybody gets laid, which is how you know we're 3/4 of the way through the story (most of it happens almost exactly 3/4 of the way through this book, too). 
 
In this book, though the sleeping sickness from Lair of Dreams is gone, the city is being haunted by angry ghosts calling themselves the Forgotten, who can possess people and get them to kill each other. A lot of these ghosts are attacking the Kirkbride asylum on Ward's Island, which is one of those little islands in the river around Manhattan where they put institutions for socially undesirable people (much like Blackwell's, which was operating around the same time). Others are wandering around the city. The Diviners all get together and learn to develop their powers, which they then use to go around killing the ghosts, which is only a temporary measure since the ghosts are being somehow activated by the man in the stovepipe hat, and also the ghosts have a point that it's bad that they've been forgotten. All our main characters, whether they're Diviners or not, are wrestling with various things in their past that are resurfacing, and how. In Theta's case, a person she thought she'd left behind literally shows back up in New York; for Evie, she learns a lot more about her dead brother James and what Project Buffalo has to do with everything. A lot of people besides Sam are being sort-of haunted by the telepathic voice of Sam's mother Miriam, which Sam has many feelings about. Jericho is being blackmailed about his iron lung juice that keeps him alive, so he ends up going up to Jake Marlowe's estate/lair/secret government agency to get shot full of more weird serums that basically turn him into a science project for Marlow's Future of America exhibition, like a rapey, irradiated Captain America. (Jake Marlowe firmly believes that radium is good for you. I hope his jaw falls off in the next book.) Memphis and Isaiah learn who Bill Johnson is and draw the attention of the wrong people. The dead are mad at Ling, probably because she keeps helping blow them up, and Ling has to wrestle with the disappointment of learning more stuff about Jake Marlowe, like a 1920s version of all those weird nerd dudes who get mad when people dunk on Elon Musk. Mabel, of course, is hanging out with anarchists, plotting to blow up Jake Marlowe's uranium mine. Why is he mining shit-tons of uranium in the middle of New Jersey? For plot purposes, obviously. 
 
Anyway, it's all barreling towards some kind of major showdown for the contradictory soul of America, and I'm mad that I have to wait another entire year to find out what it is. America continuing to be what it is, I have a feeling that it's not necessarily going to end in the final defeat of the man in the stovepipe hat...
bloodygranuaile: (bitch please caligari)
2018-07-21 10:28 am

Cable address: LENIENT

 Despite how much it hurt me to not go to the latest Harvard Book Store warehouse sale, I was disciplined and did not go to the latest Harvard Book Store warehouse sale, partly because I am moving and have so many books to pack up and possibly get rid of, but also partly because I have an absolute shitton of books acquired at previous warehouse sales that I have not yet read. Most of them are history books but I do have a book of T.S. Eliot's cat poems (it is the one illustrated by Edward Gorey, because I am extremely on-brand). 
 
One of these books, which I picked up like three years ago, is Cait Murphy's Scoundrels in Law: The Trials of Howe & Hummel, Lawyers to the Gangsters, Cops, Starlets, and Rakes Who Made the Gilded Age. I had never heard of Howe & Hummel before I spotted this book in the warehouse, but the lengthy subtitle indicated strongly that this was likely to be something extremely Up My Alley. 
 
Turns out: It was! Howe and Hummel were exactly the sort of wacky, corrupt mob-lawyer type weirdos that make reading about the Gilded Age so fun. They defended on cases that were ahead of their time on issues like free speech and obscenity; they also covered for a lot of absolute garbage fire humans doing garbage fire things. They knew everybody. They had all kinds of organized and disorganized crime ties. They ripped off their clients shamefully, except for the rich ones, whom they ripped off shamelessly, because the Gilded Age rich sucked and I don't feel bad for them. 
 
One of the best parts of the book was the coverage of the anarchist trials. Howe & Hummel defended numerous anarchists, generally quite skillfully on political freedom grounds, drawing upon the jury's self-images as patriotic Americans who should defend their fellow Americans' right to have odd and possibly misguided political ideas. They got no help from their clients on this, who apparently could not be arsed to keep a lid on their insurrectionary leanings even for the duration of one cross-questioning while on trial for inciting riots that they didn't even incite. Hummel & Howe ended up defending self- and explosives-obsessed gasbag Johann Most, father of the "propaganda of the deed" (i.e., blowing stuff up and calling it theory) when he got hauled in on incitement to violence charges for like the one speech he gave in his life that actually wasn't  about how great blowing stuff up is. (There are many anarchist theorists that I have respect for even though I am not personally an anarchist; Johann Most is emphatically not one of them.)
 
The other best parts of the book are obviously the chapter on theater scandals, complete with burly cops attempting to "demonstrate" belly-dancing in court, and the chapter on gangs, including the most legendarily successful fence I'd never heard of, Marm Mandelbaum. I need an overproduced Netflix or Showtime show about Marm Mandelbaum's life and career, yesterday.
 
The worst part of the book was the bit where Murphy talks about the Pinkertons in relation to their doing private-eyeing in some bank robberies and never mentioning their strikebreaking activities even once. How do you even do that? Even though this case was about something completely different, how do you introduce the Pinkertons and be like "The Pinkertons, who were famously honest" instead of like "The Pinkertons, who were famous for strikebreaking." I know the author is a Wall Street Journal reporter, but Jesus. Like I'm sure some of them had some detective skill since they did ID and catch the Dunlap gang but they're really most famous in history for being nasty thugs and cracking strikers' heads. It was weird and jarring to read.
 
Anyway, apart from that, as far as I could tell all the other weird and jarring things were in fact because history is full of goddamn weirdos, like the "animal welfare" zealots whose concern for animal welfare consisted solely of chloroforming cats. 
 
The book also does a pretty good job of sketching out the disparities, contradictions, and miseries of Gilded Age New York. Some of this historical background was at least vaguely familiar to me--no one who likes gang shit as much as I do could grow up an hour outside of New York and not know at least the outlines of the Five Points neighborhood--but I also learned about the Tombs, an incarnation of which still stands today, and Blackwell's Island, now Roosevelt Island, which was basically the precursor to Rikers. (There's a new book about Blackwell's called Damnation Island, if that gives you any idea of how miserable a place it was.)
 
I finished this book a week ago and it's been the longest week in the world, so I don't have the most coherent thoughts (as is becoming increasingly common for these reviews) on what this book does and does not accomplish and what it illustrates about our legal system and how it compares and contrasts to modern law (contrast: going to law school was apparently quite optional). I could probably come up with some thoughts if anyone wants to give this lovely book a good home and then we can talk about it and I'd be incentivized to try and not look stupid, but otherwise I'm going to go with "It entertained me with true stories about how wacky people were back in the day," which is honestly all I'm looking for in most of the history I read these days. 
bloodygranuaile: (Default)
2018-02-12 12:40 pm

Mobsters and CEOs and state legislators, oh my

 Covering gambling news on the day-to-day, I sometimes feel like the industry doesn't change nearly fast enough. It's been almost seven years since Black Friday, and only three U.S. states — Nevada, New Jersey and Delaware — offer regulated online poker. (Soon to be four, thanks to Pennsylvania, but not soon enough.) Some states, like California, seem to bang their head against the same wall every year and get nowhere. And of course, we're all biting our nails waiting to see what the Supreme Court decides about PASPA, and when they'll get around to deciding if legalized sports betting could actually become reality in the U.S.

But, despite all of the above, it's actually quite a rapidly changing industry. It's worth it, every now and again, to look back at how we got where we are and appreciate just how much batty stuff has happened over the course of gambling's establishment as a legitimate entertainment industry.

Enter David Clary's Gangsters to Governors: The New Bosses of Gambling in America, which was published in October from Rutgers University Press. Clocking in at about 250 pages (plus a lot of notes), this new history of American gambling focuses first on how gaming fell under the control of crime syndicates, and then on how the state drove those elements out, turning control of the industry over to "clean" private corporations, Indian nations and the states themselves. Clary also provides a nuanced, even-handed analysis of the pros and cons of states' use of gaming revenues to balance their budgets.

***

I
 posted a book review over at the day job
bloodygranuaile: (Default)
2018-01-14 02:46 pm

Boston's history of radical Black socialist feminism

 I had a bit of a time getting hold of a copy of Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor's How We Get Free: Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective, including ordering direct from the publisher and getting notified it was out of stock, but I finally acquired it. Yay!
 
I'd been on the lookout since the organizers for the DSA SocFem Working Group gave a presentation on it as part of the WG's inaugural meeting, and they gave another presentation to the general membership during December's GM.
 
One thing I had not known before these presentations: While the Combahee River is in South Carolina, the Combahee River Collective was based right here in Boston. Learning this definitely bumped this book right to the top of my priority list, because my knowledge of Boston radical history is not great.
 
Another thing I learned in these presentations: the Combahee River Collective Statement is the first known time a text used the term "identity politics."
 
The book is a small one, coming in at just under 200 pages and about the dimensions of an iPad Mini. It consists of a reprint of the Combahee River Collective Statement itself, which here is a mere 12 pages long, and then interviews by Taylor with several members of the Collective and with Alicia Garza, the founder of #BlackLivesMatter.
 
The Statement and the interviews are absolutely packed with history and analysis. While the CRC was only in operation for a few years, they brought a wealth of experience in organizing in the various '60s and '70s political movements and were able to synthesize it all into a radical, anticapitalist queer Black feminism that combined analytical rigor with a deep respect for lived experience.
 
While the Statement is an excellent document, the interviews are really the meat of the book (and not just because you can find the text of the Statement online for free). The interviewees who wrote the Statement--Barbara Smith, Beverly Smith, and Demita Frazier--discuss the founding of the Collective, their political awakenings and prior activism, the difficulties in coalition-building that they experienced, the work the Collective did in Boston, the development of the terms "identity politics" (used in the Statement) and "intersectionality" (coined by Kimberle Crenshaw in 1989, but the theory of which maps pretty closely to what's in the Statement), and the state of Black feminism today. There's some discussion of cooptation, aspiration, and the rise of a very small number of highly visible elite Black women that I think ought to be required reading for all white leftists, if only because this is an area where white leftists sometimes really put their foot in it.
 
The interviews also give a really important look into the ways in which the various -isms plaguing the disparate '60s-era political movements were hindrances to the women's participation and hindrances to effective organizing, while also recognizing what was important and effective and meaningful in them, and thus avoiding the tiresome Good Actually/Bad Actually dichotomy that's so irritatingly common in political discourse these days.
 
Overall, a very, very important read for anyone who's interested in not replicating the failures of the past in whatever strain of activist work is most important to them.
bloodygranuaile: (wall wander)
2017-12-22 08:04 pm

A prison is constructed brick by brick

 The last book of the year that we read for the political book club was James Forman Jr.'s Locking Up Our Own: Crime and Punishment in Black America. I'd learned of this book when Mom and I attended a talk at the Boston Book Festival with Forman and Chris Hayes, moderated by Kim McLarin (the third author who was supposed to be there, Carol Anderson of White Rage, was sadly unable to make it).
 
The talk--titled Racism in America: It's a Crime--was excellent and I wish I had taken notes, but a lot of it involved dissecting what gets talked about as "crime" politically and the ways in which it does and does not relate to actual crime, as in the reality of people doing illegal and/or harmful things. Forman spoke a bit about how, during the crime waves of the '70s and '90s, black communities asked for funding for a variety of solutions to these problems, which included more prisons and police, but also for drug treatment, community investment/development, better schools, etc., and higher (white-dominated) levels of government were happy to comply with the police stuff but not so much the rest of it.
 
This, then, was the sort of political context that shaped the subjects examined in Locking Up Our Own, which examines the role of black communities, especially the black political elite (mayors, judges, attorneys, etc.) in unwittingly helping build the mass incarceration machine that blights America today.
 
Forman's aim in this book is not to cast blame, but to understand the political contexts that made supporting increased punitive measures seem like a good idea at the time, and to examine why these policies didn't turn out the way people hoped they would. The first part of the book, "Origins," covers up through the 1970s, and examines three major topics: the War on Drugs, gun control, and the integration of the police force. A few common threads pop up through these three topics: One is the degree of lawlessness that black communities had previously been abandoned to, with white police officers ignoring crimes committed in black communities. Another common thread is the class divisions within black society, especially in light of the rise of what was basically the country's first black petit bourgoisie -- prior to the 1960s or so, there simply had not been a black elite, so the expectations put on that newly formed class were unprecedented and fragile. A third (but perhaps related to class) element is the variety of political traditions within the black community, something that I think gets erased from a lot of mainstream American political discourse as it disappears under triumphant numbers showing that 90-odd percent of black voters vote for Democrats. But there are black conservative traditions and black radical traditions and black liberal traditions, and questions of respectability politics and what racial solidarity really means permeate the newspaper articles, courtroom speeches, and other primary sources that Forman cites.
 
The second part of the book, "Consequences," takes us from the '80s up through the present day, with the most infuriating chapter being largely about Eric Holder and pretext stops. It's infuriating because by the time pretext stops became a thing, most of the other, smaller punitive measures had already been passed, so it seems like it should have been a lot easier to spot how this was going to go wrong. By the time we cover pretext stops, we've also established mandatory minimum sentencing, warrior policing, draconian drug laws, and all that stuff that lead pretext stops to be so devastating to so many people.
 
In addition to being very well researched, I was impressed at how effectively this book was organized. Forman starts off each chapter by discussing a case from his time as a public defender in Washington, DC, featuring a client trapped in the criminal justice system via whatever set of regulations will be covered in the rest of the chapter. This provides an emotionally engaging illustration of how each aspect of mass incarceration traps real people in grinding cycles of poverty, cutting them off from opportunities for education and employment.
 
The book ends with some discussion of the current state of the criminal justice reform movement, including what it's doing right and what it's doing wrong. His final conclusion is that the problem was built bit by bit and might have to be solved bit by excruciatingly small bit, and that activists should be prepared to be in for a long slog. While prison abolitionists will likely ultimately end up looking elsewhere for their ultimate vision of how to eliminate the carceral state, Forman's policy prescriptions all seem like vital and solid short-term reforms, and I think the book provides vital background on how good people can wind up supporting bad policies.
 
Our two-hour discussion of this book last weekend ended up focusing a lot on questions of what lessons people should take from it and apply to other forms of thinking about activism and policy. The chapter on police integration raises a lot of tough questions for proponents of increasing the diversity of hostile institutions as a method of reforming them; other chapters raise other tricky questions of policy-crafting and unintended consequences that none of us were smart enough to solve (that's what think tanks are supposed to be for, right?) but from which activists could probably learn what kinds of questions to ask when deciding whether to throw their support behind a proposal or not.
 
Anyway, for something as short and blessedly readable as this book (seriously, some policy history kinds of books are dry as hell), there is all kinds of stuff packed into it that you might not know about, especially if you are a sheltered white person who wasn't even alive for most of this, like myself.
bloodygranuaile: (good morning)
2017-09-11 02:45 pm

Lip, dip, paint

Does anyone else get, like, sympathetic pain/other weird physical sensations when reading about medical stuff? I do, and reading Blitzed the other week basically made all the veins in my arms and legs feel fragile and empty, because I can only read about so many injections. It's an unpleasant feeling, so of course I decided to double down on it and be like "Next I'm going to read a book about RADIUM POISONING!"
 
I found Kate Moore's The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America's Shining Women basically by accident; I had gone to Porter Square Books on a Friday night to pick up two books I'd ordered (Peter Pomerantsev's Nothing Is True and Everything Is Possible: The Surreal Heart of the New Russia and Tariq Ali's The Dilemmas of Lenin: Terrorism, War, Empire, Love, Revolution. I had decided to go on a Russia kick), and there was a joint author event with Kate Moore and Nathalia Holt, discussing this book and Holt's Rise of the Rocket Girls: The Women Who Propelled Us, from Missiles to the Moon to Mars. It was a great discussion; nothing makes me so glad to live in a city like Boston than being able to randomly wander into a surprise women's labor history night.
 
The Radium Girls is the history of the women who worked painting glow-in-the-dark numbers on watch faces with radium paint during the World War I and interwar era. There were major radium paint factories—or "studios," as they were called—in Orange, New Jersey; Waterbury, Connecticut; and Ottawa, Illinois. The dial-painters were mostly working-class girls in their late teens or early twenties, although some were older, or even as young as fourteen. The technique used to keep the brush tips nice and fine while painting the numbers was to moisten and point them with one's lips—a technique that meant the young women were constantly ingesting radium paint.
 
Radium, if you didn't know, is fantastically toxic, especially internally.
 
People back then didn't know, mostly. They knew that radium could treat cancer by burning out the cancer, and from this they largely concluded that it was therefore very healthy. There was a great craze for putting radium in everything, such as cosmetics and tonic water. Fortunately, radium was extremely expensive, so most products marketed with radium didn't actually have any radium in it. There were some exceptions, like one rich guy who drank radium tonic every day for years, and then eventually his jaw fell off.
 
The girls who worked at the dial-painting studios had landed one of the most prestigious, best-paid gigs available to working-class women at the time. It was a glamorous job, partly because of radium's mystique, and partly because the job got the girls covered in radium powder all the time, which then made them glow in the dark when they went out at night. The first big radium company whose workers we meet is the United States Radium Corporation in Orange, New Jersey—incidentally, about twenty minutes from where I grew up, midway along the commuter rail between my town and New York City, on the Morristown line—whose founder, Dr. von Sochocky,  had invented the radioluminescent paint they marketed as Undark. The men who worked in the labs used gloves and masks and aprons and all that normal (for the time) protective gear, since they handled radium in the sort of quantities that would burn skin--but they all thought that was basically just an annoyance. The dial-painters had no protection, since it was assumed that the radium in the pain was of such small quantity that there was no danger.
 
It was a few years before the first girls started to develop tooth problems, and if the teeth were pulled, the wounds refused to heal. The frustrated dentists thought that perhaps the girls had been exposed to phosphorus, since they were showing symptoms of what was ghoulishly known as "phossy jaw," or phosphorus poisoning. It took years before the various doctors, dentists, scientists, and other professionals, pushed along by lawyers, the New Jersey chapter of the National Consumer's League, and the girls themselves figured out that "phossy jaw" is just very similar to "radium jaw," or the hitherto unknown condition of radium necrosis. While doctors and lawyers fought with the company's doctors and lawyers to try to test the paint, to conduct medical tests on the remaining workers, to reexamine the scientific literature on radium and conduct further experiments on it, more and more girls were getting sick and dying. A constellation of symptoms appeared, many of which nobody initially suspected were related: while some girls had tooth issues, others developed arthritis-like conditions, with their legs shortening and joints stiffening. After a few more years, after the first lawsuits had been filed and the legal and scientific fighting was in full swing, the doctors started to see a new symptom—giant, fast-growing, lethal sarcomas, a type of bone cancer, that appeared on jaws or knees or elbows or wherever it wanted to show up. This is because radium is chemically similar to calcium, and when ingested, it does the same thing calcium does and settles into the bones.
 
The Radium Girls, and the tight social networks they had developed while working at the studio, weren't just victims here, although obviously holy God were they victims here; the book has pictures and they're pretty disturbing. But they also were extremely persistent about seeking and demanding help in order to cover their medical bills and let the world know what was happening. The girls and their lawyer worked the media wonderfully, giving lengthy interviews about all the ways the company had evaded responsibility and blamed the girls for their own health problems (the first girl to die of radium necrosis was posthumously said to have died of syphilis; part of the case involved exhuming her and testing her remains for both syphilis and radioactivity); they also gave the press periodic tearjerker updates about how they were doing and what they wanted from the case and for their own lives. When they gave testimony in court, the reporters covering the hearings reported that the girls were brave and stoic, but the reporters themselves cried. Ultimately, the New Jersey case was settled in 1928 for what at the time was many buckets of money, which helped the five women in the lawsuit--or their families, in the cases of the ones who had died over the course of the legal proceedings—pay their medical bills and provided them pensions since they could no longer work. In one of the most infuriating legal decisions I have ever read, the company managed to get it into the settlement terms of their payout to Mae Canfield that the Radium Girls' lawyer, Raymond Berry, could no longer take any action against the U.S. Radium Corporation.
 
This case, understandably, scared the crap out of the dial-painters in Ottawa when it got big enough to start making national newspaper headlines. The studio in Ottawa, run by the Radium Dial Company, assured the girls that they were fine, since the paint used in NJ had mesothelium in it and theirs didn't. Nevertheless, RDC started regularly giving medical tests to all its workers, although it never told them the results. When the girls began to fall sick, they demanded money from the company to cover their medical bills; the company refused to pay and fired several sick workers. The company had basically gone under by the time the workers were able to retain a lawyer who would take their case with the Illinois Industrial Commission; the judges repeatedly found for the women through a humiliating series of appeals, which seemed designed to run out the clock on the women in the hopes that they would die before the company had to pay out any money from the small pot of assets it had left (about $10,000). This case got even more dramatic than the New Jersey one, with one very sick Radium Girl, Katherine--now in her thirties, married with two children, and wasting away before everyone's eyes—giving testimony from the couch in her living room because she was too fragile to be brought into court.
 
The Radium Girls has everything as a drama—legal intrigue, unscrupulous businessmen, plucky underdog heroines, scientific hubris, body horror—it works perfectly as a cautionary fable against scientific hubris and the inhumane incentives of business. But it's all true. I cried on numerous occasions reading it, because I am a sappy old lady now; because I grew up so close to Orange and Newark; because I too almost died once in Waterbury, Connecticut; because my people were also working-class Irish and Italian immigrants crammed into the greater New York metro area around the time of the world wars; because I've had a lot of teeth pulled and had a lot of dreams about them falling out and my whole face splintering apart. Basically, it hit home in a lot of half-assed-but-unexpectedly-powerful-when-all-happening-at-the-same-time ways, and reading it made all the bones in my hands and feet and face hurt.
bloodygranuaile: (gashlycrumb clara)
2017-07-31 03:54 pm

The misadventures of Tribulation Periwinkle

Another museum weekend; another batch of books procured from museum gift shops. I have a problem, maybe.
 
After visiting several historical sights in Lexington this Saturday, Mom and I popped over to Concord to check out Orchard House, where Louisa May Alcott and her family lived for twenty years. In addition to being shamed from beyond the grave for my own lack of creative output, the time at Orchard House reminded me that, while I've read most of Alcott's books for children, the only bit of her adult writing that I've read is A Long Fatal Love Chase, about a woman who marries the devil. (It's an excellent book.) So I picked up a copy of Hospital Sketches, which she'd written during her short and ill-fated time serving as a nurse in the Civil War, and I read it that afternoon. (It's very short.)
 
The first thing I really liked about my copy of Hospital Sketches is that it seems to be a facsimile edition of a very early printing, with the blocky old-fashioned text of a printing press and some slightly batty spacing and punctuation. These things amuse me much more than they probably ought.
 
The second thing I really liked about the book is that, thought it is mostly autobiographical and written in the first person, Alcott gives the viewpoint character's name as "Tribulation Periwinkle," which about the most perfect parody old-school New England name you can come up with. She is variously referred to by other characters as "Old Trib," "Nurse Trib," "Nurse P.," and other charming variants on the charming pseudonym.
 
Alcott's skill with observational humor, and especially her comic accounts of the absurdities and small frustrations of getting anything done properly in this mad old world, means that Hospital Sketches is a very comic little book in tone, although the subject matter is mostly about young people dying of horrible wounds as Nurse Trib overworks herself right into a bout of typhoid pneumonia. The first sketch details her travels down to DC from Massachusetts, and it contains all the things you want in a comic travelogue, such as amusingly mean descriptions of her fellow-travelers, some morbid fantasizing about all the ways traveling on public transit can go horribly wrong, and at least one adventure in getting embarrassingly lost. This last article takes place when she's trying to figure out how to get her free ticket to get from Boston to DC and involves her running around all over downtown Boston, which I personally enjoyed reading about as a resident of that badly planned and opaquely regulated little city.
 
The rest of the sketches are about her time at a facility she calls Hurly-burly House or the Hurly-burly Hotel, a chaotic, badly managed place where it seems like a miracle anyone actually got better at, especially with medicine being what it was in the 1860s. There's a lot of religious and patriotic beatification of various soldiers who die dreadfully, which could easily have been corny, especially considering the tone of arch social satire in so much of the rest of the book, but which do come off as quite touching, probably because Alcott's very earnest about what a tragic waste of human life it is to send a bunch of young people off to get blown up, no matter how glorious or necessary the cause.
 
The cause for the Union army in the case of the Civil War was certainly about as necessary as it gets, being rivaled in moral high ground only by the fight against the Nazis in World War II; however, the 1860s were still the 1860s, and it shows. The Alcott family were diehard abolitionists, and not in the "people ought to be as nice to their slaves as they are to their pets" way (honestly, some anti-slavery literature is mindboggling regressive). But all the terms for people of color that were the polite terms back in 1860 are not the polite terms anymore (the impolite terms are still impolite, only even more so), and the bits where Trib Models Interacting With Black People Nicely For The Benefit Of Readers are well-intentioned but really quite cringey from the vantage point of 150 years later. Fortunately, these bits are short, since the book is short and so all the bits are short.
 
The last sketch (except for a postscript) is an account of Nurse Periwinkle coming down with typhoid pneumonia; this bit is really the opposite of dated, and will ring true to the experience of anyone who has fallen deliriously sick, especially anyone who has fallen deliriously sick in the middle of a work shift. This last sketch also provides a more detailed account of the nurses' quarters, which makes living in a freshman dorm sound clean and orderly.
 
All in all, it's as delightful a look into the hell of Civil War-era medical care as you're going to find, and it's about as readable as contemporary accounts of the subject are going to be, so I definitely recommend it to anyone else who's interested in Alcott, even if you're mostly familiar with her as a children's writer.
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2017-03-15 04:53 pm

Race, religion, and psychotherapy

Due to time constraints we picked a short book for our next book club, James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time, and although I read it all in one evening I've been mulling over it for several days after before attempting to write a review, and will likely try to reread it before we meet. There's a lot packed into the 106 pages here. The pair of essays -- one short, at just a few pages, the other more than ninety pages long -- combines Baldwin's personal and family history, American history, sociological and cultural commentary, an unnerving dinner with Nation of Islam founder Elijah Muhammed, and a call for all of us to truly reckon with America's history and legacy of racism.

The first essay, addressed to Baldwin's nephew (also named James), is personal enough that some of it almost feels a little voyeuristic to read, but its main point -- that at the time it was written, on the 100th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation, celebration was premature, and black Americans had not really been emancipated yet -- is of interest to any reader who is at all invested in America. This letter also introduces a theme Baldwin expounds upon later as well, which that white people, while not "devils" as some movements at the time concluded, were nevertheless not very smart, and that they were in charge of everything was no reason to accept their infantile framing that it was black people who needed to be accepted/assimilated into white society and to become more like white people, because the existing white power structure was dreadful and, within it, people became weird and stupid and dysfunctional (Baldwin writes this in more elegant terms than that, of course) -- in short, he tries to each his nephew to resist internalizing what we now call the white gaze.

The second essay is a mostly autobiographical set of musings about growing up and learning to face the world and all its absurdities and atrocities, and the many temptations and pitfalls and escapes that Baldwin either avoided or did not. He speaks of his terror of falling into a life of crime as he became closer in age to the criminals that haunted the streets of Harlem where he grew up, and of the somewhat self-aggrandizing refuge he found in the Church as a youth pastor -- and then, eventually, how he grew to find it hypocritical and leave it behind him. He writes about the Nation of Islam movement and about why it appealed to people, and he explains both why he thinks it's wrong and that he understands what it's an entirely understandable response to. There is a tendency in much of American liberalism, at least right now, to expend much more fury and moralizing denunciation upon the people supposedly on one's same "side" who are doing it wrong than against the actual forces of oppression, in order to show off that you are one of the reasonable ones and to try and keep your "side" in line. The results are usually a bad look. Baldwin here manages to avoid any sort of ostentatious pearl-clutching or unsightly scrambling to distance himself from the Nation of Islam movement; it is in part a testament to his great empathy and in part a testament to his skill as a writer that he instead portrays the movement and the dinner with a profound sadness and with a tension and feeling of uneasiness that makes this section of the essay especially unputdownable. He writes about the people who join the Nation of Islam in largely sociological terms, describing them as sort of getting entangled in hatred and its weird mythology the way other excellent writers have written about family members sinking into addiction or crime. Though he's understanding of the course of despair and frustration that leads to people joining what is essentially a cult, he doesn't gloss over the fact that it is a supremacist hate group, and that no amount of explanation actually makes that anything other than ugly.

Baldwin reserves some of his profound sadness for his insights into the psychology of white Americans, some of which still rings 100% true and some of which rings slightly less true until you remember he was writing in 1962 and you figure that if it's not completely true now it squares 100% with everything we know about the '50s. Sometimes I forget how weird the '50s must have been until I see, like, advertisements or TV footage or something like that from then, and it's just modern enough that the ways in which it is alien make me feel like I'm on bad drugs, with people smoking on airplanes and all the movies in eye-watering Technicolor. Baldwin describes us as "slightly mad victims of our own brainwashing," which is certainly true, and as being terrified of sensuality, which is something we have made some progress on in some spaces and pretended to make progress on in others, and made no progress on whatsoever in large swaths of American life. Some of the things Baldwin says about stress and psychotherapy, about the aridity of life under the sway of capitalism and its fantasies, have only become more true since the postwar boom ended and the economic deprivation that used to characterize Harlem has hollowed out the entire middle class (even as Harlem becomes gentrified out of existence, from what I hear).

For me personally, it was Baldwin's criticisms of Christianity that interested me the most. He talks about Christianity's history as an imperial power, allied with imperialist nations and foisted upon unwilling populations to "save" them, though the only thing they really needed saving from was the Christians. And he talks about the role of the black Church in ways that echo with criticisms I've read about the Irish Catholic Church, especially in pre-revolutionary Ireland, but the Church he is describing is also in other ways clearly very different, and not only because Catholic Mass tends to be a very stiff and formal affair. But I'm always very interested in people's stories of apostasy, especially people who were once very serious and therefore whose apostasy had to be very serious as well. Baldwin discusses the purposes that his Church serves, both in the community and in his life, purposes both good and bad, and how he came around to where the good parts had outlived their usefulness and stopped outweighing the various hypocrisies that tend to accumulate in religions once they've been around a while.

It is distressing how much of this essay is still relevant, even as the Nation of Islam has been largely reduced to a set of footnotes on the SPLC's hatewatch map. But America as a whole has still not really gotten around to doing much of the real reckoning with race that Baldwin requested of us, though more liberal sectors have started to do more in just the past couple years, as the elections of Barack Obama and the ensuing "whitelash" have brought racial issues front and center in a way we haven't seen in quite a while. We also put an idiot racist kleptocrat and a bunch of Nazis in the White House, though, which unfortunately is going to have a bigger immediate impact on a lot of people's lives than all the interesting new documentaries that are out recently, and I say that as someone who think these sorts of documentaries are really important. (Everyone should go see I Am Not Your Negro.) I'm looking forward to discussing this book with the book group and probably to reading a lot more Baldwin in the future.
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-12-27 06:22 pm

More brilliant and unsubtle social commentary

In Transmetropolitan, Vol. 4: The New Scum, Spider and his two “filthy assistants” are still covering the shitshow of an election, doing interviews with Tammany Hall boss-esque incumbent The Beast and empty suit upstart Senator Gary Callahan, aka The Smiler.

Spider also interviews a bunch of other people, including a lady who used to be cryogenically frozen, because the 23rd century is weird like that. But mostly, this volume is entirely about the election.

Everything we’ve heard about the Beast in the past three volumes is awful. The more we learn of the Smiler, though, we start to see that he’s awful too, and of course, as soon as it becomes clear enough that he’s actually going to be more awful than the Beast, he wins the election. Spider and his filthy assistants throw hand grenades off the balcony when they learn this.

The title refers to the most throwaway stratum of city life, those disenfranchised by the Beast as punishment for never voting for him, although the term “new scum” was given to them by their new supposed hero Senator Callahan. The old scum is presumably the Beast’s voting base.

The relentless misery of electoral politics is occasionally broken up by subplots from weird religious sects, a cute section where Spider is actually nice to somebody (in this case, a young girl whose favorite toy had to be pawned), and by the blossoming pain-in-the-ass friendship between Channon and Yelena, Spider’s assistants (technically, his current assistant and his former-assistant-now-bodyguard).

The Hotel Fat also sounds like the futuristic version of Trump Tower, I’m just sayin’.

It’s hard to truly describe just how incisively weird Transmet is without just pointing out the stuff in panels—the cultural detritus (and I use that word for a reason) cluttering up every available surface in each panel is solid gold to read through, from food stands selling reindeerburgers and French people to a stenciled message on a public bench that reads “Warning: This bench becomes red-hot between 1 a.m. and 7 a.m. No sleeping.” I know there’s some cities in the U.S. that would do that if they could figure out how to do so cheaply enough.

 
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-12-27 05:59 pm

Election time

Hold onto your butts, because Transmetropolitan, Vol. 3: Year of the Bastard is where the real main plotline in Transmet—and the one that’s got nerds running in droves to reread the series—shows up: the election.

With Channon having ragequit Spider’s employment and fucked off to a nunnery, Spider starts off this volume avoiding covering the electoral shitshow that is consuming the city. His editor lands him with a new assistant and orders to start doing his damn job, so Spider decides to cover the opposition party’s convention.

The incumbent president is a corrupt, marginally competent lowlife that Spider has stuck with the nickname The Beast, and who seems to be the one primarily responsible for doing to the America in Transmet what Steve Bannon wants to do to the America in our reality, in this the worst of all timelines.

The opposition party’s two main candidates are a racist fascist named Joe Heller and a clean-cut senator with a creepy wide grin, Gary Callahan, nicknamed The Smiler. Spider’s main puzzle in this book is to ferret out and report on the shady dealings that allow Callahan to steal the Florida primary from Heller, who practically owns the state, and therefore nab the opposition party nomination. The shady dealings include a vice-presidential candidate who was literally grown in a vat. Personally, I think it’s unlikely that Florida will still exist by the time we’re growing full humans in vats, but perhaps it went and annexed part of another state or something.

Callahan’s campaign manager, Vita Severn, is basically the only halfway decent-seeming person involved in the whole affair, so of course she gets assassinated. This upsets Spider and gives Callahan a giant boost in the polls. What a coincidence, eh?

The political parallels to today’s electoral fuckery aren’t perfect—the Beast, Heller, and the Smiler all have attributes that are familiar enough among today’s politicians, but the characters themselves are quite their own. But there’s a lot of very resonant stuff about corruption and fakery and the government being run by people whose views on what the government actually ought to do are certainly not along the lines of “promote the general welfare.”  And, of course, there’s the role of the media, although none of the investigative journalists actually covering our campaign ended up getting quite the amount of celebrity Jerusalem supposedly enjoys (or hates, rather), plus Spider doesn’t have to compete with professional troll farms.

Still. Elections is ugly, and Ellis does ugly very well.
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-12-27 03:51 pm

In which Spider has adventures

Warren Ellis’ Transmetropolitan, Vol. 2: Lust for Life is longer than the first installment of the series, and contains a number of loosely connected story arcs that mostly serve to do further worldbuilding and to further develop Spider Jerusalem’s highly dysfunctional character. In this volume, he takes on an assistant, buys a pair of Jesus-themed sneakers and gets all messianic, traumatizes a police dog, and has a pack of cultists set on him by the cryogenically frozen head of his ex-wife, who is also willfully dysfunctional.

Personally, my favorite part of this volume is the introduction of Channon Yarrow, a grad student paying her way through J-school with a series of increasingly less respectable gigs, of which becoming Spider’s assistant may be the least respectable. Channon has a useless boyfriend who eventually leaves her to become a foglet, essentially a cloud of living nanoparticles. Channon is very upset about this even though she’s better off without him.

If there is a weakness to this volume it is that it doesn’t have a storyline to tie it together, although the individual episodes are very interesting. The results are a bit disjointed. Fortunately, this won’t be the case for long. Warren Ellis’ Transmetropolitan, Vol. 2: Lust for Life is longer than the first installment of the series, and contains a number of loosely connected story arcs that mostly serve to do further worldbuilding and to further develop Spider Jerusalem’s highly dysfunctional character. In this volume, he takes on an assistant, buys a pair of Jesus-themed sneakers and gets all messianic, traumatizes a police dog, and has a pack of cultists set on him by the cryogenically frozen head of his ex-wife, who is also willfully dysfunctional.

Personally, my favorite part of this volume is the introduction of Channon Yarrow, a grad student paying her way through J-school with a series of increasingly less respectable gigs, of which becoming Spider’s assistant may be the least respectable. Channon has a useless boyfriend who eventually leaves her to become a foglet, essentially a cloud of living nanoparticles. Channon is very upset about this even though she’s better off without him.

If there is a weakness to this volume it is that it doesn’t have a storyline to tie it together, although the individual episodes are very interesting. The results are a bit disjointed. Fortunately, this won’t be the case for long. 
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-12-23 12:46 pm

Journalism, the election and other shabby crap

God, I hadn't realized how much I missed Spider Jerusalem.

I first read Transmetropolitan in college, almost ten years ago now, during a blessed period of time where Donald Trump was just some buffoon on reality TV and was totally off the radar screen of people who don't watch reality TV, which just so happened to include me and literally everybody else I knew. That might have been the only plus of that time period, honestly—any hopey-changey goodfeels brought on by the impending end of the historically awful Bush administration were offset by it being precisely the time when the economy imploded. (More specifically, I think I read Transmet during the fall semester at the end of 2007, after the subprime loans had started crashing but before TARP was passed.)

Following the surprise election of the nuke-happy, gropey old toddler to the highest office in the land—helped along by Kremlin trollbots, a corrupt FBI (itself helped by the execrable Jason Chaffetz), thirty years of hysterical anti-Hillary Big Lie propaganda from the GOP because she dared support universal health insurance before it was cool, a comfortably useless Democratic establishment without a competent marketer in sight, and a useless clickbait-driven media ecosystem that on the whole displays editorial judgement so poor it would get kicked off the middle school yearbook staff—it seemed like time to revisit everyone's favorite foul-mouthed, drug-addled gonzo journalist and see how prescient the series really was.

The result, so far, is that it's depressingly prescient. There are a handful of things in it that come off as now being weirdly old-fashioned—cash tollbooths with humans working in them, which are rapidly on their way out in the real world, or the fact that Jerusalem can live off of only writing one column a week, even if he is a celebrity—but overall, we do really seem to be just further along the trajectories Ellis identified in 1998 when it was first published: Increased corruption, sham democracy, advertisements and screens everywhere, cities overcrowded to the point where they can't ever stop being filthy no matter how fancy and overdeveloped they get; high-tech luxuries existing alongside widespread poverty; an exhausted, frenzied populace overstimulated into gullibility and complacency; and, of course, power-hungry scam artists taking advantage of all the generalized confusion and disorder at every turn. It's actually quite shocking to realize it was written almost twenty years ago—if it had been published last week, I'm pretty sure the only thing that would need to change would be the tollbooth worker.

In the middle of it all is social justice rogue Spider Jerusalem, returned to the city after hiding in the mountains for five years because his creditors finally found him, a heavily tattooed agent of chaos in colorfully mismatched camera-spectacles (the machine that made them is also on drugs).  Spider bullies his way back into a writing gig with his old editor, a weekly column called I Hate It Here, where he dedicates himself afflicting the comfortable but doesn't really have the time or sensitivity to comfort the afflicted. He does, however, tell their stories, raging on behalf of the dispossessed in time-honored angry lefty fashion, calling out the dirty secrets of the powerful and generally using his boundless capacity for assholery to troll for good.

Transmetropolitan, Vol. 1: Back on the Street covers Spider's return from the mountain and his break back into the spotlight as he covers a riot and uncovers the deliberate setup behind the violence. It bears an unsettling resemblance to some of the accounts of outbreaks of police violence at protests we've been hearing about over the past few years—peaceful protests where some small event (or unproven reports of one) are used as a pretext for attack by an overmilitarized police force, although these haven't ended in actual mass slaughter in the U.S. (so far, at least). The group targeted in this riot is a bunch of people spliced with alien DNA, known as transients, who are basically kind of a cult led by a Charles Manson-esque figure called Fred Christ. Christ leads the group to "secede," declaring the destitute handful of city blocks they've been sidelined into to be its own country, building half-assed barricades around the transient's ghetto and cutting off the utilities that their altered bodies don't need in order to drive out any remaining full humans. They're portrayed as a bunch of gullible but harmless weirdos (except for Fred Christ, who is a creeper), so of course the state brings down the hammer on them for this hopelessly ineffectual act of treason.

With a busy, expressive drawing style and lots of creative swearing, this high-octane nightmare-fueled story nonetheless displays a greatly hopeful reminder of what journalism could and should be. Today's Beltway media would do well to take note: With the incoming administration, all journalists are going to have to become muckraking investigative pains in the ass, or they can go find another profession. Put on your stompy boots and remember: You don't have to put up with this shabby crap! You're a journalist!

 
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-12-20 09:28 pm

A brief history of Occupying things

After the election, I decided to start a book club.

The first meeting is in January, well before inauguration. For our first book, we picked Sarah Jaffe's Necessary Trouble: Americans in Revolt.

Necessary Trouble covers a bunch of the different protest/activist movements that have arisen in the U.S. since the financial crisis hit in 2008: Starting with the Tea Party, it moves on chapter by chapter to cover Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Our Homes, the Fight for $15, Black Lives Matter, Moral Mondays, and a number of climate actions. The section on climate actions, mostly the anti-fracking movement, are kept for the end of the book so that it ends on a maximally apocalyptic note: These are the people fighting government's attempts to literally burn the earth and poison people to make a buck.

Jaffe contextualizes each movement in terms of the events and policies that led up to it being born, often giving recap that go far back into the history of capitalism and of the United States. She ties that in with the stories of activists within each movement, providing in-depth interviews about how and why they got involved and what the movement means to them.

A couple key themes continually emerge. One is that many of these crises have been a long time coming and will not be easily solved. Another is a theme among the activists that so many of them found themselves ashamed of being in the sorts of situations that instigated these movements--of losing their jobs or retirement savings in the financial crash, of being foreclosed on, of holding student debt. Americans really, really want to be hard-working and self-sufficient, and this is part of what's allowed things to get as bad as they have: People will tell themselves that they should individually work harder to overcome whatever's being thrown at them instead of insisting upon being treated fairly, which we tend to believe sounds like petulant whining--that if someone's treating you unfairly, you should be awesome enough to make them treat you fairly, instead of complaining that they're not. The result of this is that the powers that be have been able to tilt the playing field ENORMOUSLY in their own favor before folks who see themselves as average hardworking Americans are willing to admit that they haven't been able to overcome the enormous structural disadvantages they've been put at and maybe you fuckers should just stop stacking the deck. Americans are highly prone to believing that there is still shame in losing even if the other guy was cheating, because you should have been awesome enough to stop the other guy from cheating you.

The book is very hopeful--hopeful that Americans are willing to learn and to organize and to come together in solidarity to get into "good trouble" and demand change. But it also warns of the temptations of the dark side of populism, the scapegoating, tribalist kind illustrated by Trump, who had not yet been, to our eternal shame and possibly to the end of our democracy, barely elected on a technicality with some help via cheating. (And yeah, in true American fashion, I'm pretty ashamed that the Clinton campaign couldn't still beat him even with the cheating, because he's the worst con man ever.) The hopefulness is alternately infectious--Americans have been organizing and fighting; we'll be able to do it more--and depressing. Frankly, the emotional whiplash is a little hard to take.

I learned a lot, though, even as someone who tried to follow these movements relatively closely on social media when they first happened. (For example, I didn't know that Lehman Brothers had gotten its start selling security bonds on slaves--honestly, and this is probably stupid of me, I hadn't realized you could create any sort of financial instruments with slaves as collateral, even though now that I think about it that's precisely what the "chattel" designation means. And I hadn't realized how much of what some of these banks got up to in the mortgage crisis was actually fraud--as in, already illegal--rather than just goddamn stupid.) And the book is so well-written that even though its subject matter is so heavy, it'll make you want to get out into the streets and crash your Congresscritter's next town hall. (My Congressman doesn't have a Town Hall scheduled so I called his office and asked him to have one. Le sigh.)

Highly recommended reading for the resistance. I can't wait to discuss it at book club.
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-11-26 09:40 am

Four spies and some poker terms walk into a bar

I started reading Elizabeth Bear's One-Eyed Jack: A Novel of the Promethean Age a little over a year ago, in the bathtub at Mohegan Sun.

It has taken me so long to finish the book not because it wasn't good, but because I have only read it in the bath — sometimes at casinos but also sometimes not, otherwise it would have taken me even longer, especially considering the last casino I stayed at only had a shower. My copy is now very water damaged.

Anyway. I had picked One-Eyed Jack for my casino bath reading because it's about the spirit of Las Vegas fighting to keep his city from being annexed by the spirit of Los Angeles, so it seemed topical.

There are actually two spirits (or genii) of Las Vegas: the One-Eyed Jack, who has one normal eye and one magical eye he keeps hidden under an eyepatch; and the Suicide King, otherwise known as Stewart, who seems to have a magical ability to kill himself and then resurrect again. Jackie and Stewart are boyfriends in addition to sharing the job of genius of Las Vegas. This seems like it would break a lot of workplace regulations but it looks like being a magical symbol isn’t a very well-regulated field considering all the other stuff that goes down in this book.

Jackie and Stewart eventually form a coalition with several interesting characters, including two ghosts of different John Henrys, some "media ghosts" of unnamed TV spies, and vampire Elvis (though this vampire Elvis is very different from the vampire Elvis of the Sookie Stackhouse books). The antagonists include Angel (the genius of Los Angeles, in the form of a young ingénue), a character known only as “the assassin,” a Promethean Mage, and the ghost of Bugsy Siegel.

I was a bit confused about who precisely all these people were, since I am not much up on my ‘60s TV spies — nor on my Las Vegas history, really, although I do at least know who Bugsy Siegel is. But once I got used to identifying the spies by their descriptors instead of names, it was all easy enough to follow.

The book takes place mostly in 2002, and as is usually the case, I still find it a bit jarring to realize how long ago the mid-2000s were and how much it really was a different era — it makes me feel old — but it’s impossible to miss because stuff in Vegas changes so fast that, even without ever having been there, I know a bunch of the properties mentioned in the book have since shut down and new ones opened; also, Jackie wears black leather cargo pants because he is terribly cool, and it’s become hard to remember that there was a time when cargo pants really were cool and not just a shorthand for sartorial laziness. Other bits of the book take place in 1964, because that’s when all the media ghosts come from. The time travel isn’t flashy; it just sort of happens—there’s enough ghosts in the story already that visiting the ghost of 1964 isn’t that big a deal.

Since this is a spy story I don’t want to talk too much about the plot but suffice to say that, in keeping with the general theme, it, like a game of poker, features long stretches of quietly waiting and thinking about things (I don’t believe poker is ever boring) interspersed with moments of high drama that vastly change the dynamics at the table. (Poor Angel spends the first three-quarters of the book chipping up relentlessly only to spew off her entire stack in one dumb play. Been there done that; it’s awful.) All the disparate threads and meticulously solved riddles finally come together near the end to put a fast-paced and deceptively simple end to the conspiracy.

One of the unifying principles of how magic works in this book is that it relies very heavily on symbolism and stories and beliefs, reminding me a lot of Discworld if the Discworld books were about twelve thousand percent more serious. Genre savviness is important for our heroes to figure out what is going on. Gaming-related symbolism abounds, which is fitting, because gaming-related symbolism abounds in English writing anyway, only this time it’s all looked at a lot more closely than usual.

Like the other Elizabeth Bear books I’ve read, this was pretty weird and I think I’d have to read it again to figure out some of the weird stuff I didn’t get the first time around, but I’m probably not going to because I have at least three unread Elizabeth Bear books on my shelf at the moment. I always like her stuff but it tends to end up taking me a lot longer to get through than I think it’s going to.

I recommend it to anyone who likes metafictional genre-savvy stuff. Pairs well with a Lush bath bomb, a nice hotel room, and an adult beverage.
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-10-24 09:30 pm

No organism can survive under conditions of absolute reality

So Andrea decided to reread The Haunting of Hill House for Halloween and suggested on Twitter that this was a cool thing that all the cool kids were doing, rereading The Haunting of Hill House, because clearly it's a fun book that you want to read more than once, so I figured I should be cool too and read it for the first time, especially since I read We Have Always Lived In the Castle for the first time a few years ago and I liked that one.

The Haunting of Hill House is by Shirley Jackson (Ms. Jackson if you're nasty), author of the very famous short story The Lottery and the person the Shirley Jackson Award is given in honor of at Readercon every year. Both The Lottery and We Have Always Lived In the Castle were deeply creepy, but they still did not prepare me for the creepiness of The Haunting of Hill House, which, as you can probably guess from the title, is a haunted house story, and I am highly susceptible to haunted house stories anyway for basically the same reasons that I love wacky old houses, which is that I am an overly sensitive dork.

Even by haunted house story standards, this one is creepy because, while there is definitely something otherworldly living in Hill House, this seems to be the result of the core problem that the house itself is simply fundamentally, unreservedly evil, and has been from the moment it was built, even before it was finished being built. Its very architecture is apparently designed to psychologically torment anyone who looks at it, let alone anyone who spends time in there. It is weirdly imbued with all the psychological unhealthiness of the morbid weirdo who commissioned the thing, and it is dark and all the angles are wrong and it is buried deep in the feet of the hills and none of the doors ever stay open.

Our main characters are four people who go to stay in the house for a three-month study of paranormal phenomena; two of them are women who have experienced paranormal phenomena in the past. Our narrator is a timid, dreamy, somewhat internally spiteful oddity named Eleanor, who is thirty-two years old and reads like she’s eighteen, and I say this as someone who is both younger than thirty-two and continually feels like she’s still a teenager. Eleanor’s sense of stunted, prolonged adultulescence isn’t formed by widespread economic collapse like mine and my peers’ is; it’s instead due largely to having spent most of her adult life shut away caring for her sick and not-just-internally spiteful mother, plus an overbearing sister who treats her like a child. Eleanor basically has to steal the car and run away to get to Hill House, which is totally how functional adult families work.

When Eleanor finally arrives at Hill House, and meets Theodora and Luke and Dr. Montague, and the creepy-ass housekeeper and his creepy-ass wife, things go one of three ways in a series of exquisitely paced and plotted scenes: Sometimes, Hill House is just disorienting and unpleasant, with little supernatural activity and a lot of tilting minor annoyances, like things maybe moving just outside your peripheral vision, or just being oppressively dank and Victorian. Other times, the company and good food and occasional bout of nice weather mean that they actually are having quite a nice time, exploring the brook in the backyard or drinking brandy and playing parlor games, all shut up together in the parlor where they can safely keep an eye on each other. And sometimes, there are the manifestations, which are when shit gets really creepy: writing on the walls that calls out Eleanor by name, blood all over Theo’s room, banging noises and creepy laughter in the hallway. It’s all done in a way that is fantastically, exquisitely chilling, and even now thinking about it I have had to pull my legs to the side where I can see them because they felt unsafe all the way under the desk in the dark, and the heat vent is gently blowing on a wall hanging and the noise is making me jump out of my skin with every taptaptap of the wooden dowel on the wall, a noise that usually becomes quite invisible to me by the end of the first day of having the heat on.

But Hill House has plans for Eleanor, and they are not to scare her into leaving; they are much more sinister than that. And seeing Eleanor’s thought process change and morph as she goes totally Yellow Wallpaper on us is even more terrifying than any of the manifestations Hill House throws at her, except perhaps the one where she’s holding Theo’s hand in the dark while there’s a voice manifesting in the next room and then when the lights go on Theo’s too far away for it to have been her hand. Why that one scared the shit out of me the most I’m not sure; probably because it’s more deceptive than the more cinematic hauntings like the white, white trees against the black, black sky. In unrelated news, I’m going to bug the fuck out next time I try to wear my black shirt with the white tree on it, aren’t I.

Apologies to our beautiful shy cat Amaranth who tried to come in and meow at me in a rare display of friendliness while I was writing this review; I didn’t mean to jump out of my skin and shriek at you, it was just very bad timing. She’s probably going to hide from me for like a month now.

Anyway, I feel like this book certainly has earned its reputation as the scariest ghost story ever told, and I will not be reading it again anytime soon, although Andrea has threatened me with the movie. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-09-01 01:20 pm

THE HAMILTOME

On my mother's coffee table there is a book.

It is a beautiful, beautiful book, a perfect blending of the best of old and new book styles, with deckle-edged pages and full-color illustrations and a glorious Baskerville-esque font.

It is the Hamiltome.

More properly known as Hamilton: The Revolution, Lin-Manuel Miranda and Jeremy McCarter's history/look behind the scenes/giant scrapbook of the making of Hamilton: An American Musical is pretty much everything an obsessed Hamilton fan could want. My mother had this thing pre-ordered almost the second it became available for pre-order. The only thing that would make it better is if it came with a pair of tickets to the show, but alas, that would probably also raise the price several thousand percent.

It contains, obviously, the full lyrics of the show, annotated with goofy good humor by the Internet's wacky uncle himself, Lin-Manuel. It also contains biographical sketches of and interviews with nearly everyone involved in the show -- cast members and producers and designers and choreographers and all the other brilliant, dedicated people who make theater magic happen.

The story it tells is pretty awesome, and it's aware of its own awesomeness, but not in a smug way. It's just full of joy and pride and nerdy LOOK AT THIS COOL THING WE DID and it's great.

I almost cried multiple times, although frankly that happens when I listen to the soundtrack too, so it's not surprising.

If you are not an obsessed Hamilton fan and want to know why everyone else has suddenly become one over the past year, this book will certainly answer that question at length! Although I do also recommend just listening to the soundtrack and letting it eat your soul.

Anyway, book and soundtrack are both recommended for any and all humans who like musical theater, history, hip-hop, weird genre mashups, strange new things, clever wordplay, displays of genius, sass, joy, laughter, crying, or any combination thereof (I am particularly fond of sass + crying), and also for people who do not like or are unfamiliar with any or all of these things, because even if you don't like it normally you'll like it here. Like, I couldn't tell hip-hop from a hole in the wall until I heard Hamilton, and it doesn't matter.
bloodygranuaile: (oh noes)
2016-08-01 08:38 pm

Of cowboys and... cavemen?

Aight, buckle in, because this is going to be a long one.

I read James McManus' Positively Fifth Street a while ago and I liked it, so I picked up his more recent nonfiction book, Cowboys Full: The Story of Poker. This one is basically just what it says on the tin, a nonfiction history of poker, with no memoir/personal essay bits. It was published in 2009, two years before Black Friday although after the passage of the UIGEA. This was also the year before I graduated college, and, though I managed to completely miss the poker boom while it was going on, it also really brought me back to that era, and not in a good way.

It's a very good book about the history of poker. But it has several flaws that all boil down to basically one major flaw that I have a lot of FEELINGS about, and that is: It hits every single shitty ubiquitous journalistic trope of that era, especially all the ones that drove me away from ever taking a single journalism course.

My specialization within my English major was something called "discourse studies," which consisted of additional genre studies (beyond the regular English requirement), some linguistics, some communications theory, some general media studies/media literacy stuff, and a bunch of creative writing courses. I took four creative writing courses because you needed to take four creative-writing-or-journalism courses, and my goal was to learn to write. Journalism, I figured, was clearly where you went to learn how to not write, at least if literally anything I was seeing in published newspapers or magazines was any indication.

In fact, the Death of Journalism was something I was (and am) enormously and morbidly fascinated by, the abysmal state of science journalism doubly so. The issues with the economics of news media and the collapse of advertising revenue were certainly fascinating, because I'm always interested in follow-the-money type stuff, but I'm also interested in the specific questionable themes and storylines we see over and over again in supposedly nonfiction works. The more I dug around finding criticisms of the bite-size, easily palatable oversimplifications and shallow framing I was seeing so frequently, the more I thought that the mainstream media functioned at least as much as a form of cultural mythmaking as it did a source of information -- it did the same work as fairy tales and Bible stories do for children and religious people, but for the adult, secular chattering classes. (I still think this, only more so.)

While some of this is slowly getting better and much of it is not, my college years were the absolute height of the neuro-nonsense/neuro-babble craze, which finally started seeing some well-deserved backlash around 2013 or so, although Slate puts the seeds of the backlash as far back as 2008. Suspiciously neat'n'tidy evolutionary narratives are, unfortunately, still going strong, although they're less omnipresent than they used to be (I have not had a dude try to hit on me using one in several years, at least, thank Jesus), and some of the recurring myths are starting to see some more pushback when they do crop up than they used to (exhibit A being the "women talk 3x as much as men" stat, thoroughly debunked several years ago at LanguageLog). I think this has less to do with the lazy allure of "we're just like that, nothing to be done lalala" wearing off or people becoming more informed than it does with the implications of the world economy imploding and society fraying at the seams -- much of the mainstream media's sciencey pep rallying has gone the full self-help route, promising that your brain and body has infinite power to change and adapt to anything at all so there can never be any sorts of real problems on the outside, like in society or with the economy or anything, it's ALL YOU, you have the POWER to CHANGE and just WILL yourself out of any sort of human limits or reactions to things by DOING YOGA AND EATING MORE KALE, etc. etc. The endless adaptability narrative (individual adaptability, of course) is what better enables cultural inertia right now, and so is getting more page space.

But around 2009? Dubious evo-psych wasn't just being used for its always-in-demand purpose of excusing men's shitty behavior. It was being used for literally fucking everything about every goddamn topic imaginable. There was shitty evo-psych about why people voted Republican or Democrat. There was shitty evo-psych about shopping malls. There was shitty evo-psych about intelligence and binge drinking. There was even some shitty evo-psych about introversion and extroversion, as played out by some highly specific type of goldfish or something, in Susan Caine's book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking.

And, apparently, unbeknownst to me at the time, there was shitty evo-psych about poker. And about some other things that McManus somehow managed to co-opt into being about poker.

Unfortunately, the worst stuff is front-loaded right at the beginning, which is why it took me so long to get into this damn book. He's determined to tell the whole story, not only all the way through chronologically right from the beginning, but all the way through chronologically from several millennia before the beginning. Playing cards don't get invented until Chapter 3.

Chapter 1 is mostly American mythmaking, with some anecdotes about various Presidents mashed up with some very sciencey-sounding stuff about the traits of immigrants being passed along in Americans' DNA, as if it were an either scientific or historical fact that Americans are all descended from voluntary immigrants and that's why we're so ~special~. While the erasure of the Native American population is pretty par for the course in most treatments of American history, it's slightly more surprising in publications about American gambling; in addition, the country's substantial black population came here almost entirely unvoluntarily; in further addition, quite a lot of the white people who came over when we were still colonies were shipped over as prisoners. McManus cites a figure of 2% (doesn't cite it from any study that I can find) for emigrating populations; this surprised me, since McManus is Irish and the Irish have, rather famously, been forced to emigrate in numbers up to ten times that -- and even in those cases, emigration was often "assisted." This whole section seems to come from a single book that's supposedly largely a cultural analysis, but which I will apparently now have to go read and dig into the sources used in order to figure out if it manages to square any of these circles.

A good fisking of Chapter 2 could provide the basis for a semester-long course on everything wrong with modern journalism. In my review of Positively Fifth Street, I said parenthetically that "Regrettably, this leads him down the tiresome evo psych path more than once, but as far as evo psych explanations for stuff go it could be a lot worse." Well, this book is the lot worse that it could be. I will spare you the full deconstruction, especially since I'd want to irrefutably source everything, and I didn't hold on to as many of the social science textbooks I worked on at Pearson as I should have. But suffice to say that this chapter contains a lot of stuff about the behaviors of prehistoric man (just man) that bears very little resemblance to anything I read in any of the anthropology, archaeology, psychology, history, biology, communications, or child development textbooks I edited at Pearson, or any of the scientific journal articles and studies I had to pore through when research-assistanting a university-level psych class on "Evolution, Culture, and the Mind." Behaviors of prehistoric women in this chapter were limited to a claim suggesting that women wore makeup and jewelry while men didn't -- findings straight out of the Flintstones Academy of Prehistoric Anthropology. I laughed so hard I dropped the book, and I didn't pick it up again for two weeks. I also recommend skipping this chapter if you're not in the mood to hear about how the entirety of human existence depends solely on unchecked male aggression, rather than it being a major threat to everyone's existence when not carefully controlled and mitigated by actual fucking prosocial behavior. (I think I got to this part on the same day that story broke about a dude stabbing a lady on the train in Chicago for turning him down, so I had approximately negative patience for "men are aggressive to attract the ladies" type bullshit. Maybe it's badass that you can kick the shit out of a woolly mammoth or whatever, but only if I'm ENTIRELY CERTAIN THAT YOU WILL ONLY EVER KICK THE SHIT OUT OF THE MAMMOTH AND NOT ME.) Like... for fuck's sake, dude. Poker requires aggression in betting, sure, but behaviorally it requires sitting at a table with a bunch of fellow humans for several hours. And the sooner poker players realize this and make acting like it as much of a requirement for being considered "good at" poker as knowing how to size their raises properly, the sooner they can stop whining about how hard it is to attract new players to sit at tables with them for several hours.

The book starts to get better once we move into actual history and there's actual on-topic material to address, such as the invention of playing cards and the development of early gambling games. This stuff is much more interesting, although the previous two chapters have certainly done quite a bit to damage McManus' credibility for anything where he doesn't show all his work. Many of the times and places discussed are areas of history where I have much less of grounding in than I do in problems with mainstream science journalism and the methodological weaknesses of self-serving evolutionary narratives, so I'm not armed with much in the way of how to determine if it's right or wrong.

The actual poker stuff -- which, to be fair, is like 80% of the book, and certainly the most important 80% -- I tended to find credible. McManus's approach to poker history/mythology is basically the opposite of his approach to all the tangential subjects he tries to tie it to: When it comes to old poker anecdotes, biographical information of legendary gamblers, famous poker hands of history, etc., he goes out of his way to demythologize it, often interviewing multiple subjects or visiting multiple primary sources, carefully examining the trustworthiness of each of them and putting them in context of the journalistic standards and reliability at the tame, making sure the audience knows when and where something could have been exaggerated for effect and what factors make it how likely that a given account is total bollocks or not -- you know, proper history study stuff. It's exhaustively researched and sourced. Names, dates, prizes, buy-in amounts -- all the poker data is there and accounted for. He clearly loves the subject of poker and wants to do as right by it as humanly possible, even if it means up giving up believing in some really fun tall tales. We're given some very detailed looks into the minutiae of what seems like every bracelet event ever played at the World Series. Careful attention is given to not forgetting the respected, talented players who came in second, third, and otherwise not-first in major events, who tend to be forgotten about in the usual poker lore of big winners. The demythologizing of actual, nuts-and-bolts poker history is so thorough and careful that it occasionally borders on dry.

I'll still take it over the re-mythologizing of everything else in order to create neat and simple buttresses for the central thesis of the book, which is that poker explains basically everything about American and world history and humanity and life itself. (There's even an additional cringeworthy chapter specifically about poker and sex, buried deep in the final third of the book, just when I'd managed to forget about all the shitty evo psych from earlier.) Poker is indeed incredibly multifaceted, so it's really weirdly easy to tie it to quite a large number of things, and as I've started studying it more I've also found myself conceptualizing of more and more regular, everyday stuff in poker terms. (I'll be interested to see if any of the things I learn from playing poker will noticeably affect my behavior or thinking in other areas of life -- if it'll improve my short-term memory, my long-atrophied mental math skills, my comfort with making decisions quickly, my assertiveness, all that stuff the strategy books say are transferable skills.) But because poker genuinely is so tie-in-with-able for so many things, it's somehow just extra annoying when someone seems to be overdoing it. And while it's a hallmark of nearly every nonfiction book published in the 21st century to dedicate at least the concluding chapter to expanding the reach of the subject until it encompasses the entirety of the human experiment (I'm looking at you, The Ghost Map), this book actually lacks a Theory of Everything last chapter, because the Theory of Everything bit is visited and revisited so many times throughout the text. In a unique twist, the book actually ends on a fairly limited, concrete call to action to do something about the UIGEA because it's terrible, and the observation that poker is very popular and will probably keep existing.

Anyway, 80% of this review has been about the 20% of the book I had a problem with, so here are some really fun things from the 80% of the book I liked:
--A long and colorful accounting of all the popular ways of CHEATING AT CARDS ON STEAMBOATS which is just as delightful as it sounds
--Many many presidential anecdotes for many many presidents
--A history of poker strategy literature, starting all the way back at the "how to cheat" primers with grossly long names that were popular long before the ones about non-cheating strategy
--Dr. Jerome Cardplayer
--A meticulous accounting of some absurdly rich dude's quest to bust a crew of the best limit Hold'em players in the world through sheer variance by basically hammering them with his bankroll
--Entirely too much stuff about the WSOP, considering he wrote a whole other book about it
--A decent amount of content about women poker players, although obviously not as much as I would have liked because there have not historically been as many women in poker as I would have liked, and there still aren't, but the ones who are there are totally badass and awesome
--Some funky stuff about AI and game theory, most of which involves interviewing actual scientists about actual scientific research!
--BATTLE STORIES about the Civil War, told using the word "bluff" a lot and therefore totally definitely actually about poker
--Adorable misspelled epigraphs culled from online poker forums/poker room chatboxes, complete with emojis and lots of all caps

All in all, this is a truly wonderful 300-page book, plus some crap that inflates it to a 425-page book. I would have gotten through the 300-page book in less than a week if that was all that was there to read. It's still a very valuable resource in my poker education, though, and it was indeed high time I read it.