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Please forgive me if I take a lengthy break today. I feel I must say something about Senator John McCain while he lives. After that, I will observe the ancient mandate, De mortuis nihil nisi bonum.

 John McCain is the son of a Four-Star Admiral of the World War Two era. John Sr. was the leader of the Fast Carrier Attack Force that once battled a much larger enemy fleet heroically and famously in the Pacific Theater. He also stands, if one knows where to look, in the famous photograph of the signing of the surrender documents by the Japanese on the deck of the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay. Navy Secretary James Forrestal said of him, “He was a fighting man all the way through.”

 The junior John received an appointment to Annapolis due to his father’s service and influence and completed the four years. His was a checkered performance and might have ended without a commission had he not been an admiral’s son.

 Being in good physical shape, he qualified as a Naval Aviator, flying off the USS Oriskany (CV-34) in the South China Sea.

 Here is where I want to express my feelings. On October 26, 1967 John McCain was flying a bombing mission, his 23^rd, over selected sites in Hanoi Vietnam. He was following orders issued by the military command of the United States of America. Whether he fully agreed with those orders is a matter that only he knows.

 I question them. This was an unprovoked and savage attack upon a nation that had done no harm to our country. Oh, there was a trumped-up (good word these days) charge that one of their boats had fired a round at one of our warships in the Gulf of Tonkin but I don’t think a single serious historian believes that happened as reported, or, if it did, justified the millions of deaths that followed.

 Certainly, the women and children who were victims of John McCain’s bombs had done nothing to deserve the horrible, blistering, firestorm that his bombs created.

 Whether one supports the war or not, John McCain, on that day was flying his A-4E Skyhawk directly into fire from an anti-aircraft battery. Incoming fire hit his aircraft and he had to bail, injuring himself severely in the process. Captured, he was paraded through the streets of Hanoi and humiliated by the victims of his bombing. The Vietnamese took him to a notorious prison, called “The Hanoi Hilton.” There he remained, untreated and tortured.

 A month later, I arrived in Da Nang, South Vietnam as a war-giver, certainly not at the scale and grandeur of a naval aviator, but as one who followed the orders of my country, the same as John McCain.

 On the second day in country, I received orders to escort a Vietnamese woman and her baby to the Sick Bay on base. Wanting to make sure I understood why she was there, she removed bandages from her child’s face and I saw nothing but raw blisters and scabs where a baby’s face should have been. One dark and bottomless eye, surrounded by raw flesh, looked at me in bewilderment. I still see it sometimes late at night.

 That’s what happens when the bombs fall on the innocents. That’s what made me hate war as anything more than an absolute last chance at survival.

 But … but … but: I followed orders for the next 12 months, doing some things I’d rather not talk about and others that still make me smile. I spent two more years in the service afterwards and then went into a professional civilian job, an adventure about which I am currently reporting. In 1972. I met a young girl with long reddish hair, a mind like a polished diamond, a smile that could melt steel, and a figure that could make a monk do a double-take.

 On August 17, 1972, we had a modest but marvelous wedding with friends and relatives in attendance. Then we left on our honeymoon.

 On that date, John McCain remained in the Hanoi Hilton, lacking medical care for his injured body and suffering repeated torture. My new wife and I were in Aspen Colorado enjoying life. Our families waited at home, anxious to hear about the adventure. John McCain’s family continued to hope for his release.

  I’m not sure where Donald Trump was on that date. I’m sure he was having fun with whatever trophy-wife he enjoyed at the time. He had avoided the whole military thing. His career, too, had been boosted by his father, not by his father’s service to our country, but by his father’s money.

 John McCain stayed in prison, loyal to the country on whose behalf he had landed there. On one occasion, he was offered release, the Vietnamese believing that positive publicity awaited the release of an admiral’s son. McCain refused the offer unless all his fellow prisoners went home as well.

 More time passed. In 1973, the inmates of the Hanoi Hilton were finally released. McCain later became a respected United States Senator and ran an honorable, but unsuccessful presidential campaign against Barack Obama.

 During the 2016 presidential campaign, Donald Trump, a draft-dodger himself, insulted the service of John McCain, saying that he (Trump) preferred military heroes that “didn’t get captured.” For this sin, and similar behavior, we elected him president of the United States of America.

This week, as John McCain is facing death from cancer, another of Donald Trump’s staff demeaned a statement from Senator McCain, saying that it didn’t matter because “he was dying anyway.” Donald Trump has not disowned it as of yet, nor, I imagine, will he. Oh well, when a worm challenges a mountain, the butterflies must flutter and laugh.

 Here’s what I think:

 - I don’t agree with what John McCain and millions of us were ordered to do.

- I believe we were of the post WWII generation that believed in duty to our country uber alles.

- I believe we served faithfully and thanklessly in a misguided war, perhaps making us “The Greatest Generation.”

- I believe that our country never forgave us for our service, as witnessed by the lack of a national uproar when people like Donald Trump, and his sort, besmirch the heroic service of brothers like John McCain and John Kerry.

- I believe Americans will pay a dreadful price for our misguided blindness.

 Today I’m ashamed. Tomorrow I’ll press on, having said my piece.

 This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

 William Shakespeare – Henry V

 My Sainted Mother would have made a great city manager: How many times, during a public meeting, have I heard an elected body vote to do some stupid thing because other cities were doing it? My mother would have shaken her finger at them and, well you know what she would have said. It would have included the admonition about other kids jumping off cliffs and such.

 Throughout my career as an urban planner, the profession has held up two cities in particular as examples of doing planning right. They deserved emulation, imitation, and adulation. They received it in bushels. Today, portions of those cities lie in smoldering ruins while the rest of the urban area avoids taking a deep breath for fear of setting off more explosions. Could it be that over the years, they were applying the right solutions to the wrong problem?

 As I grow closer to the inevitable termination of my “use module,” I wonder if proactive planning is a “'a consummation devoutly to be wished” as much as reactive planning. The overarching dynamic of a city rests more on the vagaries of fortune than upon the foresightedness of humankind. The modernization of farming technique resulted in the loss of population in our state’s delta areas. Transportation decisions left some cities isolated and abandoned and other cities bisected, dissected, and infected. Long festering racial bigotry, made so despairingly evident with the election of Barack Obama, ballooned sleepy, all-white villages into throbbing metropolitan areas.

One may say, with accuracy, that the bigotry existed long before the Obamas and that other events had stirred the sleeping monster. True that. When a gentle appearing politician announced his candidacy for president in the racially iconic city of Philadelphia, Mississippi, the “dog whistles” were loud and clear. The demon must have stirred and smiled, perhaps never to sleep again. Later politicians would sharpen his mendacity and unleash it hard against Americans, particularly the "least of those among us."

Not all white-flight cities prospered equally. Some managed growth better than others. Some cities on the other end of the success spectrum managed hardships better than others. Some cities, like well-ballasted transports, lumbered through the storms. Some simply died. In most cases, however, results depended more on reaction than conscious visioning.

 How to proceed? Hell, I’m not sure. Maybe we understand that beautiful streetscapes, long considered a proper move for downtown areas, may not work in places where the level of crime prevents downtown merchants from unlocking the doors to their businesses during peak hours.

 Maybe finding the right problem is, after all, more important than finding the right solution.

 

 

 Finished, or at least taking a break from, my study of Woodrow Wilson, a fascinating person. He could soar to heights of intellect, decency, and prescience before descending into stubbornness and vindictiveness, perhaps due to his health. His counsel could, had it been followed (or had he the health to push it through), have likely prevented World War Two. Though still befuddled about the man, as are historians, I learned things from my effort:

Most people don’t understand the complex and irrational dynamics of politics.

It was a lot easier to keep personal secrets in 1919 than it is now.

Physical health is a wonderful ally to mental health.

Most people have better and not better angels of their nature. Ascendency can change the world.

Revenge serves as a poor palliative for post-war restoration.

Mitch McConnell was not the first malevolent senator in U.S. history.

Writers should borrow a trick from cinematographers and use shorter segments as they approach the end of their work.

Had one exalted leader like Woodrow Wilson shown support, in those days, for racial equity, America would be a much different place today.

I will go to my grave not understanding how African Americans donned uniforms and went to war in 1941 considering their treatment after 1918.

A Touch of Something

 Rushed in this morning to catch Noir Alley, only to find that Eddie Muller was presenting what is, in my opinion, one of the silliest films ever produced in America: A Touch of Evil, or as I would name it, A Touch of Stupidity. Oddly, it is now considered a classic. Why? I don’t know. Oh, the acting is laudable, and the cinematography is magnificent. The plot could have been made believable and understandable.

 It’s just silly, that’s all. First of all, Charlton Heston plays a Mexican police officer, with no trace of an accent, married to an American wife a third his age. Janet Legh plays the wife, one of the stupidest characters, imaginable. You know, the kind who, when warned that the monster is waiting just ahead says, “I’m going anyway.”

 Orson Wells plays an Alabama Sheriff transplanted to a Texas border town. His only redeeming quality is that he thinks Marlene Dietrich is hot. Somehow the film works Dennis Weaver into a scene so ludicrous and “over the top” that it would have been used more appropriately in an acting school to teach the art of burlesque.

 The sheriff is fat and crooked of course.

Charlton Heston’s character is goodness personified, of course.

Jane Leigh is sexy, of course.

Marlene Dietrich is voluptuous, of course.

Dennis Weaver’s character is … well I don’t know what he is but he is the most of it that I’ve ever seen.

But, Charlton Heston a Mexican police officer? That sounds like one of those film-killing character interpretations that they used to let Marlon Brando get away with.

INHO opinion, this is all rather sad because of the excellent individual work done. But, as the late Dr. Samuel Johnson observed, once a brilliant person has done something stupid, it is hard to take them seriously again. Of course, Dr. Johnson said it much better than I.

 I’m just left to wonder what people, many of whom are much more knowledgeable than I, see in this film that allows it to overcome such a flawed premise. A classic?

 It’s as if someone made a technically near-perfect film, brilliantly acted, that can not rise above a ridiculous plot premise. Say someone devised a plot in which an Army Ranger unit was stopped by the brass just after scaling the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc on D-Day and helping to capture the German emplacements. Say Someone devised a plot whereby the unit was pulled from the ongoing battle and sent to find and bring back a buck private, one buck private. Say the private, upon being found, refuses the direct order of the Ranger captain to come along and then gets most of the Ranger unit killed, including the Ranger Captain, who had, a short time ago  been minding his own business, which business was driving the Nazis from the beaches at Normandy. Say the buck private, as an old man, is presented as a goddam hero.

It’s plots like this that make me think I’m too slow on the uptake to be a movie critic.

Failure As An Option

I’m hardly an expert on foreign policy. That represents a big difference between most who post on Facebook and me. Between the political experts and Constitutional scholars, social media has just about obviated the need for formal education or rational thought.

I can't help thinking, though, of the news about Afghanistan or the potential future. It’s not a pretty picture, but an inevitable one. "All things must end," as Bernie Madoff said when made off with the last dollar with which anyone trusted him.

It took us longer to fail in Afghanistan than it did the Russians. That, I admit, is "damning with faint praise."

I’m temped to say that it was an example of applying the wrong solution to the right problem which is, someone said, better than applying the right solution to the wrong problem. The bull enclosed in the ring and surrounded by thousands of screamers is not wrong to charge. It's just that the red cape isn't the right problem.

In our case, it was right to deal with the terror, cruelty, murder and instability created by unreasoning religious fever. It's just that guns were never going to accomplish the goal of peace against an army whose members were going to receive 72 virgins in Heaven upon death in battle. Oh, and lest we forget, it was an army supplied and supported by a neighboring country with its own flair for duplicity.

We held the zealots back for a long spell with sheer force. But in the long run, their god was stronger than our god. Instead of applying military power in such cases, we might have tried facts, reason, and rationale. After all, we had 20 years.

But to do that now, we’d have to set an example right here in America first. The current situation in our state doesn't suggest success though.

FACING A CRISIS

 Random thoughts running through my head this morn.

Several years back, I received a license plate designating me as a United States military veteran. Since then, police officers have stopped me four times for speeding. Yeah, about once every two years. Each time, guess what? Yep, they let me go. What’s scary as hell to think about is that, had those stops occurred in some cities in our country, and I had not been white—even with the license plate—I may have been murdered, tased, or beaten.

Yeah, I didn’t run. I didn’t resist. I didn’t become belligerent. In fact, the last time I said “Officer, you got me fair and square. No excuse.” He laughed and told me to go and behave in the future.

I know. I know. I’m white and this ain’t Minnesota.

Every police officer I have known personally is a decent, honest, admirable person. I did meet a few as a young serviceman in Charleston, S.C. back in the 60s who weren’t so, but they followed the “Charleston Model” of hating people of color and military personnel in equal proportions. The usually didn’t kill sailors. They simply beat them until their own mothers wouldn’t recognize them and then “frog marched” them up the gangway of their ship next morning in full view of the crew. Message delivered.

But I digress. I, unlike all other Americans, have no clue this morning as how to solve the crisis among this minority of law enforcement personnel. A simple, “Don’t execute anyone for a traffic violation,” standing order might help. A thorough look into the long-standing rumor that white supremacy cults are actively infiltrating police departments wouldn’t hurt. Suggesting to personnel that if they are going to execute someone for a minor offense, best not to do it on camera might help.

No, I don’t think that is the answer. I’m not sure further training is the answer. As my old running buddy, Argumento de Minimus the Harvard-bred lawyer, would say, “Hell, I thought it was a taser,” doesn’t pass the smell test. I do know that supremely idiotic rantings such as “Defund the Police,” are counter-productive. That one almost got Donald Trump re-elected.

I do know that I want good police officers out there when I go to bed tonight. I do suspect, from actual data I have read, that a small percentage of officers garner most of the complaints from the public, so punishing every officer isn’t the most economical way to solve the crisis.

Maybe if we just quit hating one another long enough to think straight, it wouldn’t to any harm.

Takeaways and reflections:

I hate to say it, but I fear this terrorist rebellion will prove far more inclusive that we now imagine. I hope I'm wrong. I think I'm not. When I heard that the assault had begun, I imagined lines of motorized vehicles and broad phalanxes of police and soldiers roaring into action. Instead I saw a largely unimpeded flow of terrorists charging almost unopposed into the most important building in America like crowds entering stores on Black Friday.

Yes, I expected the National Guard. I had heard they would be on hand, since anyone who had observed a legitimate news source in a month knew the assault was coming. Then I learned that the Guard’s mission was "traffic control” and could not be changed except through the chain of command, a chain of command controlled by the person who instigated the assault.

This mad me think of something with which I am familiar. I imagined a U.S. Naval vessel encountering a sister ship under attack or a modern-day Titanic with her bow sliding beneath the waves and our Captain saying, “Nope, can’t stop. Our mission is to proceed to home port.” Maybe the National Guard is different. I don’t know. I hope not.

How many times have I heard, “Oh, Ted Cruz and Josh Hawley must be smart. They graduated from Ivy League law schools." Folks, I've known Ivy League graduates. They are well educated, fitting one of Plato’s requirements for a good life. Many show spirit in the use of their education, completing a second layer. But it is in the “appetitive” layer, the rational element in our gut that builds moderation, and distinguishes the restraint-guided human soul, that many, including the likes of Cruz and Hawley, lack entirely.

In fact, of three people I’ve known in my life who best fit the prime example of a smart, well ordered life, one graduated from the Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, one from what is now the University of Central Arkansas at Conway, and one from Arkansas Technical University in Russellville. Cruz and Hawley smart? No, they are devious, cunning, and resourceful. Morally, they most resemble the type of people from whom our state suffers, ones who have never worked a day at a job but somehow keep a steady supply of cigarettes and beer on hand for their survival. They squander their health and abilities like Cruz and Hawley squander their educations. We Americans suffer equally from both.

Finally, I haven’t resolved how I can approach what I once considered good, decent people who still support the American president who certainly incited, perhaps took a hand in planning, the terrorist assault on our nation’s Capitol and Constitution. I can’t take them seriously, but my standing orders, both from the Galilean and the military oath I took, require that I offer them the same care and concern as those who would seek a more meaningful life. The hardest to love will be those who spew societal treason from the pulpit of a church. They seem to believe that that the problem of two men, or two women, loving one another outweighs the sight of terroristic thugs ravaging the hallowed halls of Congress.

I’ve much thinking to do. Won’t you join me? Our country needs us.