Social Studies

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
Ya gotta understand
It's just our ideology
That gets us outta hand
Our Donald's an utter crank
Repubs are in the tank
The Grand Reopening of Texas, we're damned

(And so forth, to the tune of Gee, Officer Krupke, with apologies to Leonard Bernstein. Let's have a few more stanzas...)

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
You've been around the block
From Reagan down through Dubya
It ain't all about stocks
It's their faulty biology
Misunderstanding risk
The Grand Reopening of Texas, we're screwed

[ALL]
We're screwed. We're screwed
We're really, really screwed

[ACTION]
Gee Doctor Fauci,
Ya gotta understand:
Boss man just gave us all pink slips
The landlady's begging for the rent
Stop carrying The Donald's water
Don't be like Doctor Birx
The Grand Reopening of Texas, we're sick

[ALL]
It's sick. We're sick
We're really, really sick

[ACTION]
Right! Doctor Fauci,
You're really a square;
"Reopen the economy!
There's not a moment to spare!"
Lieutenant Guvnor calls for sacrifice
A load of ludicrous advice
For essential workers, it's a hard cross to bear
And all this with no child care

[ALL]

Please spare. Despair.
Despair. Despair. Despair.

[ACTION]
Gee Doctor Fauci
Ya gotta understand:
This death cult's no nirvana
Don't drink disinfectant
Or be Miss Pollyanna
We need you to break ranks
We'd rather do social distancing
Forget about the banks

[ALL]
The banks. The banks.
Forget about the banks

[ACTION]
Eek! Doctor Fauci,
You've done it again
Been waiting for that stimulus Unemployment's on speed dial
The Donald says "Check's in the mail!"
Can you believe this doofus?
Bankrupt's his preferred style
Hold music's getting out of hand
One measly check is all he's gonna give
It's more than I can stand

[ALL]
Can stand. A stand.
How 'boutchya take a stand?

Gee kindly Doctor Fauci,
Ya really got me miffed:
'Been waiting for that postcard
What about all of us poor stiffs?
Makes you wonder: is it really that hard?
The Grand Reopening of Texas
He won't bailout the Post Office
With all that it entails
So our coronavirus fix
Is we're digging up the backyard
For dinner we'll have snails!

[ALL]
Nails?
Or snails?
For dinner we'll have snails

[ACTION]
Dear kindly social worker
They tell me get a job
Ya millennial slacker
Ya lazy commie slob
They say go earn some dough
Like go be a meat packer
Which means like be a schmo
It's cold in Tyson's freezer
Can hardly feel my toes

[ACTION]
Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
I thought ya were my brother
Instead you're tryna dodge me
You're really putting up a show
Wouldn't you really rather
Be alive and on furlough?
It's not I'm anti-social
I'm only anti-disease
Don't want a case of COVID-19!
That's why I'm a jerk!

[ALL]
A jerk. That smirk.
That idiotic smirk.

Eek!
Doctor Fauci, you've done it again
This boy don't need a job,
He needs some support funds
It ain't just a question of misunderstood;
Deep down inside him, he ain't got no food.

[ALL]
No food. So crude.
Couldn't he have some food?

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
Ya gotta understand
Amateur epidemiology
Should be a criminal offense
"I don't take responsibility"
He really doesn't care
These grifters ruling the land
A model of competence?
And even if we impeach
We'd still be stuck with Pence

[ALL]
Pence. The Pence
It's a criminal offense

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
They're pocketing ten grand
For them, it's just a game
And about that herd immunity?
Human life ought to be precious
Full of love and beauty
It's just a crying shame
Good gracious
Admit it, that's a reach
They're lying at a tear

[ALL]
A tear. No fear
They're lying at a tear

Yes!
Doctor Fauci, you're really a slob;
We never had the love that every child oughta get
We ain't no delinquents
We're just misunderstood
We pay our taxes promptly.
Even in a pandemic,
Couldn't we have some food?

[Snowboy]
It's for your own good

[ALL]
No food. No food
But the Treasury's an untapped good!
Like inside, the worst of us needs food!

[Diesel]
Fauci, we got troubles of our own!

Gee kindly Doctor Fauci
You're really a sight
Standing there behind him
Quiet as he picks these fights
First with that man Jeff Bezos
With his bigger bank account
Good good man, come to Jesus
Surely you could dismount?
Do your job, don't just leave us

[ALL]
Gee, Doctor Fauci
We're down on our knees
'Cause no one wants a fellow
With a social disease
Gee, Doctor Fauci
In lieu of social distancing
Whatcha reckon we should do?
The Grand Reopening of Texas
Fauch you!

See also: Gee Doctor Fauci (Toli Shell Game remix)

The Grand Reopening of Texas

On this day of The Grand Reopening of Texas, it gives me no joy to note that, of the four countries my life's journey has taken in, Ghana is probably managing this covidious challenge the best even with the greatest constraints (closely followed by France - the less said about the UK and US responses, the better).

I say this, terrified as I am about my parents living at the edge of the covidious hotspot of Nima in Aywawaso East, and writing from a comfortable vantage point in Austin. I know all too well how touch-and-go it all is.

As Doctor Fauci said, "The virus sets the timeline". But the bodies, the bodies...

My greatest current dilemma is #TheBreadSituation: I've just eaten the last slice of Jolly Jolly bread in the house (have been on austerity regime of one slice a day). AfricaCarib market doesn't have an online presence, and delivery is disabled on jollyjollybread.com. This covidious life.

Recall if you will #TheBreadSituation. Quoth someone who came out of a quarantine som 2,000 years ago, "Man cannot live on bread alone". True I say, but how can Man face this covidious life without first kelewele and now Jolly Jolly bread?

Cue The Grand Reopening of Texas, but first a digression from a more innocent time, 1 year BC (Before Coronavirus) to be precise.

The Bread Situation (A Digression)

The core competency of Texas cuisine is the taco. The platonic ideal of an Austin restaurant is the tortilla. Fine, an explanation that accounts for the inevitable disappointment of every bakery I've encountered in my time here. Still we need to talk about #TheBreadSituation

One of my household tasks in the years I spent growing up in France was the early morning trek to the boulangerie to source bread for the family. It was never a chore because, well: baguettes, croissants and brioches! #TheBreadSituation

While there has been a Cambrian explosion when it comes to tortilla and taco expertise in Texas life, bread here is essentially fictional. Austin bakeries are Potemkin villages producing simulacrum of baked grain. Why do they bother one wonders? #TheBreadSituation

There's a reason Marie Antoinette's "Let them eat cake" still reverberates in French life. In Texas, the masses' complaints would be about tortilla and her retort would be "Let them eat bread" #TheBreadSituation

I'm an immigrant and have my coping strategies to deal with #TheBreadSituation.

1. Lowered expectations all around
2. Jolly, Jolly Bread from the African shop which aspires to the peaks of Ghanaian sugar bread and
3. Hawaiian rolls.

During the various civil wars in Lebanon, there were two certainties:

1. They would always rebuild and
2. None of the sides ever messed with the flow of pita bread #TheBreadSituation

The closest modern Egypt's ruling class have come to serious challenges to their misrule was whenever there were flour shortages. Forget the Arab Spring, bread subsidies explain the continued tyranny #TheBreadSituation

I had quite forgotten that a croissant could be a delicacy until I devoured a couple at La Boulangerie in San Antonio this past weekend. It appears there might be relief in sight to #TheBreadSituation

The Grand Reopening of Texas (Redux)

Today I made a milquetoast quip teasing The Wife about The Great Reopening of Texas. She studies the history of medicine, her most popular class is The Global History of Disease, and so forth. She cares, my goodness, she cares.

My comments didn't go down well.

I really had to bite my tongue and not follow up with my joke that I was "going to set out to buy you flowers, Dear. It's The Great Reopening of Texas, you see. Support your local business. The Governor says it's perfectly safe. It's not just May Day, it's Liberty Day in Texas"

The problem is that The Wife knows where I sleep (and I like where I sleep).

I guess I'm taking a pass on The Grand Reopening of Texas for now.

Still, The Wife is actually terrified that I'll break our current homebound regimen and go out foraging to address #TheBreadSituation. Wise woman that she is, she preempted #TheKenkeyDeficit last week pointing me toward Gold Coast Supreme who delivered some mighty fine Ga kenkey

I'm holding back from her that, as any Ghana boy knows, so long as you have gari and sardines, everything is a bonus. (you can even forgo shitor). And I have binders full of gari in our house (some very well hidden even). We survived The Rawlings Chain era. Don't tell her.

My family in France seem to be holding fast. They live in Alsace-Lorraine, near the German border, which is a current hotspot. I used the word fast intentionally: I was informed that The Auntie had decreed a 12 hour prayer fast. I commented that I didn't realize that she observed Ramadan.

I am so envious of my French branch of the family, they still have croissants, baguettes and brioches. I will know how bad things get in France if they ever bring up #TheBreadSituation.

Still, this covidious life is bringing out class resentment. Let them eat cake indeed.

For a Loaf of Pita Bread (A Parable)

One night in this past month, The Wife and I were watching PBS Newshour (or was it the BBC or something) as we do, the covidious nights and the programs all blur together. There was a grim report from Yemen about how they weren't looking forward to the pandemic. Some do gooder at the World Food Program or Save the Children was being interviewed about the challenges of the job. There was a stark visual to end the report, something like the following image - I've scoured PBS and the BBC and CNN to no avail for that clip. It showed a nightmarish landscape of bombed out houses, and a mother and daughter walking back from a food distribution point with their meager pickings. The backdrop was appropriately disturbing if not plainly apocalyptic.

Now I know I should look down with pity at the plight of the Yemeni people, after all one should have sympathy for any enemy of Crown Prince Mohammed Bone Saw Salman. Moreover, the report did have its intended effect, my purse strings were promptly loosened for Unicef. But at the time, I have to admit that all I could think about was the pita bread that was being distributed to that young child and her mother (Note: they got their cut only after the hordes of well armed and relatively well fed Yemeni men had had their fill). You know, I was envious of that bread. In their distress, that refugee camp had dealt comprehensively with The Bread Situation. I could only look on and wonder. Being stuck in Trump's America in a state that was looking forward to it's grand reopening seemed a little grim. In penance for the sin of envy, I made two donations.

The Grand Reopening of Texas (For Real This Time)

The English branch of my family is already in deep mourning, the American branch is in shell shock at what we are witnessing (and most of us are sitting pretty - only one unemployed so far).

Being able to anticipate the blows is no consolation, it's just damage limitation.

Also: This week is The Grand Reopening of Texas.

There was a thread in there somewhere, a commentary perhaps about The Grand Reopening of Texas. Something about how the cost of the utter shambles is being paid in human lives. There's exceptionalism and ideology on the one, and then there are the bodies, the wholy unnecessary, and wilfully inflicted suffering.

A Grand Reopening Playlist

A preliminary soundtrack for The Grand Reopening of Texas (or is it The Great Reopening of Texas? What do the Governor's brand consultants think works better?). I welcome your additions. (spotify version)

• Gee Officer Krupke! by West Side Story cast
• Mayday On The Front Line by MC Ren
  I always play it on May Day.
• A Spoonful of Chlorox by Randy Rainbow
• The Groundwork Music Orchestra - Bone Soup
  Our kids love to sing bone soup, after a few more weeks after this grand reopening, I suspect that's what they'll be having for dinner.

See also: Dear Mr Surgeon General Re: Meatpacking Plants

[Update October 15 2020]

I had been wondering why Google's search queries were consistently marking me as authoritative on matters of Fauci and Bernstein. I hadn't realized that Randy Rainbow had gone on to draw on the same inspirational well a few months after this missive. I salute his hatchet job and his execution, we are both singing from the same satirical songbook and, well, we need all the help we can get. Let's add him to the playlist.

Gee Anthony fauci! by Randy Rainbow

File under: humour, satire, culture, observation, coronavirus, pandemic, politics, rogues, economics, life, dilemmas, immigration, family, poetry, USA, hatchet job, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: May 3, 2020

Structural Adjustments

An early lesson learned in matters of accounting
Is of a balance sheet in the affairs of man
Revolutionary justice tips the scale, leaving borrowers overextended
The heart is prone to default on all those payments due
And so be wary of blank checks made out to an exiled soul

Broken hearts heal in the embrace of experience
Resist nostalgia and all its seductive comfort
But hold on to the clarity of your convictions
To finance the trade deficit of unanswered questions
For indeed wist is the favourite currency of love.

Above all, in all things, remember this:
Flesh and blood are not inconveniences
To think otherwise is to surely forfeit one's spirit
We can afford the taxes due on dividends in kind
For love is the defined benefit of soul insurance.

---

Extracted from its original context of double trouble for a dearly departed man, I'm happy for this note to stand alone.

See also: The Wages of Thermidor

File under: poetry, memory, family, appreciation, loss, culture, observation, perception, life, exile, immigration, Ghana, Africa, Things Fall Apart, toli

The Grand Reopening of Texas

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
Ya gotta understand
It's just our ideology
That gets us outta hand
Our Donald's an utter crank
Repubs are in the tank
The Grand Reopening of Texas, we're damned

(And so forth, to the tune of Gee, Officer Krupke, with apologies to Leonard Bernstein. Let's have a few more stanzas...)

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
You've been around the block
From Reagan down through Dubya
It ain't all about stocks
It's their faulty biology
Misunderstanding risk
The Grand Reopening of Texas, we're screwed

[ALL]
We're screwed. We're screwed
We're really, really screwed

[ACTION]
Gee Doctor Fauci,
Ya gotta understand:
Boss man just gave us all pink slips
The landlady's begging for the rent
Stop carrying The Donald's water
Don't be like Doctor Birx
The Grand Reopening of Texas, we're sick

[ALL]
It's sick. We're sick
We're really, really sick

[ACTION]
Right! Doctor Fauci,
You're really a square;
"Reopen the economy!
There's not a moment to spare!"
Lieutenant Guvnor calls for sacrifice
A load of ludicrous advice
For essential workers, it's a hard cross to bear
And all this with no child care

[ALL]

Please spare. Despair.
Despair. Despair. Despair.

[ACTION]
Gee Doctor Fauci
Ya gotta understand:
This death cult's no nirvana
Don't drink disinfectant
Or be Miss Pollyanna
We need you to break ranks
We'd rather do social distancing
Forget about the banks

[ALL]
The banks. The banks.
Forget about the banks

[ACTION]
Eek! Doctor Fauci,
You've done it again
Been waiting for that stimulus Unemployment's on speed dial
The Donald says "Check's in the mail!"
Can you believe this doofus?
Bankrupt's his preferred style
Hold music's getting out of hand
One measly check is all he's gonna give
It's more than I can stand

[ALL]
Can stand. A stand.
How 'boutchya take a stand?

Gee kindly Doctor Fauci,
Ya really got me miffed:
'Been waiting for that postcard
What about all of us poor stiffs?
Makes you wonder: is it really that hard?
The Grand Reopening of Texas
He won't bailout the Post Office
With all that it entails
So our coronavirus fix
Is we're digging up the backyard
For dinner we'll have snails!

[ALL]
Nails?
Or snails?
For dinner we'll have snails

[ACTION]
Dear kindly social worker
They tell me get a job
Ya millennial slacker
Ya lazy commie slob
They say go earn some dough
Like go be a meat packer
Which means like be a schmo
It's cold in Tyson's freezer
Can hardly feel my toes

[ACTION]
Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
I thought ya were my brother
Instead you're tryna dodge me
You're really putting up a show
Wouldn't you really rather
Be alive and on furlough?
It's not I'm anti-social
I'm only anti-disease
Don't want a case of COVID-19!
That's why I'm a jerk!

[ALL]
A jerk. That smirk.
That idiotic smirk.

Eek!
Doctor Fauci, you've done it again
This boy don't need a job,
He needs some support funds
It ain't just a question of misunderstood;
Deep down inside him, he ain't got no food.

[ALL]
No food. So crude.
Couldn't he have some food?

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
Ya gotta understand
Amateur epidemiology
Should be a criminal offense
"I don't take responsibility"
He really doesn't care
These grifters ruling the land
A model of competence?
And even if we impeach
We'd still be stuck with Pence

[ALL]
Pence. The Pence
It's a criminal offense

Dear kindly Doctor Fauci
They're pocketing ten grand
For them, it's just a game
And about that herd immunity?
Human life ought to be precious
Full of love and beauty
It's just a crying shame
Good gracious
Admit it, that's a reach
They're lying at a tear

[ALL]
A tear. No fear
They're lying at a tear

Yes!
Doctor Fauci, you're really a slob;
We never had the love that every child oughta get
We ain't no delinquents
We're just misunderstood
We pay our taxes promptly.
Even in a pandemic,
Couldn't we have some food?

[Snowboy]
It's for your own good

[ALL]
No food. No food
But the Treasury's an untapped good!
Like inside, the worst of us needs food!

[Diesel]
Fauci, we got troubles of our own!

Gee kindly Doctor Fauci
You're really a sight
Standing there behind him
Quiet as he picks these fights
First with that man Jeff Bezos
With his bigger bank account
Good good man, come to Jesus
Surely you could dismount?
Do your job, don't just leave us

[ALL]
Gee, Doctor Fauci
We're down on our knees
'Cause no one wants a fellow
With a social disease
Gee, Doctor Fauci
In lieu of social distancing
Whatcha reckon we should do?
The Grand Reopening of Texas
Fauch you!

See also: Gee Doctor Fauci (Toli Shell Game remix)

The Grand Reopening of Texas

On this day of The Grand Reopening of Texas, it gives me no joy to note that, of the four countries my life's journey has taken in, Ghana is probably managing this covidious challenge the best even with the greatest constraints (closely followed by France - the less said about the UK and US responses, the better).

I say this, terrified as I am about my parents living at the edge of the covidious hotspot of Nima in Aywawaso East, and writing from a comfortable vantage point in Austin. I know all too well how touch-and-go it all is.

As Doctor Fauci said, "The virus sets the timeline". But the bodies, the bodies...

My greatest current dilemma is #TheBreadSituation: I've just eaten the last slice of Jolly Jolly bread in the house (have been on austerity regime of one slice a day). AfricaCarib market doesn't have an online presence, and delivery is disabled on jollyjollybread.com. This covidious life.

Recall if you will #TheBreadSituation. Quoth someone who came out of a quarantine som 2,000 years ago, "Man cannot live on bread alone". True I say, but how can Man face this covidious life without first kelewele and now Jolly Jolly bread?

Cue The Grand Reopening of Texas, but first a digression from a more innocent time, 1 year BC (Before Coronavirus) to be precise.

The Bread Situation (A Digression)

The core competency of Texas cuisine is the taco. The platonic ideal of an Austin restaurant is the tortilla. Fine, an explanation that accounts for the inevitable disappointment of every bakery I've encountered in my time here. Still we need to talk about #TheBreadSituation

One of my household tasks in the years I spent growing up in France was the early morning trek to the boulangerie to source bread for the family. It was never a chore because, well: baguettes, croissants and brioches! #TheBreadSituation

While there has been a Cambrian explosion when it comes to tortilla and taco expertise in Texas life, bread here is essentially fictional. Austin bakeries are Potemkin villages producing simulacrum of baked grain. Why do they bother one wonders? #TheBreadSituation

There's a reason Marie Antoinette's "Let them eat cake" still reverberates in French life. In Texas, the masses' complaints would be about tortilla and her retort would be "Let them eat bread" #TheBreadSituation

I'm an immigrant and have my coping strategies to deal with #TheBreadSituation.

1. Lowered expectations all around
2. Jolly, Jolly Bread from the African shop which aspires to the peaks of Ghanaian sugar bread and
3. Hawaiian rolls.

During the various civil wars in Lebanon, there were two certainties:

1. They would always rebuild and
2. None of the sides ever messed with the flow of pita bread #TheBreadSituation

The closest modern Egypt's ruling class have come to serious challenges to their misrule was whenever there were flour shortages. Forget the Arab Spring, bread subsidies explain the continued tyranny #TheBreadSituation

I had quite forgotten that a croissant could be a delicacy until I devoured a couple at La Boulangerie in San Antonio this past weekend. It appears there might be relief in sight to #TheBreadSituation

The Grand Reopening of Texas (Redux)

Today I made a milquetoast quip teasing The Wife about The Great Reopening of Texas. She studies the history of medicine, her most popular class is The Global History of Disease, and so forth. She cares, my goodness, she cares.

My comments didn't go down well.

I really had to bite my tongue and not follow up with my joke that I was "going to set out to buy you flowers, Dear. It's The Great Reopening of Texas, you see. Support your local business. The Governor says it's perfectly safe. It's not just May Day, it's Liberty Day in Texas"

The problem is that The Wife knows where I sleep (and I like where I sleep).

I guess I'm taking a pass on The Grand Reopening of Texas for now.

Still, The Wife is actually terrified that I'll break our current homebound regimen and go out foraging to address #TheBreadSituation. Wise woman that she is, she preempted #TheKenkeyDeficit last week pointing me toward Gold Coast Supreme who delivered some mighty fine Ga kenkey

I'm holding back from her that, as any Ghana boy knows, so long as you have gari and sardines, everything is a bonus. (you can even forgo shitor). And I have binders full of gari in our house (some very well hidden even). We survived The Rawlings Chain era. Don't tell her.

My family in France seem to be holding fast. They live in Alsace-Lorraine, near the German border, which is a current hotspot. I used the word fast intentionally: I was informed that The Auntie had decreed a 12 hour prayer fast. I commented that I didn't realize that she observed Ramadan.

I am so envious of my French branch of the family, they still have croissants, baguettes and brioches. I will know how bad things get in France if they ever bring up #TheBreadSituation.

Still, this covidious life is bringing out class resentment. Let them eat cake indeed.

For a Loaf of Pita Bread (A Parable)

One night in this past month, The Wife and I were watching PBS Newshour (or was it the BBC or something) as we do, the covidious nights and the programs all blur together. There was a grim report from Yemen about how they weren't looking forward to the pandemic. Some do gooder at the World Food Program or Save the Children was being interviewed about the challenges of the job. There was a stark visual to end the report, something like the following image - I've scoured PBS and the BBC and CNN to no avail for that clip. It showed a nightmarish landscape of bombed out houses, and a mother and daughter walking back from a food distribution point with their meager pickings. The backdrop was appropriately disturbing if not plainly apocalyptic.

Now I know I should look down with pity at the plight of the Yemeni people, after all one should have sympathy for any enemy of Crown Prince Mohammed Bone Saw Salman. Moreover, the report did have its intended effect, my purse strings were promptly loosened for Unicef. But at the time, I have to admit that all I could think about was the pita bread that was being distributed to that young child and her mother (Note: they got their cut only after the hordes of well armed and relatively well fed Yemeni men had had their fill). You know, I was envious of that bread. In their distress, that refugee camp had dealt comprehensively with The Bread Situation. I could only look on and wonder. Being stuck in Trump's America in a state that was looking forward to it's grand reopening seemed a little grim. In penance for the sin of envy, I made two donations.

The Grand Reopening of Texas (For Real This Time)

The English branch of my family is already in deep mourning, the American branch is in shell shock at what we are witnessing (and most of us are sitting pretty - only one unemployed so far).

Being able to anticipate the blows is no consolation, it's just damage limitation.

Also: This week is the The Grand Reopening of Texas.

There was a thread in there somewhere, a commentary perhaps about The Grand Reopening of Texas. Something about how the cost of the utter shambles is being paid in human lives. There's exceptionalism and ideology on the one, and then there are the bodies, the wholy unnecessary, and wilfully inflicted suffering.

A Grand Reopening Playlist

A preliminary soundtrack for The Grand Reopening of Texas (or is it The Great Reopening of Texas? What do the Governor's brand consultants think works better?). I welcome your additions. (spotify version)

• Gee Officer Krupke! by West Side Story cast
• Mayday On The Front Line by MC Ren
  I always play it on May Day.
• A Spoonful of Chlorox by Randy Rainbow
• The Groundwork Music Orchestra - Bone Soup
  Our kids love to sing bone soup, after a few more weeks after this grand reopening, I suspect that's what they'll be having for dinner.

See also: Dear Mr Surgeon General Re: Meatpacking Plants

[Update October 15 2020]

I had been wondering why Google's search queries were consistently marking me as authoritative on matters of Fauci and Bernstein. I hadn't realized that Randy Rainbow had gone on to draw on the same inspirational well a few months after this missive. I salute his hatchet job and his execution, we are both singing from the same satirical songbook and, well, we need all the help we can get. Let's add him to the playlist.

Gee Anthony fauci! by Randy Rainbow

File under: humour, satire, culture, observation, coronavirus, pandemic, politics, rogues, economics, life, dilemmas, immigration, family, poetry, USA, hatchet job, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: May 3, 2020

Uncle Mike

A man in full, in 10 movements...

I. Funeral Minded

Islington crematorium
Webcast, funeral-minded

Brave daughter
Minor speeches

Quarrelsome Uncle
Fond arguments

Fugitive memories
In loco parentis

Distant grief
Transatlantic sorrow

The pastor's gloves
The absence of hugs

Murmurs of mourners
Social distancing

Brutal efficiency
Death. Finality.

II. The Shape of an Argument

He relished an argument, for better or worse. He loved the reality of a quarrel. It could be infuriating, and wearying for sure, to become embroiled in one of his affairs. More often however, it was fun. You'd notice the twinkle in his eye as he launched into things, you got to learn the shape of an argument. Oh the quarrels, Uncle Mike. We still shake our heads.

His method wasn't didactic and it certainly wasn't socratic. He got down in the trenches, he would fight dirty when he argued. He'd bring in humour and all the considerable charm, or alternately, the gravitas, that he could muster even while marshalling the most esoteric theories. It was an equal opportunity free-for-all with him. The youngest of children, and adults alike, were targets and compères in these arguments, and that was the liberating aspect. We'd argue about everything, in broad outline, and in minute details. And with panache. Our poet, Kwesi Brew, might well have had Uncle Mike in mind with his line about whether to "engage the scarlet fury of battle". My Avu knew all about Ghana's Philosopy of Survival.

He made you articulate, clarify, and revisit your point. And when he realized that he was on the losing side of an argument, which was all too often, he'd switch, and pretend he'd been playing devil's advocate all along. Of course, this tic was a ruse, he was merely biding his time while thinking of a better riposte. As you finally let your guard down, he would pounce. Cue the twinkle in the eye, the arched eyebrows, the raised voice, and those phrases: "Obviously... You know as well as I do... That's a foolish argument... Foolish...". Yes, foolish.

We'd move from room to room during all this, or sit outside in the garden under the frangipani tree or next to the indestructible yellow Fiat. The obligatory beer would be in hand, the belly laughs would erupt as daily absurdities were explored - and Ghana in the 1970s was a petri dish of all manner of absurdities. He had strong opinions for sure, but, crucially, he wanted to hear yours - if only to dismiss them heartily. This was where the love of strange bedfellows and the journalistic impulse was cultivated. This was where I learned about toli, about 'filler', about seeking the story behind the story. He would indulge our exploration of the issues, in sports, politics, economics, and all manner of small things and kindred subjects. It was infectious, and I was happy to be infected by this searching compulsion.

And yes, he was a Larteh man, through and through. Uncle Mike was a man of big appetites; fufu and abenkwan and riotous conversation were his primary vices. Being an uncle in Akan society confers more obligations even than being a father, and he took these things seriously. Any number of children all over Accra and Larteh were his charges, to be supported and nurtured - sometimes (and we complained bitterly at those times) to the detriment of his own brood - the complaints were brushed aside dismissively ("Foolish"). A generous spirit, he made sure, after the intense daily conversations had run their course, to sponsor all the neighbourhood children to walk down to Auntie Becky's at Labone junction for kelewele and peanuts. His was an open house in every way.

The hedge that separated our houses on Soula Loop might as well have been blades of grass.

III. A Heavy Coat

Uncle Mike was the last person I saw at the airport the night we fled Ghana, mere weeks after the coup in 1982. His was the last friendly face to sear my memory of Ghana for the next decade. Earlier that night, he had handed me the winter coat, a man's coat, that I would wear over my school uniform. He succinctly explained things to me - Mum and I were leaving, he had to count on me, that Mum depended on me. And before I set out in advance to the airport with Uncle Emma, he indulged my last meal: Cerelac - a detail he never let me live down even decades later. Later that night, he drove Mum in that seasoned Fiat through all those checkpoints on the normally short journey from Labone to Kotoka, leaving at the very last minute, and carrying very little. The cover story, after all, was that we were simply attending that three day conference in Holland as previously arranged. He shepherded her through the airport, brazening the revolutionary inquisitions with all his hearty charisma. His sharp look silenced me when I saw the two of them haggling at the desk just outside the duty free shop, and I resisted the urge to run up to her. He was my comfort suite in that still moment, then and as ever.

The heavy coat would come in handy in Amsterdam when we arrived the next morning, and in the years to come (I wore it long into my teenage years). My 9 year old self was swamped by it in the cold of Schiphol airport for those long hours when we paced the walkways of the airport, waiting for the next development. Who did we know in this town? No one was expecting us despite our bravado. Would we be wards of the UN or Amnesty International? Should we request asylum? Would we be sent back? We had packed light, and had left with nothing (in any case, any foreign exchange would have been seized on our way out - revolutionary saboteurs you see). Our new lives beckoned full of uncertainty. The heavy coat was my blanket of soul.

In later times, I would learn how dicey things had been and the full peril of those days and of that night, that it could all have unraveled if any one thing had happened differently. The few photos I have of my childhood are those Gee and Uncle Mike managed to salvage from our house before the soldiers arrived and did their thing. Uncle Mike would recall how, years after our departure, he had met that selfsame lady who had tried to prevent us from leaving Ghana that night at that desk, in exile herself in cold London. "Revolutions have a tendancy to eat their own" was his comment to her. Indeed. A typically astute Uncle Mike bon mot.

My last memories of Ghana: first the handshake, and whispered encouragment delivered with a reassuring smile, a bear hug and the strength of his embrace. I had the coat on, even in the harmattan heat, as I walked onto the plane.

The dictionary definition of avuncular ("suggestive of an uncle, especially in kindliness or geniality") seemed written for my Uncle Mike. Avunculus was the nickname. Avu for short.

IV. A Stinging Pen

Uncle Mike liked his satire savage. In print, his biting words left a lasting sting. Friends were not exempt. Cameron Duodu would forever recall that column and that metaphor. Unearned for sure, especially as you read the details of the charge, but memorable nevertheless. The same could be said of countless others targeted by Yeli-Yeli's columns.

He was a journalist by training and inclination, one of the first graduates of the school of journalism at Legon. His avocation was to the crafting of bracing words, and he obliged at the Daily Graphic and elsewhere throughout his career. But he would branch out later from journalism into communication and public relations. He understood the power of words and was fearless in noting their implications. Hypocrites were always unmanned by Uncle Mike's forensic examinations.

There is a thin line between the fractious and the satirical. Both outlooks stem from a fundamental unhappiness with the state of the world. And it is a hard path to navigate, If Uncle Mike could always call on his innate joie de vivre as his font of optimism, he remained unhappy about the state of Ghana, of Africa and of his people. No matter the situation, like my mother, he was a firm believer in the necessity of permanent outrage.

I have a theory about the many Africans who have had to deal with being political prisoners over the years. Not everyone will come out the way Nelson Mandela did, serene and resolute. Many are broken for sure, the humbling of confinement exacts a heavy toll on one's faith and fortitude. The majority are equanimous I suppose. But many also come out having inherited a wilful streak from their captors. They never look back, and their convictions, or indeed their decisions, will not be challenged come what may (think Mugabe, think Nkrumah in the Ghanaian context). Uncle Mike landed towards the latter end of the spectrum after his experience. And it's worth explaining...

Death and Pain: Rawlings's Ghana was the name of the book he ultimately published, his memoirs of those years. You could quibble with some of the details, hell Uncle Mike would encourage your arguments, and he wrote it in a typically discursive, sometimes gossipy, and always polemic manner. But, well, like with everything he wrote, the kernel of truth is there, the facts will not be denied. And, like the book's title, the facts and the words sting, and linger in the mind.

There was that mild column that he wrote. It did contain a milquetoast critique of the Flight Lieutenant and his regime. Trigger happy men, they did regularly summon journalists to The Castle for not being complaisant. Uncle Mike's body did bear blunt witness to their pettiness. The soldiers did come for him at the house. Multiple times. They did come with heavy boots and knocked down doors searching for him. He was savagely beaten at Gondar Barracks. The soldiers did bundle him up to Nsawam prison. He did spend almost a year in detention without charge. He did witness all manner of pathologies of those strong men in military garb.

He would recount his reception with the grim faced souls he met at the camps. "Talk true!", they would shout before welcoming him with dirty slaps and worse. The mock, and the real, executions did leave their scars. My cousins and aunt were indeed terrorized, nay traumatized, for all those years. Uncle Mike did have to flee into exile after his release, first to Nigeria and then, at length, to the United Kingdom for fear that the worst threats to his person would be realized. The occupants of The Castle did order and sanction wanton brutality, and let's be frank, murder was their close companion in their so-called revolution. And they did write amnesty provisions into our constitution to immunize themselves after all.

There is truth, and there is reconciliation for sure, but I have no patience with those who acquiesce with their now decades-long rehabilitiation campaign. Forgive my visceral reaction, it's the blood you see, I have no immunity.

They, the names are familiar to Ghanaians, the Rawlingses, the Tsikatas, the Botchweys, had all been in our North Labone houses, drinking the same Star and Club beer, and arguing with everyone else under that same frangipani tree. No one was happy with the state of Ghana in the 1970s. They had babysat us children, and we had babysat their own children, our playmates in those lazy streets. The Flight Lieutenant liked to take the more intrepid of us horse riding. If Uncle Jerry (or was it Uncle Kojo?) was displeased at something Uncle Mike had written, and had decided to teach him a brutal lesson for those unkind words, why did no one intervene? For that year, when Gee would make the rounds, braving curfews, to The Castle and the now-fortified houses that our former friends, uncles (and aunts) lived in, to plead for news of the whereabouts of her husband, for the return of their erstwhile friend, why did they not intervene?

It doesn't bear answering. The best that can be said is that, perhaps they thought they did their part and they prevented his death. The worst, a combination of cowardice at unchecked wrath, and casual cruelty, is that they approved. The blood had simply gone to their heads. They had conquered a country, after all, and they liked sitting on the throne. All was permitted and all was done, to their eternal discredit. The question is unanswered.

I turn again to the poet

The nature of the human heart wreaks its mischief
Upon close neighbours each smoldering with his own craving.
From unfulfilled desires burst forth consuming anger

Uncle Mike left you in no doubt where he stood, and who he was rooting for. He survived all this revolutionary justice and more. And it is in this spirit, and in his stead, that I offer the next movement.

V. The Wages of Thermidor

I did not have to wait
For the distance of history in order to pronounce judgement.

For theirs is a legacy of bloodstains and unnecessary suffering.
And it was scarred on our stunted bodies in real time.
The jagged marks of their chains endure.

Venality without compromise,
Wrath without provocation,
And vitriol as compensatory cover.

Neither do they deserve the nuance they denied others
In their unseemly haste to spill blood on the earth.

We noted at the time their pecuniary motives
Those strutting peacocks in khaki uniforms
Extorting bribes as they went, in exchange for curfew passes
Score settling amidst an orgy of common thievery

The rhetoric of grievance
Couched in class resentment
But masked as the moral midgetry of thin-skinned men.

I had a dream
Of tyrants destroyed
With all available indignities.
And when the voiceless sphinx awoke
It was to an unvarnished vision
And an unbidden gift:
The welcome irrelevance
Of that baleful cohort
Their evanescent stature
A fugitive reality
And all this happened
Almost imperceptibly
Their dreadnought weight lifted
For such are the wages of Thermidor

VI. Avunculus, a playlist

A musical interlude, a break for beer or something...

• 8 Million Stories by A Tribe Called Quest
• 992 Arguments by The O'Jays
• You See the Trouble With Me by Barry White
• Fear not for Man by Fela Kuti
• Trouble Man by Marvin Gaye
• The Star of a Story by Heatwave
• Unanswered Question by Amel Larrieux
• Arguin' on the Funk by Digital Underground
• Double Trouble by The Roots
• Tell me a Tale by Michael Kiwanuka
• Trouble by Jose James
• Even After All by Finley Quaye
• Trouble by Amel Larrieux

Quoth the soul singer

Some people got that (je ne sais quoi)
I don't know, where you just have to look back (two times, two times)
A walking invitation into the fire
Or higher ground
A mystical combination (it's like, it's like)

VII. Double Trouble

I suspect I shouldn't go there, and I hesitate in writing this next section, but, well, my Avu was a complicated man. Further, I was the one that got the call that unraveled the deception, so here goes...

I was home alone from school (or was it university?) one day in the 90s when I received a phone call from the UNHCR. The woman was calling from Heathrow airport and wanted to find Uncle Mike because his two children had arrived. She wanted to confirm the details. Our house had been Uncle Mike's first port of call when he made it to exile in London but he hadn't been staying with us for quite a while. A small flat in Brent Cross will never compare to what we had left in North Labone.

I couldn't imagine my cousins leaving without Gee, my aunt. Further, I had three cousins in Ghana not two. How could Nii Okyne have been left behind? Or had my Tatu stayed with Gee in Ghana? And then there were the names she provided. Had they had to use aliases to get out of Ghana? And the ages didn't match up. I was completely bemused, befuddled, perplexed. I had spent my entire childhood with my cousins. I knew and was raised by my uncle - in loco parentis was his catchphrase with me. What was going on? Who were these people at the airport? Was it a case of identity theft perhaps? Our compatriots were getting creative in their quest for exile in this era of the Scramble for Babylon. Or was the Refugee Commissioner looking for another Uncle Mike? I was conjuring up scenarios as we spoke.

At length, it dawned on me that it was indeed the same Uncle Mike, but that there was another family. I mumbled my own cover story to salvage the conversation with my interlocuter, professing confusion and a bad memory, "I haven't seen them in years... I think you have it right... ". I was shaken when I put the phone down. I had to steel myself to narrate the call when Mum returned after a long day at Bush House worrying about the vicissitudes of Mother Africa for the Beeb.

So. Another family...

The recrimations were immediate, and the battle lines were drawn. The hurt was a simple fact; the betrayal was complete. The hurt, like our newly discovered brethren, could not be denied. All those discussions of loyalty, of equity, of betrayal, of justice, of love, of innocence, and of our core identities were brought into play and revisited anew, and with new eyes.

If our exile in London was a dim, grey struggle, we Lonely Londoners had it easier by far. We were the success stories of Ghana must go. The deprivations that our family who had stayed back home in Ghana were facing were unsurmountable. It was frankly brutal on Gee and my cousins, I had seen as much in my two brief visits. I remember being embarrassed by the relish with which the few tins of corned beef and sardines I had shoved in my hand luggage had been received. Not to mention the avidity with which the dusty books and old magazines I had casually discarded were taken up. Ever since I've always made sure to pack a suitcase of reading material when I go home - the need is still there. There was no way to sugar coat it. Ghana in our lost decades was was all about privation and suffering and Uncle Mike had written the book about it. How come, then, that they weren't the ones being brought out of darkest Africa?

We never talked about this trouble, Uncle Mike and I. But I don't think that there was ever shame. It was just one of those things in the affairs of men and women, a fugitive glimpse at the naked world. We, all of us, simply reassessed the complexity of said world. I was surprised at how quickly we all made our accomodation to the new reality. Family is family, and we embraced our new siblings and mother. For his part, Uncle Mike's door remained open throughout. If there was hurt, the soothing balm was time. If there was now distance and reticence, it was all to be acknowledged, and he was straightforward about it, and accepted his responsibility. But the conversation would continue apace. It would never stop, it could never have stopped. After all, who could ever resist arguing with him?

So. A greater family...

The lessons imparted by Uncle Mike's troubles went something like this, a balance sheet of the affairs of man:

Structural Adjustments

An early lesson learned in matters of accounting
Is of a balance sheet in the affairs of man
Revolutionary justice tips the scale, leaves borrowers overextended
The heart is prone to default on all those payments due
And so be wary of blank checks made out to an exiled soul

Broken hearts heal in the embrace of experience
Resist nostalgia and all its seductive comfort
But hold on to the clarity of your convictions
To finance the trade deficit of unanswered questions
For indeed wist is the favourite currency of love.

Above all, in all things, remember this:
Flesh and blood are not inconveniences
To think otherwise is to surely forfeit one's spirit
We can afford the taxes due on dividends in kind
For love is the defined benefit of soul insurance.

VII. Exuent

He plunged right back into politics when he returned after the inauguration in 2001. Ghana's real return to democracy after the questionable elections of the 90s (the first dubbed the Stolen Verdict, and the second "Free and fair, free from fear"). Mr Kufuor knew him as a powerful communicator, and wanted him to help style the message, just as he had for Victor Owusu. It should come as no surprise that in his writing and returnee life, the polemics and jeremiads continued apace. He was nothing if not consistent in that respect. Still, the past twenty years have been of redemption, of catching up and making up for those lost decades. He embedded himself firmly in the mountains of Larteh. It has all been about family, and it has been good.

Uncle Mike suffered a stroke last August in London. My cousin Ansaa left everything behind in Ghana to come to Babylon to take care of him. She lived out of a suitcase in his hospital room ever since, only occasionally retreating to the flat in Barnett. We heard all about the intrigue at the hospital - some thought she was his mistress, not his daughter! She organized the entire ward, the nurses and doctor alike, around Uncle Mike. Like her father, everyone knew when Ansaa was around. Everyone was drawn into her Ananse web and would summon the kotokious laughter and love that she inevitably elicited. Like father, like daughter.

I spoke to him a few times since then on WhatsApp in those hospital rooms. On Christmas day, it was particularly hard to see him so physically diminished, but he was recovering, and the twinkle in the eye and the warm smile was as strong as ever. As he got better, he got back to giving us "filler" and running commentary, holding court on nothing and everything. He had long experience of rogues like Trump and Boris Johnson and much prime material to contemplate: Brexit, impeachment, the rigged world. By New Year's Eve, the hunt was on for a place at a rehabilitiation center. Sadly the dysfunction that a decade of austerity had wrought with the NHS would raise its spectre. At length a bed was found - they needed to free beds, worried as they were about being swamped by the imminent onset of the coronavirus pandemic, and he was indeed transferred. The sanctuary this dutiful taxpayer of Her Majesty had every right to expect turned out to be a bed of novel coronavirus and he succumbed within days to COVID-19.

If Ansaa makes it through the weeks of her covidious quarantine, Uncle Mike's ashes are destined for the hills of Larteh. Along with pieces of my heart.

IX. Blues and Roots

"The man who watches and waits, the man who attacks because he's afraid, and the man who wants to trust and love but retreats each time he finds himself betrayed."

— from Beneath the Underdog, a memoir as quoted in An Argument With Instruments: On Charles Mingus

Uncle Mike was just my uncle. But he was also an artist, an artisan of prose. The adjectives to describe him, soft yet prickly, argumentative yet imbued with delicacy and craft, resonate with those about that big bear Charles Mingus. The musical analog of this beautiful, fractured and fractious soul is to be found in the combativeness and virtuosity of the first four songs of Mingus' Blues and Roots album. The titles tell the tale by themselves, and the music remains immortal:

• Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting
• Cryin' Blues
• Moanin'
• Tensions

Listen well, they tell a story.

Further reading

• A Man in Full by Tom Wolfe
• My love hate with Yeli-Yeli
• Mike Adjei, Taken by Covid-19

X. Grief, a playlist

• King Of Sorrow by Sade
• Numb by Portishead
• How My Heart Sings by Bill Evans Trio
• Resolution by John Coltrane
• Weary by Amel Larrieux

In memory of Uncle Mike, in loco parentis.

I nominate this note for The Things Fall Apart Series under the banner of Social Living.

File under: memory, family, appreciation, loss, Ghana, culture, observation, perception, politics, life, death, coronavirus, poetry, coup, exile, immigration, Africa, obituary, Social Living,Things Fall Apart, toli

A Golden Encounter

I had a golden encounter this covidious afternoon. To wit, I was out in the front yard mowing the lawn with my hand reel mower - I roll that way. I was wearing the face mask The Wife had sewn for me out of my old Hanes undershirts. Mowing was going fine...

Sidenote: I was wearing my Presentation Pete t-shirt from my old Lotus Freelance days that I had found in the box in the garage that we were going to donate to Goodwill, but that, in our covidious era, I decided actually sparked joy. I wore the shirt proudly...

I. Presentation Pete (An Entertainment)

The Secret Life of Presentation Pete is quite the twisted tale; evocative, it put me in a good mood.

II. A Golden Encounter

Back to my golden encounter, where was I? Oh yes, there I was minding my business mowing my front lawn with my hand reel mower. I was wearing the face mask The Wife had sewn for me out of my old Hanes undershirts. Mowing was going fine...

The searing Austin sun meant that I was getting a good sweat going. I was a little worried that one of the bolts had come off the hand mower and so was treading gingerly with it. I didn't fancy making a trip to Home Depot - self isolation and all that, you know.

A white SUV passed on the other side of the street and made a hasty U-turn. Working as I now do at a car company, I was quite proud of myself for identifying the model, one of ours, a 2018 Chevy Tahoe LT. This guy essentially got me last year's bonus.

The car pulled up just by my mailbox and stopped. The driver rolled down his window. He beckoned to me. Intrigued but, well, observing social distancing I stopped mowing, took my gloves off, and took a step towards him. He beckoned to me almost impatiently again.

I noted that he wasn't wearing a mask. I took a step back, out of covidious practice. He was holding something in his hand.

"Yes... What is it?".

The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I shouldn't be talking to Johnny Random Driver Who Does a U turn When He Sees Your Black Ass Mowing the Lawn.

Whatever he was holding was shiny. I felt relief that it wasn't a gun. I haven't traveled all this way in life to die on my front lawn - and I knew The Wife would complain that I hadn't finished mowing (keeping up with the Joneses)

"Come. Come.", he was insistent, gruff even.

He was a middle eastern man, I could tell from the way he looked and the impatient accent. I know the type.

"What is it? How can I help you?"

"It's gold."

"Gold?"

"Yes gold. I need money."

Phew. I took a closer look, and, yes, it did indeed look to be a gold coin that he was dangling towards me. Still, I shook my head.

"No thanks, sir."

He looked irritated, but I made to turn back to the house.

I had tagged him as Lebanese or Syrian, a heavy set man, mid-40s. He made that pshew sound with his cheeks.

Definitely Lebanese, I thought.

I turned towards him, remembering for some strange reason that it was Ramadan. 3 pm is getting to be hunger time. I remember trying to shop at the Halal butchers around that time in our Before Coronavirus life. Impatience reigns in those hours. I greeted him, "Assalamu Alaikum".

He paused in consternation, as if to reassess his interlocutor. He ventured almost reluctantly a soft response, "Alaykumu s-salām".

I gave him the customary toli head nod. He drove off and made a dangerous u-turn on the street (our street is still surprisingly full of cars despite the shelter-in-place mantras). I wished him well on his future golden transactions.

"I need money" indeed.

I returned to my lawn mowing - it's great exercise. The Wife thinks all this covidious yard work is doing wonders for my body (hint hint).

Hey, what do you know, the kids didn't hang handkerchiefs over the Nest cam as they normally do (they don't believe in our tech surveillance capitalism present) so it captured some footage

I suspect that if he came back 6 months hence, I would trade him the yams I planted in the backyard for some of his gold.

I knew what was going on. The first of the month is less than a week away. Mortgage, rent and car payments are due. People are trying to liquidate gold on the streets of Austin. Ah this covidious life. After this golden encounter, I think I'll stick to my backyard.

A golden encounter playlist

• Gold by Prince
• Fool's Gold by Jill Scott
• Gold Digger by Kanye West
• First of the month by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony
• Golden Time of Day by Maze
• Golden Brown by Omar
• Golden Sky by Rhian Benson
• Golden Years by Loose Ends
• Silence is golden by M.anifest
• Gold by Spandau Ballet

Adapted from some pandemic toli

See also: The Mosquito Principle

6 weeks later, the bolts disappeared, it was back to basics for me. See Nuts and Bolts

File under: life, culture, coronavirus, depression, absurd, observation, perception, economics, pandemic, humour, power, public health, life, USA, hustle, Observers are worried, toli

The Secret Life of Presentation Pete

I had a golden encounter this covidious afternoon. To wit, I was out in the front yard mowing the lawn with my hand reel mower - I roll that way. I was wearing the face mask The Wife had sewn for me out of my old Hanes undershirts. Mowing was going fine...

Sidenote: I was wearing my Presentation Pete t-shirt from my old Lotus Freelance days that I had found in the box in the garage that we were going to donate to Goodwill, but that, in our covidious era, I decided actually sparked joy. I wore the shirt proudly.

Here's Presentation Pete in his glory

Here's the t-shirt. Some of my old Lotus folks will remember. This was the kickoff to the Coltrane Release where Lotus went all out to embrace the "World Wide Web". We would implement "Publish to Web" well before Powerpoint got around to it.

Digression upon a digression: I have a draft of a short story somewhere titled The Secret Life of Presentation Pete. The idea has been percolating for nigh 13 years now - a high concept joint about the inner life of stock photograph characters or something.

Arrgh, it deserved neglect, let's tweet instead.

I wasn't there at his conception - I believe Joanne Meirovitz might have been the mother, however, Presentation Pete had a very inauspicious debut. The scandalous toli would be chronicled by Cringely in an aside in InfoWorld (June 1 1992). Our Bob titled it "Lotus Unenlightened". Call it a youthful indiscretion.

As the story goes,

"Lotus CEO Jim Manzi et al will soon make a public apology for racist images printed on a Freelance demo disk called The Adventures of Presentation Pete. The animated demo was built on an African Safari theme complete with images of white hunters and black tribesmen."

Something along these lines perhaps?

Here's the detail that gets me:

"An African American employee in the Freelance group was offended by the racist image but waited to complain until the disks were already shipping. Lotus will eat 750,000 leftover copies"

I believe I know who that African American employee was, although I can't remember the name - even as he gave me much shrewd career advice - there weren't many of us darker than blue at Lotus back then (or even now in software). I loved that he waited before pouncing. I still admire the nerve.

I can only imagine the contents of the safari themed disk of The Adventures of Presentation Pete that had to be pulped. I would pay good money for a bootleg of that disk. Surely one of those 750,000 leftover copies still exists? I demand especially to see those African tribesmen.

Scratch that. Here's my artist's rendition of the African safari themed disk of The Adventures of Presentation Pete that had to be pulped. A quarter century later, I still have a copy of Freelance on my laptop.

Digression: was it a floppy disk or a cd-rom? Freelance's PRZ file format was quite famous for being more efficient than Powerpoint's PPT format and could fit on floppies.

I now understand why there was so much trepidation 6 years later when I brought up the issues I observed when integrating clip art in the Coltrane release. Lotus had been primed for Cultural Sensitivity in Technology

I first met Presentation Pete in his prime when I joined Lotus in 1995. As noted, he had already led a storied life by that young age. He was a natty dresser

Presentation Pete was passionate about office life. The title in the Freelance clip art chooser read "Hardworking Pete"

Still, office life could sometimes be overwhelming for Presentation Pete. Cue the clip art title "Scared Pete":

Presentation Pete was a renaissance man.

In his Christmas and Santa personas, Presentation Pete was full of zest. He was a fair referee also

In short, Presentation Pete was a man for all seasons

Pete's co-workers loved him. I think one of them, his office wife perhaps, was modeled on Ruth Seltzer who hired me at Lotus. Or perhaps it was her sister. Whatcha think @iustinianus ?

Presentation Pete was all about collaboration and groupware, what we now call social software.

Pete was a pioneer of remote screen show. You say Zoom, I say Presentation Pete

I learned heady lessons about work-life balance under Presentation Pete's tutelage

The four years we spent together collaborating were the best years of my professional life.

Pete's job was offshored to India once IBM ceded the office suite market to Microsoft circa 1999. Lotus would stagger on as a brand for another decade but the thrill was gone. The remnants of a still-profitable Lotus were finally sold off by IBM in December 2018.

I helped train Presentation Pete's replacements in India before switching to work on software for the ill-fated Network Computer. Lotus eSuite, remember that? For you young ones, a precursor to Google Suite.

Surfer Pete was one cool cat. Presentation Pete had more than 9 lives.

Presentation Pete was a man in full, his legend proved to be iconic in software history. Presentation Pete Lives.

Adapted from some covidious toli

Next in Part II: A Golden Encounter

Previously: The Mosquito Principle

File under: history, software, folklore, humour, biography, satire, life, work, race, sensitivity, technology, Lotus, IBM, culture, decline, Observers are worried, toli