Germany: Ready to Jab at a Moment's Notice

Germany is out in front in the race to stop Covid-19.  The country expects to start immunizing people against the disease before the year ends.  Though there are several companies in various stages of development (including Phase 3), the German-American research and development alliance is closest to deployment. 

  BioNTech is a German company which has been working with New York headquartered Pfizer.  Final results in the U.S. Phase 3 studies are   available now and BioNTech-Pfizer could soon received emergency authorization for the vaccine’s use in November of this year.

Germans already have set up plans to distribute the vaccines among 60 vaccination centers rather than doctor’s offices.  The centers are already set up. This is a much more efficient way of distributing vaccines.  Aside from efficiency, one of the biggest challenges in Germany, as in other countries, is security.   

Theft is a large concern.  Shipments of the vaccine will be easier to track and monitor as they are transported from the secret German transport hub to the vaccination centers located throughout Germany’s 16 states.  A second concern is to insure that the first vaccines go to the intended priority targets — health care workers, the elderly,  law-enforcement officials and other clinically or institutionally vulnerable people.

  BioNTech and Pfizer are already producing millions of doses to be able to deliver on pre-purchasing contracts. BioNTech says that their vaccine will be ready to jab   hours after they get authorization from the European Medicines Agency (equivalent of F.D.A in the U.S).  

The vaccination centers are equipped with cooling facilities. The BioNTech-Pfizer vaccine can be stored at temperatures of up to 8 degrees Celsius for a week while for longer periods they must be kept at a temperature of -75 degrees. 

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I Voted Early and In-Person in New York

 

I voted for President Trump  early and in-person yesterday in New York so I’m positive my vote won’t end in a ditch, a drainage flume, or get burned up in a mailbox.  But with this being the People’s Republic of New York, neither would my vote count in the win column for Trump regardless.  Democrats own the electoral votes.      I was determined to vote for Trump in person even if I were dead.   

Besides voting in person  , I also voted for most of the down-ballot candidates on the Republican side.  I wasn’t expecting to wait  so long in lines but the fair weather was one factor.  The sun was shining brightly   and the temperatures were very comfortable. The voting lines were more than I expected but  not overwhelming as they are described in the national headlines.  I had to wait only about twenty to thirty minutes before I got to the machines.   

I have a theory about the long lines for early voting.  Since I’m living in Democrat dominated New York state, it’s probably better than a theory.  All those Democrats waiting in line are just as skeptical of the   new uncontrollable mail-in process as I am.  This even while the media seems intent on saying the lack of confidence in the electoral system is   entirely in the domain of  Republicans. 

No, it’s in the domain of common sense.  If a thousand people died suddenly of Covid-19, there would be hysteria and panic at CNN.  If a thousand votes get thrown away, burned, counterfeited, highjacked, counted double, not counted – none of that means much because CNN and its brethren are constantly telling you that such fears are absurd.

At the very least mine is  a protest vote, and maybe there was a silent majority in that unusually quiet voting crowd who will surprise.  It’s a pretty easy vote for me.  I prefer Trump’s plain speaking, argumentative hit and miss style to the unctuous  plagiarized campaign slogan prose of slickster Biden.  

The Hate-Trump crowd  knows damn well Covid-19 infections would be just as bad or even worse had Hilary Clinton won in 2016. And I’m pretty sure that, if Biden had been in the White House when the pandemic hit here, we’d have millions dead and the rest of  us with herd immunity. 

With Biden, we’d have to wait three years for a vaccine even if one developed by Pfizer-BioNtech, Moderna,  AstraZenica, or several other expedited  epidemiological concerns were available   next month. I really can’t countenance the way Democrats are taking the low road on something that benefits the country. It’s scurrilous.  If I could think of a worse word I would use it. Despicable maybe?   Getting all those pharma companies to work without fear of being guillotined by a leftist government is   the type of thing Trump does well.

I’m not a blind Trump follower with ghoulish eyes beaming   out of my skull.  I voted for Jeb Bush in the 2016 primary.  I voted for Trump in the national. When he won, I regarded him as an accidental president. I still do. But never in my wildest imagination did I think he’d do as well as he has for all citizens of America including minorities. Like JFK said, “A rising tide lifts all boats.”       

 Trump’s public remarks occasionally annoyed me   but more often he communicated  some fundamental truths that the entrenched “expert” bureaucrats need to hear, however ineloquent.  Trump is a far better choice than the confused,   doddering, gaffe-ridden shadow-candidate the DNC puppeteers offered up in the hopes that a slavish  media would elevate him to viable status.   

Beyond the rhetoric, I’m very strong on Trump’s accomplishments, including his handling of the coronavirus epidemic. I might say especially for his handling of the epidemic which the Biden crowd  is cynically targeting.   I'm in agreement on just about every other policy position or change that Trump made but I'll save that for another time. 

 

Poetry & Hip-Hop

Sometimes I think writing poetry is taking the easy way out.  I think most people will agree that it is  easier than writing novels or non-fiction.   The poet doesn’t need to put forth a story line.  The meaning of a poem is supposed to come out through images and a creative and often ironic use of words.   Many of the poems I read are translated, perhaps that’s what gives me the feeling sometimes that a poem which has provoked my interest, at some point, will seem to fall off a cliff.

 But yes, poems are fun, fun to write even if the subject is tragic, wherein the poem can be said to be ‘redemptive’ or ‘healing’ or both.  I suppose a reader of poetry might find comfort in a poem but really any healing or redemption would accrue only to the person writing the poem. 

I’ve listened to some really good poetry and some really bad poetry in the genre called ‘hip-hop.’ I can only guess how others feel about it but my same judgement would apply to the kind of poetry people think of when someone says ‘poetry.’ 

There’s a lot of uninteresting published poetry out there in what we   call ‘free verse.’  In my mind, all poetry is on the same level, whether it comes to you from a gifted and creative hood rat or trailer park citizen or from academia.    Many people may disagree, of course, and perhaps they would be right.  I’m a flawed individual, open to improvement.  Perhaps someone   show me where I’m wrong in my estimation. 

 Hip-hop is often poetic, making use of the same conventions as high-brow poetry and sometimes to better effect.  It has a large audience. Huge numbers of people get meaning from it.       Highbrow poetry can mean something too but no one seems to notice when it doesn’t and no one dares criticize it: 

Was, Then Wasn’t

when a star fell

ruining my sky and leaving nothing

except a stray angel

to cancel the razor blades

the thin ice between my skin and the dark

melting away

brain pounding like a runaway train

following broken conversations

written upon the bricks of old walls

my heart about to open again or fall

once again to the rocks below

when suddenly awakened, breaking free

I clawed my way out of there

leaving that damned place forever

that dark hell

that place that was, and then wasn’t

Poetry Express: Why Do Some Poems Take Up More Space Than They Should?

The Paris Review emails me a daily poem.  Some of them I get but many of them I don’t.  It’s not that I don’t like poetry but sometimes it seems that people are trying to hard to be obscure or academic.  

Perhaps I’m too plebian. I listen to hip-hop and can find poetry there in the rhythm, placement,   irony, and inventive use of  common memes.  That’s not to say I could make a steady diet of it or that it’s  all so wonderfully poetic.

 I am put off by poems that make use of the empty white space on the page.   Like if there’s some sensation of flight and the words of the poem are placed so as to configure a bird or a plane.  Or maybe a cat figure forms the pattern for word placement. 

Fact is, I don’t need it.  If the image is expressed  , I can imagine the cat myself.  Maybe a different cat, maybe a better one. 

 So in the latest  poem sent to me, there are images of a scorpion.  I’ve seen scorpions. If you say scorpion, I see them in my mind’s eye. I don’t need to see the words slithering (yes, I know scorpions don’t ‘slither’)  on the page as they do in “ Monsoon by Eduardo C. Corral: 

Monsoon by Eduardo C. Corral Issue no. 228 (Spring 2019) Scores                of scorpions                                  honey-bright scorpions                   twist counter-                                        clockwise around my body                                     saw-toothed pincers shred                   my jeans & shirt                                           when I’m stripped completely                   all but two                                        scorpions stop clattering                   they scramble up                                        my left arm & shoulder                   press tack-                                        sharp legs against the arteries                   in my neck                                        I slowly reach for them                      expect a few                                           bloody sparks but instead                   of scorpions                                        my thumb troubles                   two warm letters                                        initials his initials                the scorpions                                        rattle twist clock-                   wise this time                                        saw-toothed pincers cut                   into my skin                                        I refuse I refuse                   to speak his name                                        the scorpions honey-bright                   come to a halt                                     raise their tails a bead of poison                glints on the tip                                     of each stinger the small bones                   in my tongue                                           break it starts                      to rain

Short Storyland: "Witness" by Jamel Brinkley

Jamel Brinkley

Perusing Twitter I saw someone posted a tweet complaining of disappointment endings to short stories.  I thought it was fair insight as I think of the short stories of Ernest Hemingway and some other writers of the genre.  Well, it's not a genre exactly -- well anyway, I found a modern short story in Paris Review that had a good ending.  The title and writer are shown above.  So what's the story?

In its most basic sense, it's about Bernice, Dove, and the narrator.  The narrator is Bernice's sister -- she lives in a tiny New  York City apartment.  Her brother, the narrator and writer presumably, comes from somewhere small to make it in the big city like his sister.  He has to sleep on the couch; there's only one bedroom of course.   Narrator can't find a job, not until the end, but that's only a side trip.  

The basic theme of the story is that brother and sister get alone just fine until Bernice meets a "dude" named Dove who hustles  a living as a DJ.  Bernice is a bit frivolous, given over to following her impulses.  Dove has a certain kind of mouth move that appeals to her and she marries him.  Yeah, that makes three in a tiny NYC apartment. 

Okay so,  if this short story is any indication, Jamel Brinkley is a talented writer who can get into your head with his internal reckonings.  He and his sister love and understand each other in a kind of intimate Frannie and Zoey way, with lots of inside humor, and crackling wit.  

Narrator looks down on Dove and with some reason. He's a vapid shallow character who doesn't have the depth of understanding that Bernice needs.   You do wonder why she married him.  The only thing I can figure is that she's a bit loose in her associations, and maybe she's become desperate to marry.  She has some kind of illness which comes into play later.   Tiny apartment also  plays a part as the writer/narrator reviles poor Dove every chance he gets.

What makes it particularly sad is the Dove is the kind of guy who sometimes doesn't understand he's being whipped.   Narrator seems to think that perhaps he's not whipping Dove hard enough to make an impression.  Narrator exhibits a persistent and increasing cruelty to Dove right up to the end of the story when Bernice becomes ill and dies. 

It's only at that point that Dove understands how deeply reviled he is, not only by the narrator/writer, but also by the mother of Bernice and her brother.  

The mother appears only intermittently;  there's no mention of a father.   I get the impression of a hard childhood somewhere far uptown.  I'm guessing her irrationality, wild accusations, and need to blame someone for her daughter's death serves to explain narrator/writer's cruel streak but who knows?

There's a slight racial component to the story but it's not preachy or didactic and it's really not about that so much as it is about who the main characters are, what they think, what they feel.  

Okay so back to the tweet about insufficient unsatisfying endings.  This one has Dove not going to Bernice's funeral.  There's a final encounter where narrator/writer "reaches out" to Dove, inviting him back to the apartment to get his crates of vinyl records.  

There's no great battle climax and that's to the good, just the  steady quiet decline of relationships that should have been better from the get-go and gradually got worse. 

First They Come for the Symbols: Fight over Columbus Statue in South Philly's Marconi Park

The Antifa Taliban who are everywhere shouting at the top of their lungs for the defunding of police departments should take a look at South Philadelphia where two groups of demonstrators clashed over a statue of Christopher Columbus who sailed  for Spain and made a pathway to the New World. 

The city of Philadelphia had already taken down a statue of former mayor Frank Rizzo, a staunch and strong-armed law and order man.   Columbus statues were recently toppled or taken down in Camden, NJ and in Wilmington, Delaware.  Now there were protestors demanding that the Christopher Columbus statue in South Philadelphia’s Marconi Park     be taken down.

 Only problem was that surrounding the statue was a determined crowd of  South Philadelphians who   want to keep the statue where it has been for decades. When the anti-Columbus crowd grew increasingly frustrated at not being able to get near enough to topple the statue or vandalize it, they  surged forward and were met with. . . well, shell I say overzealous indignation? 

Yes, well a few of the antifa-BLM demonstrators did get roughed up, none badly, perhaps a bit of South Philly detuning.  The news here is not protest but that there were present at Marconi Park an alleged forty police officers who, following directives from on high,  did not interfere with the rude exchange of opinion. 

   There was one chubby fellow crying that the police “did nothing” and “should have helped us” and so forth.  There was a young female college student who also testified to the lack of action on the part of the police.  But while Columbus’ defenders were as angry  and vocal as the madding crowd, it was a minor dustup. The conflict was about  as   vigorous as a schoolyard fight amongst third graders. 

Still, this nameless naïve person whom shall be referred to as “Chubby Boy” or perhaps “Chubby White Nerd” was absolutely astonished he got the bum’s rush by a Columbus defender.  He should really bring his outrage to the mayors of at least a dozen cities who are calling or taking calls for  the abolishment and/or “defunding” of police departments a la CHAZ – the Seattle looney-bin acreage where cops abandoned their precinct under orders from the Seattle Mayor Jenny Durkan.  The message of the official panderers like Durkan is “don’t escalate” and those were the orders also given by some unnamed official in Philadelphia. But apparently following even those instructions, the after-market quarterbacking resulted in one police leader being fired. 

The hypocrisy is fairly typical of the “defund” crowd.  They don’t support police until they need them. And when someone else does need them they do their best to hinder officers from doing their job. 

Yes, we know there are some bad actors among   police ranks but overall those are statistically insignificant. Most American cops are good-willing, of good characters, and devoted to keeping people like Chubby Boy (mentioned above) safe.   Anyone who doesn't understand this should try their antics and complaints in other countries -- Argentina, Russia maybe? See what happens when you throw bricks or paint on a cop.

Surprising as it may be, there are still people with a deeper understanding of the unusual challenges and hurdles police face today .  

You can read about those people and other news here: https://6abc.cm/2YCK2jy

I, Anna – An Underappreciated Film starring Charlotte Rampling and Gabriel Byrne

What it is. . . a film review

The title of this film should be a clue this is not a fast-paced detective thriller, but more of a character study.   The film hinges entirely on the Anna character, and who better to reflect the emotional nuances than Charlotte Rampling. 

Anna is a gentile woman too young to give up living and too old to easily fit in to the cruel world she’s lost in.  As a lost woman, her life is a mix of fact and fantasy, with loneliness being the predominant theme. Her eyes, her reticence, her elegant figure convey only a small part of her mystery.  You find out slowly, as if by drip torture, that she’s being crushed by traumas of her own making.

We meet her first in one of those meet and mingle affairs held for lonely middle-aged people without partners, a scene that is at once depressing  and pitiful.  In an early sequuence, the cinematographer cuts to snap profiles of battered people looking for human companionship in a dreary human landscape.  A bull-headed man has dandruff on his shoulders.  A skinny would-be prospect is missing more teeth than a two year old.  For another man, it’s all about all-too-eager serial sex with the presumption that Anna is there for the same reason.  Lots of people, no prospects.

I can’t say whether Anna’s social encounters are more or less depressing than today’s computerized speed dating and sex delivery services but  one of Anna’s problems is that she outclasses just about everyone at the ‘party,’ as the group meetings are termed by the hotel hosts.   Leaving the hotel she brushes by Detective Chief Inspector Bernie Reid, another lost and lonely soul who has recently separated from his wife. The detective becomes infatuated, finds in Anna’s remote personality some semblance of his own. 

So far as genre goes, people are calling it ‘film noir,’ but though dark shadows are ever present in the film style, that seems more convenient that describing what it really is.  There is a story arc – a murder in the beginning and the detective ferreting out the killer in the end — but the entanglements are interesting and often excruciating.  I would acknowledge that the ‘noir’ description fits   murder victim George Stone, a peach of a man who violently forces fellatio on Anna and otherwise brutalizes her. 

The story develops in a sufficiently mysterious way that doesn’t flinch at large and small telltale signs of a woman falling apart. The thing about Anna is that the more she falls apart the more the story comes together. It’s all pretty clear at the end, and there’s even a little Faulkneresque scene   (A Rose for Emily) toward the end where we get a peek into the closed off baby’s room.  There are serious cracks in the walls of Anna’s mind.

So my hit on it is that the film is largely unappreciated as the artistic tight piece that it is.  It’s not a film of fuzzy warm characters the Hollywood formula demands you must relate to.  Though it’s not overly highbrow,  I would recommend it to people of an artistic persuasion who are fond of fine acting, and from the minor characters as well.  Anna has a sort of broken elegance about her that makes you worry that, if you would take your eyes off the road for just a split second, you could fall as far and as fast as Anna does.