The Charlotte News

Tuesday, June 7, 1938

SIX EDITORIALS

Site Ed. Note: "Bic?"

"Yeah?"

"Now that you are done with all those stoogy things over on the shelves, what do you intend to do with your life?"

"I don't know, Charlie. Had to get away from that party though."

"I understand, Bic. Boring. Same old stuff. They frighten me, too, when they start in with the anchovies, or, even worse, the caviar. Don't they have any respect for life, those beasts? Those are my cousins' futures they are slurping down their gullets so blithely with all that laughter and booze. It's disgusting. It's genocide, pure genocide, Bic."

"You know, Charlie, I was maybe thinking about having a friendly relationship both with Ms. Loose and her daughter, Elaine. What do you think?"

"Oh, that sounds pretty good, Bic. Very romantic, too. Yeah, I myself, why I do that all the time. In fact, there goes a red-striped guppie right now. What a bass. Makes my gills thump up and down. I'll be seein' ye, Bic. Better do some swimming to keep in shape. Word of advice though, Bic: don't let Mr. Loose find out. They say he's the Mayor of Sharktown, and, well, I know all about that place. It's murder. Those big teeth and all that. He'll follow you around, too, until you're what they call Bezerkleyed."

"Yeah, okay. I'll bear that in mind, Mr. C."

"Right, you know, there is only one cure for it, Bic, those hook-fish, I mean: hold up the cross, lock 'em in their heathen ship with it."

"I'll keep that in mind, too, C."

"By the way, Bic, that's a great little beast you got as a graduation gift. It makes you both the alpha-male and the leading man in the Shakepearean love-tragedy. What humor and pathos that should make, when combined, I mean."

"When did you see that, Charlie?"

"Oh, your dad let me swim around some in the warm water in the front of that big red beast last weekend while he cleaned my room here. He made me an offer I couldn't refuse, all that green water. Reminded me of the old days when I used to be a salt at sea, myself. Best green water I've been in for years. In the old days, my ancestors didn't last so long in it though. You know, it's either bait for some guy after a meal or one big cat coming along, and that was that. Life spans of three, maybe four days, just don't cut it. Chomp. Skis are good, though. Lots of ice and snow to counteract all the turbulence off the warm green water. I don't work so well in that though, the ice I mean. Glad we got on the domestic dole with you; you're a lot nicer to me and my family than those out on the big bright green. Like the stones here, too. Satisfying, very satisfying. I would ask for a smoke, but the doc says that's bad for my health. But I must admit, regardless, that I've been feeling a little woozy since then, the swim in the green park in front of the red beast, I mean. Not myself since. Feeling impressed, maybe a little stoned even. In fact, I may take a nap instead of going after that red-striper tonight. She's hiding behind the castle gates now anyway, over by the stone wall.

"But before I retire, while I'm at it, Bic, I thought of one word I should say to you: Terrible. There's a great future in Terrible. Remember that, Bic. That way you never expect more than you will get. Will you remember that?"

"I'll think about it, Charlie. I will. I know this dancer, worked in fifteen clubs a day, said she thought I knew the answer. I knew, but I could not say. So, maybe I'll go to work for the police department or find myself some steady job. Seems like I've heard all of that though somewhere before, Charlie. Maybe, we've all been here before. But what I really want to be, Charlie, is a contender, you know, maybe get a job as a boxer on the docks, down by 42nd Street or somewhere. But then that's been done, too. Maybe I'll move to Florida, count some ballots. I hear they have lots of steady work for that. I don't know. I have to mull it over some.

"You know, I'm not feeling so well myself right now, Charlie. Maybe I'll read a book, maybe even write one or two, and then get some rest, myself. Goodnight, Charlie."

"Goodnight, Bic."

Iowa Dissents

Well, the New Deal has its answer in Iowa. The President, indeed, will almost certainly deny that the defeat of Representative Wearin is significant of anything but--the defeat of Representative Wearin. And in one sense he will probably be right. That is to say, the naming of Senator Gillette falls a good deal short of repudiation of basic New Deal principles. For the Senator himself, a liberal before ever the New Deal was heard of, has generally sided with those principles. The things at which he gagged were NRA, the infamous Supreme Court Bill, and the AAA bill as originally drawn. He was so utterly loyal to New Deal principles, in fact, that he refused to be a party to the snide "getting" of the President in the case of the reorganization bill, and voted for that measure--one of the best the New Deal has proposed.

Nevertheless, the New Deal has its answer. It has been told as plainly as it could be told that the American people, while probably being, as a whole, in favor of the principles which Roosevelt & Co. extol, believes in fair play and the right to choose its own Senators without direction from Washington.

Commencement Consolation

Considerably upset by the gloomy state of affairs in the world, this Spring's commencement speakers have abandoned the standard old formula, "When I look into your shining young faces this morning (afternoon or evening), I know that you will snatch up the Torch of Progress and carry it all to greater heights. The Key to Success is in your hands. The world is yours."

Far as we can observe, neither the Torch nor the Key has been passed on this year. Nor have the hardships of the forefathers been smugly invoked. It's just as well, for those old commencement addresses were tedious treacle, but we are a little sorry for the orators. In these troubled times, they have no bright new worlds to offer eager graduates. They can't even promise success for hard work, because behind every such thought is an uneasy awareness that if a fellow managed to rake up a little dough, or buy a little mill, or get hold of some dividend-paying stocks, why the Government, the income tax, the NLRB or something would take it away from him. It is pretty embarrassing, having to make commencement addresses this year. So the beleaguered speakers have talked about Europe and how terrible it is over there. They said it was all because of self-willed little men, lack of self-discipline, and greed.

We don't know about the graduates, but about all we have got out of it is, that things could be worse, boys and girls; things could be worse.

Site Ed. Note: This piece cannot help but bring to mind, for reasons which we could not possibly fathom, the notion that some folks are situated perhaps better to be pressmen, while others are far better suited to go to Washington and represent their respective states as statesmen and public servants. Those with extremely taut, resistless opinions, for instance, not really quite in step with the overall populace of the nation, at large, perhaps, for the benefit of their states, might think better to stay at home and learn a little more while being pressmen, and let others with a bit broader point of view, already acquired, represent the constituents of their state. It is less, far less, devisive that way, even if they don't usually build ideologically disposed libraries to pressmen; yet, they don't usually to those rising no higher than Senators either for that matter--usually, that is. (Although, in Huey Long's case... Wonder if there are any more like that.) We have libraries already, anyway, in the state. Louis Round Wilson, for instance. Lots of things to read there, even musty old pro-slavery pamphlets, among others, for those so inclined. And others outside the state see us better inside the state that way, also--when we are a little more broad-minded and not quite so taut on the hook. Overly taut bow-lines sometimes sink ships, Terribly so, too, sometimes. Just a thought for the future. Why we happened to think of that, we couldn't say.

What's that? You, too, huh? Huh.

Hectic Interlude

Mr. Roland F. Beasley in all probability went to bed late Saturday night muttering "never again!" Mr. Beasley is co-publisher of The Monroe Journal, a semi-weekly of real literary distinction, and he has doubled in North Carolina government from time to time. But he never had run for national office, and when Walter Lambeth announced that he was retiring from Congress, Mr. Beasley heard the call. And now our story's begun.

Mr. Beasley was not alone. From almost every county in this eighth Congressional district a favorite son sprang up. From Richmond, from Davidson, from Moore and from Scotland, as well as from Union, came candidates, and in the primary each represented county rose up almost as one-man and cast a thumping vote for its local interest. Union too did its full duty by Mr. Beasley, but when the votes over the whole district were counted up, he was a poor third. And now our story is done.

Done almost, that is. For after all, when you come down to it, what is a Congressman except one of 531 glorified politicians? Readable, temperate, constructive editorial pages are much rarer and residence among the amiable folk and in the familiar surroundings of Monroe, while it isn't Washington, is not without its compensations.

As Others See Us

Our slums, according to an interview in last night's News with a pretty English stenographer here for a visit, are an "eyeful." She was mindful of the obligation of politeness on a visitor, but, being pressed, she had to admit that--

"England may not be any more humane than America, but the frame buildings [shotgun houses] which I saw yesterday would not be allowed as human residences."

England, of course, is a land of hedgerows, low stone walls and picturesque dwellings all of them centuries old--in the American mind, at least. We wouldn't expect England to be afflicted with any such mushroom growths as our slums built to accommodate the shiftless Negro population; and therefore the comparison is not so odious as it might have been if uttered by a Japanese, say.

But hold! An American social service worker eighteen years in Japan returned to her native North Carolina some time ago and was actually depressed by the squalor of its dwellings. Furthermore, she had spent some months in Berlin, and was defied to find a slum: thought Denmark's housing system "wonderful," and was amazed at the progress benighted Russia was making in slum-clearance. And she went on to make what we considered at the time a very acute observation, which was that she didn't see how America could have an unemployment problem as long as she had such a housing problem, that one should solve the other.

Site Ed. Note: For the earlier piece on this case, see, "A Brand-New Plea", May 28.

The Old Run-Around

"Not guilty by reason of insanity," was the verdict of a New York City jury ten days ago in the case of Donald Carroll, who had entered into a suicide compact with his young common law wife, who had pressed the pistol to her head and heard it click because there was no bullet in the chamber; who had cooly injected a bullet and let her have it--and then had lost his nerve and spared himself.

"Not suffering from a psychosis," was the verdict yesterday of Bellevue Hospital physicians into whose custody the young Carroll had been delivered from the courtroom. And now he walked into the open air.

Well, it seems to us, who are obtuse about these matters, that if a murderer be not guilty by reason of insanity, and shortly be found not insane, that there is a bold-faced contradiction somewhere in the reasoning processes of justice. But let it go.

The Fish Laugh

Mr. Fred Orsinger, Director of the Bureau of Fisheries aquarium in Washington, thinks that fish get as much fun out of looking at people as people get out of gawking at the fish. And since we think about it, we don't see why not. After all, as Mr. Orsinger observes, if you think the goldfish in the bowl in the parlor is funny, what do you think the goldfish thinks when he looks at the things that sometimes go on out in that room? A cocktail party, for instance? And if it be true that he (Mr. Orsinger) has sometimes seen a catfish "gaze at a red dress as if it were a whole fish meal," why, certainly, that is exactly the way, mutatis mutandis, you can see the young men hanging on Independence Square gazing at them practically everyday. And come to think of it, isn't a red dress kind of funny, anyhow?

Trouble with us is that we are always blithely assuming we are a superior order, without ever bothering to consider that the fish might have a very different idea about it. And you couldn't to save your life prove him wrong. We use his fish-ship as a synonym for dumbness, but how are we so certain about that? And take that arrogant way we are always bragging about the beauty of the human form, when the plain fact is that we regard Cousin Jocko, who is built on exactly the same lines as ourselves, as one of the most comically ugly brutes alive. But a fish... A fish may not be much for physiogonomy [sic], but observe the grace of his body as it flows through the water, and then go try to look at our aesthetic dancers. Could you honestly blame him for practically laughing himself to death?

Site Ed. Note: The rest of the fish for today. Also, as a bonus, since we neglected to get the editorials for the 6th for now, we provide the front page for the 6th. The Boss's men egged Thomas; so, too, and not dissimilarly, 25 years later, Adlai. (Wasn't he Vice-President under Cleveland? We're confused.) Yes it is.

 


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