newyorker--2020-09-28--When Wildfire Came for Santa Cruz

When Wildfire Came for Santa Cruz

Julie Wuest counted the seconds .
“ Four-one-thousand , five-one-thousand , six .
.
.
” Measuring the time between the flashes that illuminated the sky and the low rumble of thunder , she knew , could help calculate the distance between her and the next lightning bolt—the kind of trick learned in childhood , a rare parcel of folk wisdom that withstands the scrutiny of physics .
She was practically still a kid when she first fell in love with the San Lorenzo Valley , in the nineteen-seventies , riding in the empty bed of a friend ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the car corkscrewing down Highway 9 toward Santa Cruz as the redwoods scrolled by .
Four decades later , Wuest , now a software consultant , lived among those towering ancient trees , just off that same highway , where she sat alone in her house around three o ’ clock in the morning , on Sunday , August 16 , 2020 , and listened to the thunder .
“ One-one-thousand , two-one-thousand , three .
.
.
, ” she counted .
Soon there was no time between the flash and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ above her house , the blasts so loud that Wuest could feel them in her bones .
From down on the coast to way up in the mountains , people saw , heard , and then felt it—the most spectacular lightning storm anyone in Santa Cruz County could remember .
Some stared , as if in a trance .
Others raised their phones and recorded the electrostatic cabaret : incessant purple bolts splintering the sky for hours .
Across the valley from Wuest , Megan Lonsdale had woken to what felt like a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Sweetwater Lane , a sound she soon recognized as a powerful gust of wind .
The purple lights strobed outside the window , stirring her young son and teen-age daughter , who joined her to watch the show until nearly dawn .
Thirteen miles away , down on the coast , Paul and Jacklyn Sacco slept in the rented beach house they were sharing with family that weekend—until the thunder clapped them awake .
“ It was very dramatic , ” Paul , a retired high-school counsellor , told me .
“ We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at it—and did not give one single thought about the consequences.
” By the time the sun came up that morning , the sky had cleared .
The air turned hot and muggy , but , aside from sporadic power outages , there was no indication of a life-changing event under way .
Hallie Greene , the director of the Boulder Creek Recreation and Park District , remembers an unusual excitement in the office on Monday morning , as colleagues shared stories about the thunder .
“ Thinking back now , ” she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of us really recognized that those were the last few days of this semi-normal life we were all living.
” More than eleven thousand lightning strikes buffeted central and Northern California over thirty-six hours , leading to one of the biggest wildfire seasons in recorded state history .
Of the twenty largest California wildfires since 1932 , half a dozen started in August or September of 2020 .
Santa Cruz County , the surf and mountain community seventy miles south of San Francisco—home to a mix of new tech money , artists , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one of worst infernos of the summer , the C.Z.U .
Lightning Complex fire .
Named after Cal Fire ’ s three-letter call sign for its San Mateo–Santa Cruz unit , C.Z.U .
wasn ’ t the largest in terms of square miles , but it was among the most destructive in terms of property .
Of the more than seven thousand five hundred structures damaged or destroyed by California wildfires so far this year , C.Z.U .
burned a fifth of them .
Climate change undoubtedly played a role , scientists affirm @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a confluence of factors , including a severe drought that California began experiencing in 2012 and this year ’ s unprecedented heat waves , in August and early September , Lenya Quinn-Davidson , a University of California wildfire expert , said , adding that , together , these factors produced “ a condition in California where our fuels are basically drier than they ’ ve ever been .
.
.
.
Then we get this slightly unprecedented lightning storm ” with thousands of strikes “ within thirty-six hours.
” Jon Keeley , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ expertise includes central California , points to more than a century of forest mismanagement as a factor in nearly all the fires that have made headlines over the past few years .
Before the modern era , “ these landscapes historically had fires at relatively frequent intervals , which burned off a lot of the fuels that normally accumulate every year : the leaves and branches and the understory , ” Keeley told me .
“ Beginning in the early nineteen hundreds , state and federal agencies started a policy of putting out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have vast areas that have missed many natural fire cycles.
” Santa Cruz County , unfortunately , illustrates the point perfectly .
Keeley showed me a map that included the now well-known path of C.Z.U.
, color-coded to depict past fires in the area .
A vast swath was uncolored , indicating no documented conflagrations .
“ I would just estimate , looking at it , maybe ninety per cent of that landscape has never had a fire ” in recorded history , Keeley said .
“ That ’ s a huge amount @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hold in Santa Cruz , just like everywhere else in the country—at least summer as anyone recognized it .
Because of the pandemic , the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk , a storied amusement park in operation since 1907 , shuttered its rides and arcades .
Several parks remained closed .
Large beach gatherings were banned .
So Megan Lonsdale , her husband , Patrick , and their two kids had poured their hopes into a late-summer camping trip near Lake Tahoe .
Two days after the lightning storm that woke Lonsdale , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As they made their way east , then north , up into the Sierras , Megan quietly worried about their home .
There had been reports of wildfires , though none close to Sweetwater Lane .
Still , the house was like an extension of the family .
She and Patrick , a carpenter , renovated and remodelled the home , which they moved into in the early two-thousands .
Their kids , Lily and Finn , were born in the master bedroom .
The thought of losing it was unfathomable .
She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as best she could , careful not to spoil the family ’ s one escape from the pandemic and its restrictions .
That night , at the campsite , checking her phone , Megan learned that flames had erupted in Boulder Creek , not far from Sweetwater Lane .
“ I spent what was supposed to be a nice relaxing evening glued to my phone , checking messages , checking Facebook , and getting increasingly concerned , ” she later recalled .
Around midnight , she read that officials had declared an evacuation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the family was back on the road .
Five hours later , they pulled up to the house .
It still stood , untouched by the fire .
Ash swirled in the air .
The sky glowed a terrible red-orange .
The family rushed in to grab what they could—not photos or keepsakes but clothes and other items to get them through a few days until the evacuation order ended .
“ We never dreamed that we weren ’ t coming back , ” Megan later said .
After forty minutes , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one of the family cars , bound for a hotel in a San Jose suburb , twenty-five miles away .
Patrick stayed behind .
He climbed atop the house with a hose to soak the roof .
Before he climbed back down to join his family , he spotted a burn mark , likely the result of a spark carried by the wind .
Fire was coming for Sweetwater Lane .
At the hotel , Megan stayed glued to her phone , checking social media , fielding texts from neighbors who had sneaked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Patrick , and the kids spent the next few days in emotional whiplash .
“ We did a couple cycles of being convinced our house was gone , ” Megan recalls , “ because we heard reports like ‘ As I was leaving , I heard propane tanks exploding on Sweetwater.
’ ” How could their home , not far from the explosions , survive something like that ?
“ I remember collapsing onto the bed of the hotel , sobbing with my kids .
”

Julie Wuest counted the seconds. “Four-one-thousand, five-one-thousand, six . . .” Measuring the time between the flashes that illuminated the sky and the low rumble of thunder, she knew, could help calculate the distance between her and the next lightning bolt—the kind of trick learned in childhood, a rare parcel of folk wisdom that withstands the scrutiny of physics. She was practically still a kid when she first fell in love with the San Lorenzo Valley, in the nineteen-seventies, riding in the empty bed of a friend’s El Camino on her twenty-first birthday, the car corkscrewing down Highway 9 toward Santa Cruz as the redwoods scrolled by. Four decades later, Wuest, now a software consultant, lived among those towering ancient trees, just off that same highway, where she sat alone in her house around three o’clock in the morning, on Sunday, August 16, 2020, and listened to the thunder.
“One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three . . .,” she counted. Soon there was no time between the flash and the bang. The lightning snapped seemingly right above her house, the blasts so loud that Wuest could feel them in her bones. From down on the coast to way up in the mountains, people saw, heard, and then felt it—the most spectacular lightning storm anyone in Santa Cruz County could remember. Some stared, as if in a trance. Others raised their phones and recorded the electrostatic cabaret: incessant purple bolts splintering the sky for hours.
Across the valley from Wuest, Megan Lonsdale had woken to what felt like a freight train swooshing past her house on Sweetwater Lane, a sound she soon recognized as a powerful gust of wind. The purple lights strobed outside the window, stirring her young son and teen-age daughter, who joined her to watch the show until nearly dawn. Thirteen miles away, down on the coast, Paul and Jacklyn Sacco slept in the rented beach house they were sharing with family that weekend—until the thunder clapped them awake. “It was very dramatic,” Paul, a retired high-school counsellor, told me. “We saw the lightning, and I marvelled at it—and did not give one single thought about the consequences.”
By the time the sun came up that morning, the sky had cleared. The air turned hot and muggy, but, aside from sporadic power outages, there was no indication of a life-changing event under way. Hallie Greene, the director of the Boulder Creek Recreation and Park District, remembers an unusual excitement in the office on Monday morning, as colleagues shared stories about the thunder. “Thinking back now,” she said a month later, “none of us really recognized that those were the last few days of this semi-normal life we were all living.”
More than eleven thousand lightning strikes buffeted central and Northern California over thirty-six hours, leading to one of the biggest wildfire seasons in recorded state history. Of the twenty largest California wildfires since 1932, half a dozen started in August or September of 2020. Santa Cruz County, the surf and mountain community seventy miles south of San Francisco—home to a mix of new tech money, artists, farmers, retirees, and back-to-the-land off-gridders—experienced one of worst infernos of the summer, the C.Z.U. Lightning Complex fire. Named after Cal Fire’s three-letter call sign for its San Mateo–Santa Cruz unit, C.Z.U. wasn’t the largest in terms of square miles, but it was among the most destructive in terms of property. Of the more than seven thousand five hundred structures damaged or destroyed by California wildfires so far this year, C.Z.U. burned a fifth of them.
Climate change undoubtedly played a role, scientists affirm. The fires this summer resulted from a confluence of factors, including a severe drought that California began experiencing in 2012 and this year’s unprecedented heat waves, in August and early September, Lenya Quinn-Davidson, a University of California wildfire expert, said, adding that, together, these factors produced “a condition in California where our fuels are basically drier than they’ve ever been. . . . Then we get this slightly unprecedented lightning storm” with thousands of strikes “within thirty-six hours.”
Jon Keeley, a U.S. Geological Survey researcher whose area of expertise includes central California, points to more than a century of forest mismanagement as a factor in nearly all the fires that have made headlines over the past few years. Before the modern era, “these landscapes historically had fires at relatively frequent intervals, which burned off a lot of the fuels that normally accumulate every year: the leaves and branches and the understory,” Keeley told me. “Beginning in the early nineteen hundreds, state and federal agencies started a policy of putting out fires. As a result, we have vast areas that have missed many natural fire cycles.”
Santa Cruz County, unfortunately, illustrates the point perfectly. Keeley showed me a map that included the now well-known path of C.Z.U., color-coded to depict past fires in the area. A vast swath was uncolored, indicating no documented conflagrations. “I would just estimate, looking at it, maybe ninety per cent of that landscape has never had a fire” in recorded history, Keeley said. “That’s a huge amount of fuel.”
Summer had been on hold in Santa Cruz, just like everywhere else in the country—at least summer as anyone recognized it. Because of the pandemic, the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, a storied amusement park in operation since 1907, shuttered its rides and arcades. Several parks remained closed. Large beach gatherings were banned. So Megan Lonsdale, her husband, Patrick, and their two kids had poured their hopes into a late-summer camping trip near Lake Tahoe.
Two days after the lightning storm that woke Lonsdale, the family embarked on the two-hundred-and-sixty-mile drive. As they made their way east, then north, up into the Sierras, Megan quietly worried about their home. There had been reports of wildfires, though none close to Sweetwater Lane. Still, the house was like an extension of the family. She and Patrick, a carpenter, renovated and remodelled the home, which they moved into in the early two-thousands. Their kids, Lily and Finn, were born in the master bedroom. The thought of losing it was unfathomable. She put the fear out of her mind as best she could, careful not to spoil the family’s one escape from the pandemic and its restrictions.
That night, at the campsite, checking her phone, Megan learned that flames had erupted in Boulder Creek, not far from Sweetwater Lane. “I spent what was supposed to be a nice relaxing evening glued to my phone, checking messages, checking Facebook, and getting increasingly concerned,” she later recalled. Around midnight, she read that officials had declared an evacuation order for her neighborhood. At daybreak, the family was back on the road. Five hours later, they pulled up to the house. It still stood, untouched by the fire. Ash swirled in the air. The sky glowed a terrible red-orange. The family rushed in to grab what they could—not photos or keepsakes but clothes and other items to get them through a few days until the evacuation order ended. “We never dreamed that we weren’t coming back,” Megan later said.
After forty minutes, she and the kids jumped back into one of the family cars, bound for a hotel in a San Jose suburb, twenty-five miles away. Patrick stayed behind. He climbed atop the house with a hose to soak the roof. Before he climbed back down to join his family, he spotted a burn mark, likely the result of a spark carried by the wind. Fire was coming for Sweetwater Lane.
At the hotel, Megan stayed glued to her phone, checking social media, fielding texts from neighbors who had sneaked back up into the canyon. She, Patrick, and the kids spent the next few days in emotional whiplash. “We did a couple cycles of being convinced our house was gone,” Megan recalls, “because we heard reports like ‘As I was leaving, I heard propane tanks exploding on Sweetwater.’ ” How could their home, not far from the explosions, survive something like that? “I remember collapsing onto the bed of the hotel, sobbing with my kids.”
On Friday morning, August 21st, came a break. It was Lily’s fourteenth birthday, and Megan had slipped out of the hotel room to buy doughnuts as a surprise. While out, she got a call. Someone had seen the house, still standing. She rushed back to the hotel room, doughnuts in hand, to deliver the good news. The family’s hopes were renewed. Patrick, determined as ever, returned to Sweetwater Lane, energized. “He was [back] up there trying to put out little spot fires. Things would flare, he would call 911, then fire support would come. Then they’d leave. Things would flare again. He’d call again.”
Patrick rested on Saturday, back at the room, but made a plan for Sunday morning, setting his alarm for 4 a.m. He would get up, return to the house, and spend the day fighting the flames. When the rest of the family awoke, he was already gone. They didn’t expect him back until late afternoon. So Megan was surprised when Patrick returned at 8:30 a.m. That’s too soon, she thought, seeing him through the hotel window. Then she studied his face, the look in his eyes. And she knew.
Megan and Patrick Lonsdale’s home was one of a thousand four hundred and ninety structures taken by the C.Z.U. Some sixty-five thousand people were evacuated. Just one person died, a seventy-three-year-old Vietnam vet. Thousands of survivors were displaced. As with the Lonsdales, the news for many came sporadically and with rapidly changing conclusions.
Julie Wuest had moved to the San Lorenzo Valley almost thirty years after that El Camino ride down Highway 9 that inspired her. In 2004, she bought a house that she was determined to fill with beauty—the art and other artifacts she collected through her world travels—until it was “like living on the inside of a jewelry box.” On Thursday, August 20th, four days after counting the seconds between the lightning and thunder, Wuest tried to return to her home but found the road blocked. She asked someone she knew at the checkpoint: “Is my house on fire? Or has it burned?” He told her it was still there. Later in the afternoon, he sent a photo, showing a home directly in front of hers intact. Eight hours after that she got a call from a neighbor. “Julie, our neighborhood’s gone.”
Paul and Jacklyn Sacco, the couple at the beach rental during the lightning storm, built their home, tucked in a copse of redwood trees, with their own hands more than forty years ago—they taught themselves cement laying, carpentry, and construction from books. After the fire, they waited three weeks to return, and werewere awestruck by the sight. Being there “let us know what gone means,” Paul told me. “It’s like you don’t know what gone is until you see it. It was amazing to me. . . . The wood just goes to ash. An inch’s worth of ash. The metals melt, most of them. The appliances just get charred and wrecked. The stove.”
Sam Clarkson, an avid surfer and ceramics instructor at Cabrillo College, lived atop a mountain in the community of Bonny Doon with his wife and two kids. When the evacuation order came, Clarkson, out of town and with little time left, asked his son to grab a surfboard. His son managed to stuff eight into the car. When Clarkson returned after the fire and dug through the rubble, he reunited with another important part of his life: shards of pottery.
Hallie Greene, the local parks and recreation director, felt oddly elated. She stood looking at the ashes of her former home and didn’t cry. “It’s almost like a spiritual experience to let go of your things,” she said. But Megan Lonsdale couldn’t bring herself to look. Not at first. She waited more than a month before she returned to Sweetwater Lane. She knew it would wreck her. “On a daily basis, I am speared through my heart thinking of things that I wish I had grabbed,” she told me. “And my kids, too. That’s the hardest thing for me, is seeing my kids have those moments. And just knowing that I can’t offer them any comfort.”
Beyond the hundreds of destroyed homes and public buildings, the thirty-seven-day C.Z.U. fire—which burned eighty-six thousand acres—ravaged the area’s infrastructure. The Santa Cruz County septic system, one of the densest of any region west of the Mississippi, has suffered significant damage. The loss of so much mountainous vegetation means that mudslides are likely for the buildings and roads still left.
Until this summer, Santa Cruz was relatively unscathed by the fires that have plagued California and the West in the past few years. That changed with C.Z.U. “Santa Cruz County has been home to earthquakes and floods, and now we’ve got these god-awful wildfires, like so many other regions in the state,” Bruce McPherson, a former California secretary of state and a fourth-generation Santa Cruz native, who’s now a county supervisor, said. “We’re almost afraid to wake up tomorrow to see what it’s going to bring.”
Nearly all the people I spoke to were stuck in limbo between their former lives and whatever eventually comes up from the ashes. When I last spoke to Julie Wuest, she was about to rent an R.V. to park on her property, to better assess the situation and help her neighbors. Megan and Patrick Lonsdale and their two kids recently moved into a town-house rental; they’re still deciding whether or not to rebuild.
Fire season is far from over. In the past few years, the worst fires have started in October and November, Lenya Quinn-Davidson, the University of California wildfire expert, pointed out: “We get those Santa Ana winds in Southern California. We get the diablo winds in the Bay Area.” Some of the most damaging fires in California history, she reminded me, have happened in the fall. “We still have that whole time period ahead of us.”


newyorker--2020-09-28--Trump’s Seventy-Three-Million-Dollar Tax Refund Is the Biggest Outrage of All

After doggedly pursuing the story of Donald Trump ’ s taxes ( or non-taxes ) for years , the New York Times has hit the motherlode with its latest investigation , which revealed that the self-proclaimed billionaire paid a grand total of seven hundred and fifty dollars in federal income taxes in 2016 , when he was elected President , and the same sum in 2017 , his first year in the White House .
In ten of the fifteen years before 2016 , he paid no federal income taxes at all .
If you haven ’ t yet read @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t spoil it by spilling all the juicy bits .
Instead , I ’ ll focus on one that is arguably the most Trumpian of all .
Because of previous reporting , including a couple of significant Times pieces in October , 2016 , and May , 2019 , as well as contributions by Trump biographers , such as David Cay Johnston , we ’ ve known for a long time that the President is a serial tax avoider .
Between 1984 and 2004 , he used actual losses , loss write-downs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dodges to pay virtually nothing in federal income taxes .
From 2005 to 2007 , this latest Times scoop reveals , he did finally pay about seventy million dollars to the Internal Revenue Service .
But then , in 2010 , he demanded a full refund for those tax payments .
And the I.R.S .
acceded to his request : it paid him $ 72.9 million , including interest .
This 2010 refund seems to be at the center of an auditing dispute between Trump and the tax authorities that has dragged on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ appears to be the money that Michael Cohen , Trump ’ s former personal lawyer , was referring to in his 2019 testimony to Congress , when he recalled Trump showing him a huge check from the U.S. Treasury and remarked that Trump “ could not believe how stupid the government was for giving someone like him that much money back.
” How could a person who doesn ’ t pay taxes get a big refund ?
As always with Trump , the details of his financial shenanigans are a bit complicated , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to grasp .
He hates paying taxes .
To avoid doing it , he will resort to virtually anything—and that includes exploiting his many business failures .
In the late nineteen-eighties and early nineteen-nineties , Trump ’ s businesses , some of which he had greatly overpaid for when he bought them , racked up more than a billion dollars in losses , and four of them ended up filing for bankruptcy : three casinos in Atlantic City and his Plaza Hotel , in New York .
In 1995 , as he emerged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tax loss of more than nine hundred million dollars , which the I.R.S .
allowed him to use in subsequent years as an offset against any profits his businesses made .
So even in years when the Trump Organization did well , his loss carryovers reduced his tax bill to zero .
According to the new Times investigation , this basic pattern of heavy losses in parts of the Trump empire offsetting substantial earnings in other parts of it has continued for the past decade and a half .
Since 2000 , for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ courses have together generated losses of $ 315.6 million , even as other Trump enterprises—including Trump Tower , overseas licensing deals , and an investment in two office towers operated by Vornado Realty Trust—have generated substantial revenues .
In 2011 , 2012 , 2013 , and 2014 , Trump paid no federal income taxes at all .
In 2016 and 2017 combined , he contributed enough to the U.S. Treasury for it to buy a new love seat from Pottery Barn .
The only notable exceptions to this pattern of minimal tax payments @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and 2007 , when “ The Apprentice , ” which Trump co-produced with NBC , was doing very well , and the big accounting loss that he had carried over from the nineteen-nineties had run out .
“ With no prior-year losses left to reduce his taxable income , he paid substantial federal income taxes for the first time in his life : a total of $ 70.1 million , ” the Times report says .
This money didn ’ t stay in the coffers of the U.S. government for very long .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ I.R.S .
that , during 2008 and 2009 , his businesses had lost another $ 1.4 billion .
Exploiting a little-noticed clause in a piece of legislation that Barack Obama had signed into law as part of the efforts to stimulate the economy after the Great Recession , Trump claimed that this huge loss entitled him to a full refund of the income taxes he had paid in 2005 , 2006 , and 2007 .
The I.R.S .
quickly paid out Trump ’ s claim pending an audit .
The refund “ would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plus $ 2,733,184 in interest , ” the Times reports .
“ He also received $ 21.2 million in state and local refunds , which often piggyback on federal filings.
” Trump has never been short on chutzpah .
At some point , though , someone in the auditing department of the I.R.S .
seems to have decided that this latest maneuver was over the line .
Under tax law , refunds of more than two million dollars require approval from Congress ’ s Joint Committee on Taxation , which also got involved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump and the I.R.S .
appeared to have been reached , “ but the audit resumed and grew to include Mr. Trump ’ s returns for 2010 through 2013 , ” the Times report says .
“ In the spring of 2016 , with Mr. Trump closing in on the Republican nomination , the case was sent back to the [ congressional ] committee .
It has remained there , unresolved , with the statute of limitations repeatedly pushed forward.
” It isn ’ t clear why the dispute has dragged on for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one intriguing possibility .
In 2009 , Trump finally gave up ownership of his financially stricken casinos in Atlantic City , which had filed for bankruptcy again .
In the same year , his tax returns included “ a declaration of more than $ 700 million in business losses that he had not been allowed to use in prior years , ” the Times says .
Proprietors who abandon loss-making businesses are allowed to claim some of the losses they incurred for tax purposes , but they have to give up the businesses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in return .
Trump got something .
When Trump Entertainment Resorts was restructured and placed under new ownership , he received five per cent of the stock in the successor company .
“ The materials reviewed by the Times do not make clear whether Mr. Trump ’ s refund application reflected his public declaration of abandonment , ” the report says .
“ If it did , that 5 percent could place his entire refund in question.
” Including the interest that has accumulated since 2010 , it could cost Trump about a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the Times calculates .
If he were a genuine billionaire , he could raise this sum without very much trouble .
But given the evidence that many of his businesses , including the Trump International Hotel in Washington , D.C. , seem to make substantial losses , could he even afford to pay out a hundred million dollars ?
Trump ’ s businesses “ reported cash on hand of $ 34.7 million in 2018 , down 40 percent from five years earlier , ” the Times report says .
In theory , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to pay a big tax bill .
During the past decade , though , he ’ s already incurred heavy borrowings .
He “ is personally responsible for loans and other debts totaling $ 421 million , with most of it coming due within four years , ” the Times notes .
“ Should he win re-election , his lenders could be placed in the unprecedented position of weighing whether to foreclose on a sitting president .
”

After doggedly pursuing the story of Donald Trump’s taxes (or non-taxes) for years, the New York Times has hit the motherlode with its latest investigation, which revealed that the self-proclaimed billionaire paid a grand total of seven hundred and fifty dollars in federal income taxes in 2016, when he was elected President, and the same sum in 2017, his first year in the White House. In ten of the fifteen years before 2016, he paid no federal income taxes at all. If you haven’t yet read the lengthy Times report, I won’t spoil it by spilling all the juicy bits. Instead, I’ll focus on one that is arguably the most Trumpian of all.
Because of previous reporting, including a couple of significant Times pieces in October, 2016, and May, 2019, as well as contributions by Trump biographers, such as David Cay Johnston, we’ve known for a long time that the President is a serial tax avoider. Between 1984 and 2004, he used actual losses, loss write-downs from previous years, and other accounting dodges to pay virtually nothing in federal income taxes. From 2005 to 2007, this latest Times scoop reveals, he did finally pay about seventy million dollars to the Internal Revenue Service. But then, in 2010, he demanded a full refund for those tax payments. And the I.R.S. acceded to his request: it paid him $72.9 million, including interest. This 2010 refund seems to be at the center of an auditing dispute between Trump and the tax authorities that has dragged on for almost a decade. It also appears to be the money that Michael Cohen, Trump’s former personal lawyer, was referring to in his 2019 testimony to Congress, when he recalled Trump showing him a huge check from the U.S. Treasury and remarked that Trump “could not believe how stupid the government was for giving someone like him that much money back.”
How could a person who doesn’t pay taxes get a big refund? As always with Trump, the details of his financial shenanigans are a bit complicated, but the basic outline is fairly easy to grasp. He hates paying taxes. To avoid doing it, he will resort to virtually anything—and that includes exploiting his many business failures.
In the late nineteen-eighties and early nineteen-nineties, Trump’s businesses, some of which he had greatly overpaid for when he bought them, racked up more than a billion dollars in losses, and four of them ended up filing for bankruptcy: three casinos in Atlantic City and his Plaza Hotel, in New York. In 1995, as he emerged from this wreckage, he declared a tax loss of more than nine hundred million dollars, which the I.R.S. allowed him to use in subsequent years as an offset against any profits his businesses made. So even in years when the Trump Organization did well, his loss carryovers reduced his tax bill to zero.
According to the new Times investigation, this basic pattern of heavy losses in parts of the Trump empire offsetting substantial earnings in other parts of it has continued for the past decade and a half. Since 2000, for example, Trump’s fifteen golf courses have together generated losses of $315.6 million, even as other Trump enterprises—including Trump Tower, overseas licensing deals, and an investment in two office towers operated by Vornado Realty Trust—have generated substantial revenues. In 2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014, Trump paid no federal income taxes at all. In 2016 and 2017 combined, he contributed enough to the U.S. Treasury for it to buy a new love seat from Pottery Barn.
The only notable exceptions to this pattern of minimal tax payments were the years 2005, 2006, and 2007, when “The Apprentice,” which Trump co-produced with NBC, was doing very well, and the big accounting loss that he had carried over from the nineteen-nineties had run out. “With no prior-year losses left to reduce his taxable income, he paid substantial federal income taxes for the first time in his life: a total of $70.1 million,” the Times report says. This money didn’t stay in the coffers of the U.S. government for very long.
In 2010, Trump declared to the I.R.S. that, during 2008 and 2009, his businesses had lost another $1.4 billion. Exploiting a little-noticed clause in a piece of legislation that Barack Obama had signed into law as part of the efforts to stimulate the economy after the Great Recession, Trump claimed that this huge loss entitled him to a full refund of the income taxes he had paid in 2005, 2006, and 2007. The I.R.S. quickly paid out Trump’s claim pending an audit. The refund “would eventually grow to $70.1 million, plus $2,733,184 in interest,” the Times reports. “He also received $21.2 million in state and local refunds, which often piggyback on federal filings.”
Trump has never been short on chutzpah. At some point, though, someone in the auditing department of the I.R.S. seems to have decided that this latest maneuver was over the line. Under tax law, refunds of more than two million dollars require approval from Congress’s Joint Committee on Taxation, which also got involved. In 2014, an agreement between Trump and the I.R.S. appeared to have been reached, “but the audit resumed and grew to include Mr. Trump’s returns for 2010 through 2013,” the Times report says. “In the spring of 2016, with Mr. Trump closing in on the Republican nomination, the case was sent back to the [congressional] committee. It has remained there, unresolved, with the statute of limitations repeatedly pushed forward.”
It isn’t clear why the dispute has dragged on for so long, but the Times highlights one intriguing possibility. In 2009, Trump finally gave up ownership of his financially stricken casinos in Atlantic City, which had filed for bankruptcy again. In the same year, his tax returns included “a declaration of more than $700 million in business losses that he had not been allowed to use in prior years,” the Times says. Proprietors who abandon loss-making businesses are allowed to claim some of the losses they incurred for tax purposes, but they have to give up the businesses entirely and not receive anything of value in return. Trump got something. When Trump Entertainment Resorts was restructured and placed under new ownership, he received five per cent of the stock in the successor company. “The materials reviewed by the Times do not make clear whether Mr. Trump’s refund application reflected his public declaration of abandonment,” the report says. “If it did, that 5 percent could place his entire refund in question.”
Including the interest that has accumulated since 2010, it could cost Trump about a hundred million dollars to repay the I.R.S., the Times calculates. If he were a genuine billionaire, he could raise this sum without very much trouble. But given the evidence that many of his businesses, including the Trump International Hotel in Washington, D.C., seem to make substantial losses, could he even afford to pay out a hundred million dollars?
Trump’s businesses “reported cash on hand of $34.7 million in 2018, down 40 percent from five years earlier,” the Times report says. In theory, he could take out another bank loan to pay a big tax bill. During the past decade, though, he’s already incurred heavy borrowings. He “is personally responsible for loans and other debts totaling $421 million, with most of it coming due within four years,” the Times notes. “Should he win re-election, his lenders could be placed in the unprecedented position of weighing whether to foreclose on a sitting president.”


newyorker--2020-09-28--My Pillow Guy Offers to Lend Trump Fifty Dollars Until Payday

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —In an effort to help a friend who has fallen on hard times , @ @ @ @ @ as the My Pillow Guy , has offered to loan Donald J. Trump fifty dollars @ @ @ @ @ reporters outside the White House , Lindell said that he also gave Trump a king-size @ @ @ @ @ $ 69.98 value .
“ He doesn ’ t have to pay me a cent @ @ @ @ @ said .
“ If he ’ s happy with the pillow , he can maybe @ @ @ @ @ followers , but the pillow is his to keep.
” The bedding entrepreneur said that @ @ @ @ @ ” about his decision to loan fifty dollars to Trump “ now that he ’ @ @ @ @ @ ” “ I know fifty dollars may not sound like a lot to someone who @ @ @ @ @ hair , but he seemed to really appreciate it , ” Lindell said .
“ @ @ @ @ @ loan him money at this point ?
”

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—In an effort to help a friend who has fallen on hard times, Mike Lindell, better known as the MyPillow Guy, has offered to loan Donald J. Trump fifty dollars until payday.
Speaking to reporters outside the White House, Lindell said that he also gave Trump a king-size Classic MyPillow, a $69.98 value.
“He doesn’t have to pay me a cent for it,” Lindell said. “If he’s happy with the pillow, he can maybe tweet about it to his followers, but the pillow is his to keep.”
The bedding entrepreneur said that he felt “really good” about his decision to loan fifty dollars to Trump “now that he’s hit a rough patch.”
“I know fifty dollars may not sound like a lot to someone who spent seventy thousand on his hair, but he seemed to really appreciate it,” Lindell said. “Besides, who else would loan him money at this point?”


Famous Nicknames, Explained

This nickname originated when Vlad ’ s mom showed him an engraving of a medium-sized antelope native to eastern Africa .
“ Look , Vlad , ” she said .
“ An impala.
” To which he replied , “ Yes !
Impaler !
” And she was , like , “ No , it ’ s an impala.
” And he was , like , “ Yes , that ’ s what I said.
” Then he perforated her torso with a wooden spear .
This is a nom de plume , or pseudonym—like A. M. Barnard ( a.k.a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ someone “ the Pamela Anderson of xylophone ” is not a nom de plume but , rather , a well-deserved moniker for someone who ’ s devoted his or her life to the percussive arts .
This is short for “ Jennifer Lopez ” and also “ Just Locusts , ” both of which are nice names for girls with beautiful voices .
“ Bill ” is actually short for “ Butler , ” not “ William.
” They tried to shorten “ Butler ” to “ Butt , ” but that made @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he was scary mad—so mad that his yellow eyes danced beneath his bushy , bobcatlike eyebrows , and his hands formed terrifying wolverine claws .
Anyway , nobody really knows where the “ Wild ” part came from .
This nickname is said to derive from the 1980 martial-arts film “ Ol ’ Dirty Kung Fu.
” I can ’ t confirm that because I watch only movies from the “ All Dogs Go to Heaven ” franchise .
“ Alexander the Above-Average Beeswax-Candle Maker ” was taken .
This nickname refers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the twelve disciples of Jesus Christ .
Doubting Thomas was famously skeptical , and doubted Christ ’ s miraculous resurrection until he had definitive proof .
Tom Selleck is not an example of a Doubting Thomas , but is an example of a mustache .
A mononym is a unique personal-branding opportunity .
It ’ s the opportunity to claim a single word as your public persona—your calling card , if you will .
This is a bad one .
In the end , “ Calamity Jane ” was shorter than “ Jane @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ass Down a Hill in an Attempt to Get a Closer Look at What She Thought Was a Gopher but Was Actually a Dog Trapped in a Gunnysack.
” This is a really good nickname because “ The Answer ” has three syllables , whereas “ Allen Iverson ” has five .
Five syllables is too many for most people , unless they ’ re hollering , “ Stop the car , I ’ m gon na hurl !
, ” or “ Opossum in the soft-serve machine !
”

Photograph from Bettmann / Getty
Vlad the Impaler
This nickname originated when Vlad’s mom showed him an engraving of a medium-sized antelope native to eastern Africa. “Look, Vlad,” she said. “An impala.” To which he replied, “Yes! Impaler!” And she was, like, “No, it’s an impala.” And he was, like, “Yes, that’s what I said.” Then he perforated her torso with a wooden spear.
Samuel Clemens (a.k.a. Mark Twain)
This is a nom de plume, or pseudonym—like A. M. Barnard (a.k.a. Louisa May Alcott). Calling someone “the Pamela Anderson of xylophone” is not a nom de plume but, rather, a well-deserved moniker for someone who’s devoted his or her life to the percussive arts.
J. Lo
This is short for “Jennifer Lopez” and also “Just Locusts,” both of which are nice names for girls with beautiful voices.
Wild Bill Hickok
“Bill” is actually short for “Butler,” not “William.” They tried to shorten “Butler” to “Butt,” but that made Wild Bill really mad. I mean, he was scary mad—so mad that his yellow eyes danced beneath his bushy, bobcatlike eyebrows, and his hands formed terrifying wolverine claws. Anyway, nobody really knows where the “Wild” part came from.
Ol’ Dirty Bastard
This nickname is said to derive from the 1980 martial-arts film “Ol’ Dirty Kung Fu.” I can’t confirm that because I watch only movies from the “All Dogs Go to Heaven” franchise.
Alexander the Great
“Alexander the Above-Average Beeswax-Candle Maker” was taken.
Doubting Thomas
This nickname refers to Thomas the Apostle, one of the twelve disciples of Jesus Christ. Doubting Thomas was famously skeptical, and doubted Christ’s miraculous resurrection until he had definitive proof. Tom Selleck is not an example of a Doubting Thomas, but is an example of a mustache.
Eminem
A mononym is a unique personal-branding opportunity. It’s the opportunity to claim a single word as your public persona—your calling card, if you will. This is a bad one.
Calamity Jane
In the end, “Calamity Jane” was shorter than “Jane Who Broke Three Ribs Trying to Haul Ass Down a Hill in an Attempt to Get a Closer Look at What She Thought Was a Gopher but Was Actually a Dog Trapped in a Gunnysack.”
Allen (The Answer) Iverson
This is a really good nickname because “The Answer” has three syllables, whereas “Allen Iverson” has five. Five syllables is too many for most people, unless they’re hollering, “Stop the car, I’m gonna hurl!,” or “Opossum in the soft-serve machine!”
Blind Willie Johnson
Unclear.


newyorker--2020-09-29--Joseph O’Neill Reads “Rainbows”

Joseph O’Neill Reads “Rainbows”

Joseph O ’ Neill reads his story from the October 5 , 2020 , issue of the magazine .
O @ @ @ @ @ of four novels , including “ Netherland , ” which won the 2009 PEN/Faulkner Award @ @ @ @ @ ” His first story collection , “ Good Trouble , ” came out in 2018 @

Photograph by Rick Pushinsky / eyevine / Redux
Joseph O’Neill reads his story from the October 5, 2020, issue of the magazine. O’Neill is the author of four novels, including “Netherland,” which won the 2009 PEN/Faulkner Award, and “The Dog.” His first story collection, “Good Trouble,” came out in 2018.


newyorker--2020-09-29--The Misspent Insights of Claudia Rankine’s “Just Us”

In her book-length poem “ Citizen , ” from 2014 , the writer Claudia Rankine probed some of the nuances and contradictions of being a Black American .
Her focus fell on what it means to be erased , projected upon , or politicized , and how the cumulative effect can shatter one ’ s sense of self .
Rankine has said that she wanted to “ pull the lyric back into its realities , ” and “ Citizen ” struck a delicate balance between the world that Rankine dreamed about and the one that she saw .
The book @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pain of racism , and little seemed lost in the translation ; but there was , too , an aura around that pain , a ripple of reinvention .
Rankine wrote poetry that was always slipping toward the next shape , the one that only she could see .
The subtitle of “ Citizen ” was “ An American Lyric.
” Rankine ’ s new collection , “ Just Us , ” is subtitled “ An American Conversation ” —the transparent eyeball has acquired ears and a tongue .
“ Just Us ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ friends and strangers .
Rankine attends a lot of dinner parties ( perhaps too many , it must be said ) and is repeatedly subjected to white people stepping in it , thanks to a combination of willed oblivion and condescension .
At one gathering , Rankine challenges a man about the 2016 election : his theory of Trump ’ s win seems to elide the role of racism .
“ I was sailing closer and closer to the trope of the angry black woman , ” Rankine recounts .
A female guest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brownies .
The redirect is so obvious that Rankine blurts out , “ Am I being silenced ?
” The technologies of whiteness—silencing , surveilling , policing—are supposed to be frictionless for the user .
Rankine exposes and disrupts them , but not for long .
In this case , the other guests , like a fleet of Roombas , clear away the awkwardness , and a defeated Rankine pushes food around her plate , absorbing the discomfort back into her body .
Her book ’ s title comes from a Richard Pryor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ go down there looking for justice , that ’ s what you find , just us.
” Those two terms—justice and just us—provide some of the work ’ s animating tensions .
In Pryor ’ s skit , “ just us ” referred specifically to Black people , but Rankine ’ s primary “ us ” is cross-racial , a seed planted in the dead land between Self and Other .
When Rankine wonders how individuals , much less community , can survive in our system , the question is intimately tied to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ possible without the acknowledgment of inequity .
At one point , Rankine considers a white friend , whose ancestry dates back to the Mayflower .
Rankine loves this friend ; love urges her to tend their closeness beyond the reach of history .
But that ’ s impossible , Rankine finds .
To ignore her friend ’ s “ innate advantages , ” she writes , “ is to stop being present inside our relationship.
” Rankine ’ s interest in the white part of “ us ” turns her into an anthropologist @ @ @ @ @ @ @ given over to masochistic exchanges with white men in airports .
( “ After a series of casual conversations with my white male travelers , would I come to understand white privilege any differently ?
” ) This goes neither well nor cartoonishly badly .
One man , upon learning that Rankine teaches at Yale , complains that his son ’ s inability to “ play the diversity card ” sank his early-admissions chances .
Another interlocutor suggests that he doesn ’ t see color , and then characterizes his own comment as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the positive ones , inspire a nervous excitement , somewhere between dread and hunger .
The reader fears for Rankine , although that doesn ’ t quite make sense ; she waits for catharsis , which is denied .
The book ’ s lack of resolution can feel like a concession to the limits of the white men whom the narrator meets .
Even as Rankine stages scenes that touch the third rail of “ American conversation , ” she is only ever speaking indirectly , through questions .
This dynamic can make @ @ @ @ @ @ @ end , she hopes to get out of these exercises—somewhat blurry .
After a white man cuts her in a first-class line , Rankine claims , “ What I wanted was to know what the white man saw or didn ’ t see when he walked in front of me at the gate.
” Elsewhere , she writes , “ I felt certain that , as a black woman , there had to be something I didn ’ t understand.
” If this is an accurate account of Rankine ’ s feelings , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rankine teaches a class at Yale called “ Constructions of Whiteness.
” In 2016 , she founded the Racial Imaginary Institute , an “ interdisciplinary cultural laboratory ” that studies how “ perceptions , resources , rights , and lives themselves flow along racial lines that confront some of us with restrictions and give others uninterrogated power.
” “ Just Us ” invokes the race scholarship of Édouard Glissant , Whitney Dow , Fred Moten , Frank B. Wilderson III , and Orlando Patterson—in the space of two pages .
Exactly what does @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is going to clarify that she doesn ’ t already know ?
Rankine ’ s humble posture may be a response to what her husband , who is white , refers to as “ white fragility , ” invoking Robin DiAngelo ’ s book of the same name .
( White fragility refers to white people ’ s tendency to lash out under racial stress ; some have criticized the theory for painting a simplistic picture of Black people . )
Rankine ’ s thinking seems informed by DiAngelo , who blurbed her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be a more apt description .
Is it the spectre of hysterical white readers that causes Rankine , who needs no instruction on oppression , to pretend that white fellow-travellers are educating her ?
The language that results— “ I didn ’ t understand ” and “ I wondered ” and “ I ’ m just curious ” —is needlessly caressing , and it gives the book a tortured , insincere quality .
But Rankine is not so committed to this act that she can ’ t also poke fun at it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ flight , she describes wanting “ to learn something that surprised me about this stranger , something I couldn ’ t have known beforehand.
” “ Coming or going ?
” she asks .
Rankine realizes , then , that conversing with white people isn ’ t likely to yield much new information about whiteness .
In fact , this realization feeds into one of her central critiques : that white society is defined by an obstinate refusal to examine itself , and that , as a result , the well of white @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , once you understand this about the book , a sort of spell takes hold .
The narrator rides from encounter to encounter .
Scripts are recited ; formalities are observed .
There is an air of strange , exacting , half-understood rules , and of dangerous illusions .
Bizarre as it sounds , Rankine ’ s path has a breath of epical romance to it : the knight says the words so that the lady will lower the drawbridge ; midway through a charmed banquet , all the fruits turn to dust @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that I was reading “ Just Us ” as a kind of grail quest .
The book seeks the impossible thing , the healing thing , which is at once so impossible and so healing that it surpasses language .
Like Rankine ’ s previous work , “ Just Us ” collages poetry , criticism , and first-person prose ; it remixes historical documents , social-media posts , and academic studies .
There ’ s the sense of a subject overflowing every genre summoned to contain it .
There ’ s also a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s day—switching on the news , talking to a friend , reading an essay—at a time when all discourse seems drawn back to the magnet of race .
Rankine has never not known of race , but she shows us life in a country that pretends to be newly awakened , and mourning the dream that it has just lost .
“ You say and I say , ” she writes , as if foggy with sleep , “ but what / is it we are telling , what is it / @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
”

Claudia Rankine’s interest in the white part of “us” turns her into an anthropologist. Photograph by Ike Edeani / NYT / Redux
In her book-length poem “Citizen,” from 2014, the writer Claudia Rankine probed some of the nuances and contradictions of being a Black American. Her focus fell on what it means to be erased, projected upon, or politicized, and how the cumulative effect can shatter one’s sense of self. Rankine has said that she wanted to “pull the lyric back into its realities,” and “Citizen” struck a delicate balance between the world that Rankine dreamed about and the one that she saw. The book’s narrator found words for the pain of racism, and little seemed lost in the translation; but there was, too, an aura around that pain, a ripple of reinvention. Rankine wrote poetry that was always slipping toward the next shape, the one that only she could see.
The subtitle of “Citizen” was “An American Lyric.” Rankine’s new collection, “Just Us,” is subtitled “An American Conversation”—the transparent eyeball has acquired ears and a tongue. “Just Us” describes a series of racialized encounters with friends and strangers. Rankine attends a lot of dinner parties (perhaps too many, it must be said) and is repeatedly subjected to white people stepping in it, thanks to a combination of willed oblivion and condescension. At one gathering, Rankine challenges a man about the 2016 election: his theory of Trump’s win seems to elide the role of racism. “I was sailing closer and closer to the trope of the angry black woman,” Rankine recounts. A female guest interrupts, cooing over a tray of brownies. The redirect is so obvious that Rankine blurts out, “Am I being silenced?”
The technologies of whiteness—silencing, surveilling, policing—are supposed to be frictionless for the user. Rankine exposes and disrupts them, but not for long. In this case, the other guests, like a fleet of Roombas, clear away the awkwardness, and a defeated Rankine pushes food around her plate, absorbing the discomfort back into her body. Her book’s title comes from a Richard Pryor quote about the courthouse: “You go down there looking for justice, that’s what you find, just us.” Those two terms—justice and just us—provide some of the work’s animating tensions. In Pryor’s skit, “just us” referred specifically to Black people, but Rankine’s primary “us” is cross-racial, a seed planted in the dead land between Self and Other. When Rankine wonders how individuals, much less community, can survive in our system, the question is intimately tied to justice—to whether “just us” is possible without the acknowledgment of inequity. At one point, Rankine considers a white friend, whose ancestry dates back to the Mayflower. Rankine loves this friend; love urges her to tend their closeness beyond the reach of history. But that’s impossible, Rankine finds. To ignore her friend’s “innate advantages,” she writes, “is to stop being present inside our relationship.”
Rankine’s interest in the white part of “us” turns her into an anthropologist. Several sections of the book are given over to masochistic exchanges with white men in airports. (“After a series of casual conversations with my white male travelers, would I come to understand white privilege any differently?”) This goes neither well nor cartoonishly badly. One man, upon learning that Rankine teaches at Yale, complains that his son’s inability to “play the diversity card” sank his early-admissions chances. Another interlocutor suggests that he doesn’t see color, and then characterizes his own comment as “inane.” The exchanges, even the positive ones, inspire a nervous excitement, somewhere between dread and hunger. The reader fears for Rankine, although that doesn’t quite make sense; she waits for catharsis, which is denied. The book’s lack of resolution can feel like a concession to the limits of the white men whom the narrator meets. Even as Rankine stages scenes that touch the third rail of “American conversation,” she is only ever speaking indirectly, through questions.
This dynamic can make Rankine’s goal—what, in the end, she hopes to get out of these exercises—somewhat blurry. After a white man cuts her in a first-class line, Rankine claims, “What I wanted was to know what the white man saw or didn’t see when he walked in front of me at the gate.” Elsewhere, she writes, “I felt certain that, as a black woman, there had to be something I didn’t understand.” If this is an accurate account of Rankine’s feelings, it is also a strange one. Rankine teaches a class at Yale called “Constructions of Whiteness.” In 2016, she founded the Racial Imaginary Institute, an “interdisciplinary cultural laboratory” that studies how “perceptions, resources, rights, and lives themselves flow along racial lines that confront some of us with restrictions and give others uninterrogated power.” “Just Us” invokes the race scholarship of Édouard Glissant, Whitney Dow, Fred Moten, Frank B. Wilderson III, and Orlando Patterson—in the space of two pages. Exactly what does Rankine think the entitled guy in D-14 is going to clarify that she doesn’t already know?
Rankine’s humble posture may be a response to what her husband, who is white, refers to as “white fragility,” invoking Robin DiAngelo’s book of the same name. (White fragility refers to white people’s tendency to lash out under racial stress; some have criticized the theory for painting a simplistic picture of Black people.) Rankine’s thinking seems informed by DiAngelo, who blurbed her book, but “haunted” may be a more apt description. Is it the spectre of hysterical white readers that causes Rankine, who needs no instruction on oppression, to pretend that white fellow-travellers are educating her? The language that results—“I didn’t understand” and “I wondered” and “I’m just curious”—is needlessly caressing, and it gives the book a tortured, insincere quality. But Rankine is not so committed to this act that she can’t also poke fun at it. Chatting with a white man before a flight, she describes wanting “to learn something that surprised me about this stranger, something I couldn’t have known beforehand.” “Coming or going?” she asks.
Rankine realizes, then, that conversing with white people isn’t likely to yield much new information about whiteness. In fact, this realization feeds into one of her central critiques: that white society is defined by an obstinate refusal to examine itself, and that, as a result, the well of white racial imagination has run dry. Yet, once you understand this about the book, a sort of spell takes hold. The narrator rides from encounter to encounter. Scripts are recited; formalities are observed. There is an air of strange, exacting, half-understood rules, and of dangerous illusions. Bizarre as it sounds, Rankine’s path has a breath of epical romance to it: the knight says the words so that the lady will lower the drawbridge; midway through a charmed banquet, all the fruits turn to dust.
After a while, I realized that I was reading “Just Us” as a kind of grail quest. The book seeks the impossible thing, the healing thing, which is at once so impossible and so healing that it surpasses language. Like Rankine’s previous work, “Just Us” collages poetry, criticism, and first-person prose; it remixes historical documents, social-media posts, and academic studies. There’s the sense of a subject overflowing every genre summoned to contain it. There’s also a contemporary feeling, of going about one’s day—switching on the news, talking to a friend, reading an essay—at a time when all discourse seems drawn back to the magnet of race. Rankine has never not known of race, but she shows us life in a country that pretends to be newly awakened, and mourning the dream that it has just lost. “You say and I say,” she writes, as if foggy with sleep, “but what / is it we are telling, what is it / we are wanting to know about here?”
Narrating whatever “it” is will require “a new sentence,” one capable of resolving the book’s driving paradox: that “just us” is impossible without justice, but justice is unlikely to be done until a sense of “just us” is achieved. This conundrum—no transformation without identification, no identification without transformation—spurs the work forward, but not everyone will be persuaded that it matters. A hotter and blunter activism has engulfed the United States in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. Many feel that structural reform is a more effective path to justice than renovating white hearts and minds, at least partly because it does not depend on the types of conversations that Rankine wants us to have. Rankine is a humanist: she prizes empathetic connection for its own sake. If this is unfashionable, it is only because such connection can seem to crumble when asked to bear the weight of history.
And yet the ache of “Just Us” isn’t that Rankine attempts too much but that she gets free of too little. The ache is more than thirty pages, written by Claudia Rankine, on the meaning of blond hair, and many more pages, also written by Claudia Rankine, about white people who are not nearly as thoughtful, expert, funny, or compelling as Claudia Rankine is. “Just Us” includes gorgeous passages, ruminations that set the reader down on “a patch of dry grass, a median strip, between infrastructures, between lanes of traffic, between nowhere and here, between him and her . . . a necropastoral.” But the book also litters Rankine’s inner landscape with “fact checks.” “White people don’t really want change if it means they need to think differently than they do about who they are,” the narrator suggests; on the opposite page, a line of text notes that “there may be counterexamples.” Studies are marshalled to corroborate perceptions or memories. As Rankine considers the mistreatment of young Black boys in the classroom, a paper on the “eye gaze patterns” of early educators seems to license her thought. This deference to objectivity, or to its appearance, is jarring. It evokes another moment in the book, when Rankine writes that “the black person is asked to leave to vacate to prove to validate to confirm to authorize to legalize their right to be. . . .” The author’s vision, so suffused with longing, ends up impaled on facts.
If “Just Us” extends “Citizens” ’s effort to “pull the lyric back” into reality, it may succeed too well. Rankine cedes large swaths of her imagination to mourning the constraints placed on it, and her self-subordination—to white people, especially—hardens many of the certainties that her art aims to unsettle. The book returns often to the phrase “what if,” but it feels besieged by “what is”: unfreedom is the point, as is a shift in the “American conversation” from hope to a kind of dignified resignation. (One hears an echo of Michelle Obama’s Convention speech from this year: “It is what it is.”) But progress, though challenging, doesn’t need to be a holy grail; and poetry, though of this world, doesn’t need to be tied to it. As a study of what it’s like to operate within society’s limits, “Just Us” is exactly the mixed triumph that Rankine has permitted herself to hope for.


newyorker--2020-09-29--How to Draw Social Change

How to Draw Social Change

Liz Montague first contacted The New Yorker by sending in an incredibly thoughtful letter expressing her disappointment with the dearth of cartoonists of color in the magazine ’ s pages .
I was forwarded that letter and—newly minted as the cartoon editor , and viewing it as my top prerogative to find a way to publish all the great , diverse voices working in comics—was thrilled to talk with someone who expressed so well the frustration that I also felt about the historically white-male skew of our cartoonists .
( How many all-white-male boardroom cartoons had I read and internalized @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was working crazy hours to become one of the very few female partners in a top New York City law firm at the time ? )
Who , I wrote back , did Liz think I should be publishing ?
And she replied , “ Me.
” How lucky for The New Yorker that Liz had the chutzpah to say so , because in her we have gained an incisive , slyly sweet , utterly original cartoon voice .
When she and I first met in person , for a coffee , Liz @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was en route to the Middle East , to research the effects of climate change on rural communities .
It takes a specially calibrated mind to mine that type of trip for comedic fodder—to be engaged in that type of work and also to make jokes that change people ’ s opinions about global warming and faux allyship and casual sexism .
And , most important of all , to make those jokes funny .
I hope that this video teaches viewers some fundamentals of cartoon composition and character design , and hope @ @ @ @ @ @ @ story gives others the courage to question institutions , to put their own work out there , and to trust in their own feelings , experiences , and comedic sensibilities for artistic inspiration .
Also , if anyone ever needs a refresher course in how to draw a great stuffed animal , look no further than Liz ’ s cartoon œuvre .

Liz Montague first contacted The New Yorker by sending in an incredibly thoughtful letter expressing her disappointment with the dearth of cartoonists of color in the magazine’s pages. I was forwarded that letter and—newly minted as the cartoon editor, and viewing it as my top prerogative to find a way to publish all the great, diverse voices working in comics—was thrilled to talk with someone who expressed so well the frustration that I also felt about the historically white-male skew of our cartoonists. (How many all-white-male boardroom cartoons had I read and internalized as a kid, while my mom was working crazy hours to become one of the very few female partners in a top New York City law firm at the time?) Who, I wrote back, did Liz think I should be publishing? And she replied, “Me.” How lucky for The New Yorker that Liz had the chutzpah to say so, because in her we have gained an incisive, slyly sweet, utterly original cartoon voice.
When she and I first met in person, for a coffee, Liz was employed by an international-development organization and was en route to the Middle East, to research the effects of climate change on rural communities. It takes a specially calibrated mind to mine that type of trip for comedic fodder—to be engaged in that type of work and also to make jokes that change people’s opinions about global warming and faux allyship and casual sexism. And, most important of all, to make those jokes funny. I hope that this video teaches viewers some fundamentals of cartoon composition and character design, and hope, too, that Liz’s story gives others the courage to question institutions, to put their own work out there, and to trust in their own feelings, experiences, and comedic sensibilities for artistic inspiration. Also, if anyone ever needs a refresher course in how to draw a great stuffed animal, look no further than Liz’s cartoon œuvre.


newyorker--2020-09-29--Harry Reid on the Senate, the Supreme Court, and a Time for Major Change

The decision by Senate Republicans to jam through the Supreme Court nomination of Amy Coney Barrett in the final days before the election—when they refused even to hold hearings on the nomination of Merrick Garland , in 2016—has brought the dysfunction and the hypocrisy of the Senate to wide public notice .
A defense that Republicans have offered Democrats is : you started it .
Specifically , they assert that the breakdown began with a decision , in 2013 , by then Majority Leader Harry Reid , Democrat of Nevada , to lead the effort to abolish the filibuster for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As President Donald Trump retweeted earlier this month , repeating a message from Senator Lindsey Graham , “ Harry Reid & Chuck Schumer changed Senate rules to try and stack the courts for Obama .
Now it ’ s coming back to haunt them as I predicted.
” Reid , who retired from the Senate in 2016 , has no regrets .
For the past two and a half years , he ’ s been battling pancreatic cancer , at his home in Las Vegas .
In a recent conversation , Reid said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at bay .
Mostly , though , he wanted to talk about the Senate , the election , and Donald Trump .
“ I want to get this off my chest , ” Reid told me .
“ Trump ’ s been saying what ’ s happened to the Senate is all my fault , because of what we did in 2013 .
But you have to remember what was going on at the time .
Obama was President .
We had the majority , but we didn ’ t have enough to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ filibustering everything .
For the first time in history , they filibustered the nomination of a Secretary of Defense , and let ’ s keep in mind that it was Chuck Hagel , a Republican .
They filibustered all the sub-Cabinet positions , all of his judges .
The government couldn ’ t function .
So we changed the rule , and I ’ m glad we did.
” Reid has a point , especially about judges .
Obama had managed to fill two Supreme Court seats in his first term , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ filibusters had brought the confirmation of judges to a near-total stop .
Specifically , in 2013 , Obama had three pending nominations for the D.C .
Circuit , widely known as the second-most important court in the nation , and Mitch McConnell , then the Minority Leader , was staging filibusters against them all .
In response , Reid and his Democratic colleagues changed the rule , so that only a simple majority , instead of sixty votes , was required to close debate on judges and Presidential appointees .
The three D.C @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were several dozen other judges before the midterm elections of 2014 , when Republicans gained a majority in the Senate .
At that point , McConnell almost completely shut down the confirmation of Obama ’ s judges .
“ If we hadn ’ t acted , Obama would have accomplished nothing , ” Reid said .
“ We had no choice—zero.
” Since Reid left the Senate , the gridlock there has only intensified .
McConnell has used Reid ’ s change in the rules to push through all of Trump ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hadn ’ t changed the rule when Obama was President , McConnell would have done so under Trump—and Obama would have had virtually no judges confirmed . )
In order to push through Neil Gorsuch ’ s nomination to the Supreme Court , McConnell led an effort to overturn the right to use filibusters on nominations to the high court .
( This is why Republicans need only a simple majority—that is , fifty of their fifty-three members—to confirm Barrett .
Vice-President Mike Pence would break any tied votes , although his right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not entirely clear . )
In the Trump years , the Senate has all but stopped passing legislation .
In the first two years of Trump ’ s term , when Republicans controlled both houses of Congress , Democrats in the Senate filibustered most legislation .
Since 2018 , when Democrats retook the House , McConnell has largely prevented Senate votes on measures passed by that chamber .
For the most part , under McConnell , the Senate has operated only to confirm judges ( by majority vote ) and to pass budgets @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bipartisanship , when the Senate passed bills to address the coronavirus pandemic , but another bill appears doomed . )
In light of this gridlock , a question has arisen about what to do if Joe Biden wins the Presidency and the Democrats retake the Senate .
With a majority but less than sixty votes , will Republican filibusters prevent them from accomplishing anything ?
“ I think the time has come for the filibuster to go , and it ’ s going to go .
It ’ s not a question of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me .
“ There is no legislation passed .
There are no amendments voted on .
You can ’ t have a legislature that requires sixty per cent .
It ’ s outlived its usefulness.
” But that ’ s not the only structural reform that Reid wants to see passed .
Reid was the Minority Leader in the Senate when McConnell blocked the Garland nomination , on the argument that there should be no Supreme Court confirmations in an election year .
Now , of course , McConnell is leading the charge @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s time for some redress for what he regards as the theft of those two seats .
Reid was a Senate institutionalist , but now he ’ s ready for the Senate to consider some major changes to the structure of the U.S. government .
“ First of all , the Supreme Court is not a static body .
It ’ s not always been nine members—they have had five , eight , different numbers , ” Reid said .
( The Court ’ s membership has been fixed at nine , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He added , “ I think it ’ s time that we did something after the election , something very publicly .
We should hold some hearings , educate the public about this history .
We should show that we ’ ve changed the number of Justices in the past , and we may have to do it again .
”

The decision by Senate Republicans to jam through the Supreme Court nomination of Amy Coney Barrett in the final days before the election—when they refused even to hold hearings on the nomination of Merrick Garland, in 2016—has brought the dysfunction and the hypocrisy of the Senate to wide public notice. A defense that Republicans have offered Democrats is: you started it. Specifically, they assert that the breakdown began with a decision, in 2013, by then Majority Leader Harry Reid, Democrat of Nevada, to lead the effort to abolish the filibuster for lower-court judges and other Presidential nominees. As President Donald Trump retweeted earlier this month, repeating a message from Senator Lindsey Graham, “Harry Reid & Chuck Schumer changed Senate rules to try and stack the courts for Obama. Now it’s coming back to haunt them as I predicted.”
Reid, who retired from the Senate in 2016, has no regrets. For the past two and a half years, he’s been battling pancreatic cancer, at his home in Las Vegas. In a recent conversation, Reid said that he has been keeping the disease at bay. Mostly, though, he wanted to talk about the Senate, the election, and Donald Trump. “I want to get this off my chest,” Reid told me. “Trump’s been saying what’s happened to the Senate is all my fault, because of what we did in 2013. But you have to remember what was going on at the time. Obama was President. We had the majority, but we didn’t have enough to break filibusters. And the Republicans were filibustering everything. For the first time in history, they filibustered the nomination of a Secretary of Defense, and let’s keep in mind that it was Chuck Hagel, a Republican. They filibustered all the sub-Cabinet positions, all of his judges. The government couldn’t function. So we changed the rule, and I’m glad we did.”
Reid has a point, especially about judges. Obama had managed to fill two Supreme Court seats in his first term, but by the time he was reëlected Republican filibusters had brought the confirmation of judges to a near-total stop. Specifically, in 2013, Obama had three pending nominations for the D.C. Circuit, widely known as the second-most important court in the nation, and Mitch McConnell, then the Minority Leader, was staging filibusters against them all. In response, Reid and his Democratic colleagues changed the rule, so that only a simple majority, instead of sixty votes, was required to close debate on judges and Presidential appointees. The three D.C. Circuit nominees were confirmed, as were several dozen other judges before the midterm elections of 2014, when Republicans gained a majority in the Senate. At that point, McConnell almost completely shut down the confirmation of Obama’s judges. “If we hadn’t acted, Obama would have accomplished nothing,” Reid said. “We had no choice—zero.”
Since Reid left the Senate, the gridlock there has only intensified. McConnell has used Reid’s change in the rules to push through all of Trump’s lower-court judicial nominations. (If Reid hadn’t changed the rule when Obama was President, McConnell would have done so under Trump—and Obama would have had virtually no judges confirmed.) In order to push through Neil Gorsuch’s nomination to the Supreme Court, McConnell led an effort to overturn the right to use filibusters on nominations to the high court. (This is why Republicans need only a simple majority—that is, fifty of their fifty-three members—to confirm Barrett. Vice-President Mike Pence would break any tied votes, although his right to do so under the Constitution is not entirely clear.)
In the Trump years, the Senate has all but stopped passing legislation. In the first two years of Trump’s term, when Republicans controlled both houses of Congress, Democrats in the Senate filibustered most legislation. Since 2018, when Democrats retook the House, McConnell has largely prevented Senate votes on measures passed by that chamber. For the most part, under McConnell, the Senate has operated only to confirm judges (by majority vote) and to pass budgets. (There were brief moments of bipartisanship, when the Senate passed bills to address the coronavirus pandemic, but another bill appears doomed.) In light of this gridlock, a question has arisen about what to do if Joe Biden wins the Presidency and the Democrats retake the Senate. With a majority but less than sixty votes, will Republican filibusters prevent them from accomplishing anything?
“I think the time has come for the filibuster to go, and it’s going to go. It’s not a question of whether but when,” Reid told me. “There is no legislation passed. There are no amendments voted on. You can’t have a legislature that requires sixty per cent. It’s outlived its usefulness.” But that’s not the only structural reform that Reid wants to see passed.
Reid was the Minority Leader in the Senate when McConnell blocked the Garland nomination, on the argument that there should be no Supreme Court confirmations in an election year. Now, of course, McConnell is leading the charge for Barrett. Reid thinks that it’s time for some redress for what he regards as the theft of those two seats. Reid was a Senate institutionalist, but now he’s ready for the Senate to consider some major changes to the structure of the U.S. government. “First of all, the Supreme Court is not a static body. It’s not always been nine members—they have had five, eight, different numbers,” Reid said. (The Court’s membership has been fixed at nine, by statute, since 1869.) He added, “I think it’s time that we did something after the election, something very publicly. We should hold some hearings, educate the public about this history. We should show that we’ve changed the number of Justices in the past, and we may have to do it again.”


newyorker--2020-09-29--What to Stream: James Cagney Is a Corrupt Demagogue in “A Lion Is in the Streets”

When it comes to films about the rise of corrupt demagogues , “ All the King ’ s Men , ” from 1949 , based on the life of Huey Long , is among the most famous .
But it has less to say about the current day than another ( and , I ’ d say , better ) movie on the same subject , “ A Lion Is in the Streets , ” from 1953 ( which is streaming on Amazon ) .
It ’ s a shorter , brisker , wilder film , and one that ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Technicolor cinematography but in its characterizations—thanks largely to its star , the ebullient James Cagney , and its director , the rambunctious Raoul Walsh .
“ A Lion Is in the Streets ” begins and ends in mud ; mud is at the crux of the action , and , in a way , it ’ s the very subject of the film , though that isn ’ t quite clear at the outset .
During a big rainstorm in rural Louisiana , a boisterous peddler named Hank Martin ( Cagney ) splashes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one-room schoolhouse , where he playfully helps the new and young teacher , Verity Wade ( Barbara Hale ) , a college-educated Pennsylvanian—and then grabs her by the hand , seductively draws her into a vestibule , and informs her that he ’ s going to marry her .
The loud and willful Hank is used to getting his way ( they indeed marry ) ; he ’ s an exuberant , happy-go-lucky glad-hander , glib and brash and sociable , the friendliest guy in town , whose popularity goes hand in hand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which he brazenly describes to his new bride .
When she tells him how “ wonderful ” she finds the townsfolk , he answers , “ All folks is wonderful , if you just happen to know the right place to kick ’ em in .
.
.
.
It ’ s like learning to play a music instrument by ear—all you got ta know is what place to push to get what note , and pretty soon everybody ’ s dancin ’ to your tune.
” A man of many and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the law ( borrowing books from a local grandee ) and a cynic who , with authentic loyalty to the poor sharecroppers , who are his friends and customers—the “ folksies , ” he calls them—heaps contempt on the state ’ s reformist governor , saying that his efforts at civic improvement , notably a massive campaign of road building ( to deal with the mud ) , aren ’ t moving fast enough .
Venting a grudge against Robert Castleberry ( Larry Keating ) , a rich businessman whose cotton gin @ @ @ @ @ @ @ farmers ( i.e.
, underpaying them for their crop ) , Hank organizes an armed posse of fifty men to invade the enterprise .
( “ You married a winner , ” he cries out to Verity , “ not a loser.
” ) Unsurprisingly , the result is mayhem , and Hank ends up facing possible criminal charges .
But a political fixer named Guy Polli ( Onslow Stevens ) has a scheme for Hank to avoid those charges : having Hank run for governor and making sure that he defeats the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , his celebrity , and his populist contempt for the establishment—although his policies , tailored to the interests of his backer , will do the “ folksies ” no good .
Meanwhile , Hank ’ s publicity stunts , his flouting of the law , his demagogy , and his autocratic impulses become all the more flagrant .
The action includes an affair with a flashily nicknamed woman , a takeover of a courtroom ( with no fear of being held in contempt of court ) , a plot to kill a suspect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Day chicanery , an election thrown into the legislature , a private militia that seeks to influence the decision—and , through it all , there ’ s the menace of mud , rendering roads impassable to prospective voters and also preventing farmers from selling their wares .
Which is to say that “ A Lion Is in the Streets ” is a story of infrastructure .
The movie offers , amid its hectic and rowdy melodrama , a constant and underlying vision of the crucial power of government to serve the public good—and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , almost invisibly , be shifted to the unfair advantage of the rich and the connected .
Yet the fire and the flair of “ A Lion Is in the Streets ” is provided by Cagney , who is an exuberant performer , one whose snappy streetwise popularity coalesces with that of Hank .
Cagney , who got his start as a song-and-dance man , was famous for his roles in both musicals and gangster films , in comedies and dramas alike , and his villainous characters have the same bounce and snap @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lovable ones .
He pulls off that trick in “ A Lion Is in the Streets , ” displaying the ease with which a loud , audacious , brazen , fast-talking rogue with a ravenous ego can win the hearts of the vulnerable and downtrodden while also making common cause with their very oppressors .

When it comes to films about the rise of corrupt demagogues, “All the King’s Men,” from 1949, based on the life of Huey Long, is among the most famous. But it has less to say about the current day than another (and, I’d say, better) movie on the same subject, “A Lion Is in the Streets,” from 1953 (which is streaming on Amazon). It’s a shorter, brisker, wilder film, and one that’s more colorful—not just in its splashy Technicolor cinematography but in its characterizations—thanks largely to its star, the ebullient James Cagney, and its director, the rambunctious Raoul Walsh.
“A Lion Is in the Streets” begins and ends in mud; mud is at the crux of the action, and, in a way, it’s the very subject of the film, though that isn’t quite clear at the outset. During a big rainstorm in rural Louisiana, a boisterous peddler named Hank Martin (Cagney) splashes up a mud-pooled dirt road toward a one-room schoolhouse, where he playfully helps the new and young teacher, Verity Wade (Barbara Hale), a college-educated Pennsylvanian—and then grabs her by the hand, seductively draws her into a vestibule, and informs her that he’s going to marry her. The loud and willful Hank is used to getting his way (they indeed marry); he’s an exuberant, happy-go-lucky glad-hander, glib and brash and sociable, the friendliest guy in town, whose popularity goes hand in hand with the skillful manipulations of his salesmanship, which he brazenly describes to his new bride. When she tells him how “wonderful” she finds the townsfolk, he answers, “All folks is wonderful, if you just happen to know the right place to kick ’em in. . . . It’s like learning to play a music instrument by ear—all you gotta know is what place to push to get what note, and pretty soon everybody’s dancin’ to your tune.”
A man of many and disparate parts, Hank is an autodidact of the law (borrowing books from a local grandee) and a cynic who, with authentic loyalty to the poor sharecroppers, who are his friends and customers—the “folksies,” he calls them—heaps contempt on the state’s reformist governor, saying that his efforts at civic improvement, notably a massive campaign of road building (to deal with the mud), aren’t moving fast enough. Venting a grudge against Robert Castleberry (Larry Keating), a rich businessman whose cotton gin, he claims, is short-weighting the farmers (i.e., underpaying them for their crop), Hank organizes an armed posse of fifty men to invade the enterprise. (“You married a winner,” he cries out to Verity, “not a loser.”)
Unsurprisingly, the result is mayhem, and Hank ends up facing possible criminal charges. But a political fixer named Guy Polli (Onslow Stevens) has a scheme for Hank to avoid those charges: having Hank run for governor and making sure that he defeats the reformer. Hank runs on his popularity, his celebrity, and his populist contempt for the establishment—although his policies, tailored to the interests of his backer, will do the “folksies” no good. Meanwhile, Hank’s publicity stunts, his flouting of the law, his demagogy, and his autocratic impulses become all the more flagrant. The action includes an affair with a flashily nicknamed woman, a takeover of a courtroom (with no fear of being held in contempt of court), a plot to kill a suspect in possession of inconvenient information, Election Day chicanery, an election thrown into the legislature, a private militia that seeks to influence the decision—and, through it all, there’s the menace of mud, rendering roads impassable to prospective voters and also preventing farmers from selling their wares.
Which is to say that “A Lion Is in the Streets” is a story of infrastructure. The movie offers, amid its hectic and rowdy melodrama, a constant and underlying vision of the crucial power of government to serve the public good—and the ease with which that power can, almost invisibly, be shifted to the unfair advantage of the rich and the connected. Yet the fire and the flair of “A Lion Is in the Streets” is provided by Cagney, who is an exuberant performer, one whose snappy streetwise popularity coalesces with that of Hank. Cagney, who got his start as a song-and-dance man, was famous for his roles in both musicals and gangster films, in comedies and dramas alike, and his villainous characters have the same bounce and snap, bluster and charm, as his lovable ones. He pulls off that trick in “A Lion Is in the Streets,” displaying the ease with which a loud, audacious, brazen, fast-talking rogue with a ravenous ego can win the hearts of the vulnerable and downtrodden while also making common cause with their very oppressors.