Bob Whitcomb’s Digital Diary: Superman Building, Mike Pence and Hillary

Bob Whitcomb, Contributor

Bob Whitcomb’s Digital Diary: Superman Building, Mike Pence and Hillary

Bob Whitcomb
The aim is fame; you don’t spray; summer jobs of yore

In picking Indiana Gov. Mike Pence as his running mate, Donald Trump has shown yet again that he really doesn’t have any “policies.’’ His only real apparent interest is maintaining himself as a “winner’’ and Mr. Pence might help.

Mr. Pence’s support for “free-trade’’ agreements that have helped kill jobs and lower wages in the U.S.; his backing for open immigration (which also cuts U.S. wages), and his evangelical Christian views don’t jibe with Mr. Trump’s rhetoric or behavior.

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Mr. Trump has two main issues:  Crack down on “free trade’’ and on immigration. On the latter, he wants to kick out 11 million illegals, build a “wall’’ on the Mexican border and make it tough for Muslims to enter America. Operational details to come.

Maybe.

The governor has also been a loyal servant of the Koch Brothers and other very rich people.  For a time, Mr. Trump made vague populist noises about the need to reduce the power of Wall Street big shots and Washington lobbyists but that has gone away as he realizes the Republican reality. The public has less and less patience with details anyway, and citizens rarely remember what a candidate said a few months back.

GOP VP pick Mike Pence
Judging by how he has conducted his business and much of his personal life, The Donald would rank high up on most metrics of, to be polite, ‘’amorality’’.

But that matters little in the Reality TV and Twitter age, even to the Boy Scouty Mr. Pence, who has decided to try to ride the Trumpmobile back to Washington, where he was an ineffective, if pleasant, congressman promoting the usual collection of Tea Party and supply-side nostrums that, although having been tried for much of the past few decades, do not seem to have ushered in a golden age for the middle class.

Anyway, the aim is fame. I suspect that Donald Trump originally ran for president simply to keep himself and his businesses in the news. He may have been surprised that his incoherent, virtually detail-free but entertainingly demagogic primary campaign did as well as it did. And this pathological liar and con man will get a lot of votes in November from people who won’t admit their choice to their neighbors. As for Mike Pence, he knows that there’s a good chance that a vice president can become president.

Former Sec. of State Hillary Clinton
People tend not to like Hillary Clinton because she has told some self-protective lies; because she has a reputation for extreme secretiveness; because she seems to feel herself privileged to make her own rules (but not as much as Donald Trump), and because she and her husband have made a fortune by mingling/cross-self-promoting government work, “nonprofit’’ work and for-profit work (especially by being paid vast sums to speak to companies and other special-interest groups).  And, as unfair as it is, a lot of people find her voice grating.

Not surprisingly, she generally avoids press conferences. But she could do herself a big favor by holding a long press conference in which she takes any questions. She could, for example, elaborate more on why she used a private server to conduct top-secret discussions by email and also explain the mysterious workings of the Clinton Foundation. Such a forum might help lance the boil of public distrust, if not dislike.

You Don't Spray!

The other week, as I drove through miles of woods in inland southern New England where caterpillars had consumed the leaves of so many trees, I thanked God that no one has suggested spraying to kill the creatures. You hear enough about massive spraying campaigns to kill mosquitoes carrying the Zika virus.

The trouble with these campaigns is that they kill a lot more than the targeted culprits. They kill, for example, bees, which we need for pollination of our crops,  as well as birds, fish and many other creatures.

The trees will come back without chemical bombing. For now, we can enjoy the eerie sight of midsummer woods looking like November’s.

Industrial Deco

Superman Building, empty for 3 plus years
David Sweetser, whose High Rock Development owns the Industrial Trust Building in downtown Providence, is smart to have arranged for public tours of the Art Deco skyscraper to be offered over the next couple of months to, he hopes, get people excited/intrigued enough to rent there (or buy the whole place).

It’s a gorgeous structure, although, of course, fading. The model in New England of how to retrofit such a stepped-back Art Deco building is the gold-topped United Shoe Machinery Building, on Federal Street in downtown Boston, which is now fixed up and full. But it’s usually a lot cheaper to tear down an old building and put in a cheap utilitarian replacement than to save it.  And there’s much more money in Boston than in Providence. But hang in there, Mr. Sweetser!

Summer Jobs of Yore

Note: A version of the following was published in my blog a few weeks back.

Ah, those usually boring summer jobs. From the time I was 13 to when I was 16 I had a series of the usual gigs --- mowing lawns, cutting brush, delivering papers via bicycle, briefly busboying.  But after turning 16, I started working at a company on the Boston waterfront called Mills Transfer Co., which picked up stuff brought in by  ship to the Port of Boston and trucked it around the Northeast.

Most of what I did was utter tedium – filing multicolored bills of lading and, a bit better, making some deliveries around Boston. Occasional excitement was provided when the IBM punch-card machines malfunctioned,  exploding those “do not fold or mutilate’’ cards all over the floor.

Summer job
The floor where I worked had a spectacular view of Boston Harbor and Logan Airport, and it was fun to be sent down to the loading dock to talk with the truckers. Best was that nearby was a lunch boat that my office mates and I took a couple of times a summer around inner Boston Harbor. The wind over the water was soothing on those hot days, albeit often smelly. Boston Harbor was far more polluted than it is now.

Indeed, much of the waterfront was still decrepit. Boston’s redevelopment took a while to get there, and arson seemed to be the most common method of removing crumbling old buildings and collapsing piers. Still, there was a certain romance to it.

So through the hazy, hot and humid days of July and August I would trudge from South Station, to which the commuter bus from Cohasset went, to Mills Transfer, via a rusty bridge over the foul Fort Point Channel. At 5 p.m., I reversed the trip, noting that as I entered the second week of August, the light had become noticeably dimmer. And then came the claustrophobic traffic jams on the Southeast Expressway that often made the trip home take more than an hour.

In a later summer I was a counselor at a camp in a malarial area near a pond in Plymouth Mass., for poor kids from the city. There I learned how to use a loud voice to control tough teens most of whom were bigger than me. I didn’t particularly like it, though it didn’t dissuade me from briefly being a high-school teacher a few years later.

As the summer of 1969 approached I was looking for a very different kind of summer job. I lucked out when a natty sports columnist called Joe Purcell helped get me a job as an “editorial assistant’’  (i.e. "copy boy'') at the Boston Record American, a Hearst tabloid heavy on murders and “The Daily Number.’’

The Record was in a beautiful granite building on Winthrop Square in downtown Boston. But other than the executive offices, the facility was not air-conditioned. The filthy newsroom was stifling, with jars of salt tablets and a couple of big but weak fans to ward off heat stroke.

I helped by cutting the teletype paper before handing wire-service copy to rewritemen (there was only one lady journalist in the room), made “books’’ – two carbon sheets sandwiched with three sheets of paper for writing stories on; was given cash by editors to give to the bookies in the composing room, and was sent on rather pleasant errands around “The Hub,’’ such as to the Associated Press and the Boston Stock Exchange. It was always cooler on the streets than in the newsroom.  

It was the summer of “Woodstock,’’ the moon landing and Ted Kennedy’s  Chappaquiddick scandal. The Record being pretty much a scandal sheet, the last story drew the most attention in the newsroom in the Capital of the Kennedys. I heard many salacious remarks, some grimly funny.

After that summer, I thought that I had exhausted any desire to be a journalist.


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