Gaslit, Watergate, and the Madness of Politics

 

Gaslit, Watergate, and the Madness of Politics

Peter Schultz

 

            As illustrated by the television series, Gaslit, the more I ponder what is called Watergate, the stranger it becomes. The conventional wisdom about Watergate, as illustrated by that series, is that it represented American politics as a drama about a quest for justice and/or democracy in the face of the threats represented by the Nixon administration and its covert and overt activities directed at its “enemies,” as well as at the democratic election process. And, in the end, the “good guys” won, as Nixon was forced to resign the presidency and, as President Ford said, “Our long national nightmare [was] over.”

 

            The conventional wisdom, however uplifting it might be, is anything but an accurate portrayal of what happened during Watergate or an accurate portrayal of politics generally. Watergate was a veritable madhouse, where, for example, as presented in Gaslit, an alcoholic, depressed, spurned woman played, allegedly, a prominent role in taking down the most powerful man on the planet – for better and worse. Watergate was largely the result of a “blindly ambitious” young man, John Dean, who was willing to chance exposing his girlfriend’s close friendship with a “madame,” who was managing a call girl ring by using the Democratic National Committee offices in the Watergate, all for the sake of his political advancement. The same young man was more than willing to implicate others in criminal activities to hide his own culpability. Watergate also involved, revolved around a paranoid president, Nixon, who allowed himself to be played by others to the point that he was forced to resign in disgrace, while his most trusted – and his most trustworthy – cohorts and colleagues went to prison. And this while his least trustworthy aides, e.g., Dean and Alexander Haig, were rewarded with accolades as “heroes” who helped save American democracy, along with those “enemies,” like Woodward and Bernstein, who, although hailed as heroes, willingly engaged in their own covert activities to take down the president. And that the CIA was also covertly involved in Watergate must be taken as fact now, adding another layer of madness to the scandal. “One flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo’s nest.”

 

            Blaise Pascal wrote that when reading Plato and Aristotle, in their writings on politics, they should be read ironically, because they were convinced that trying to reform political life is like trying to bring order into a madhouse. If what occurred during Watergate wasn’t madness, then the concept of madness has no meaning. Apparently, Plato and Aristotle were as aware of the madness of political life as was Machiavelli. But despite his reputation for being “Machiavellian,” it seems Richard Nixon wasn’t aware of the madness that surrounded him and that, ultimately, brought him down. In fact, when reading about Watergate, it becomes clear that Nixon was naïve to a surprising degree, and this despite – or perhaps because of – his paranoia. Perhaps Nixon, like so many, believed that the political life is about justice, rather than a never-ending contest for power among those Aristotle described as “sick” individuals. There are lessons to be learned from Watergate and even from Gaslit, both about American politics and about politics generally. But learning them requires a capacity of irony, a willingness to see just how insane our cuckoo’s nest is.

Watergate: A Morality Tale with No Morality

 

Watergate: A Morality Tale Without No Morality

Peter Schultz

 

            To understand the Watergate scandal, it is necessary to pay attention to the fact that John Dean, in November of 1971, had his assistant, John Caulfield, tell Anthony Ulasewicz, another Dean underling, to walk through the Democratic National Headquarters offices in the Watergate office building. This order made little sense to Ulasewicz, and it has made little sense to most other people who have noticed it. For example, Gordon Liddy never understood why Dean wanted to break into and bug these offices. But Dean had a reason for doing so and it is key to understanding what became the Watergate scandal.

 

            Dean was then in a relationship with Mo Biner, the woman who later became his wife. And Mo was friends with a woman whose real name was Erika L. “Heidi” Rikan, otherwise known as Cathy Dieter. Cathy/Heidi, as she is referred to in the book Silent Coup: The Removal of a President by Len Colodny and Robert Gettlin, had been a stripper in Washington, D.C. from 1964 to 1966, when she moved into management. That is, she managed a sex-for-money operation in D.C., which was eventually closed down. After that, she managed a sex-for-money “call girl ring” at Columbia Plaza, which is what she was doing when she met John Dean in the 70s, who was, as noted, dating, and living with Mo Biner, who was a good friend of Cathy/Heidi, even staying with her when Dean was out of town.

 

            Around Labor Day in 1971, an attorney named Phillip Mackin Bailley, Cathy/Heide, and Mo Biner, whose nickname in Bailley’s address book was “Clout,” met and discussed a new opportunity for expanding Cathy/Heidi’s business, namely, a Bailley connection who was a Democratic official housed in the Democratic Headquarters in the Watergate office building. Bailley thought it feasible that his contact, Spencer Oliver, or someone else at the DNC would agree to steer visiting politicians to women who could make their evenings pleasurable. After a couple of tries, Bailley was successful and managed to establish a contact who would, for a commission of course, steer politicians in the direction of Columbia Plaza and Cathy/Heidi’s women.

 

            Two things that are clear about John Dean is that he was quite ambitious – entitling his memoir Blind Ambition – and that he determined early on in his office in the White House that political intelligence, gathering and controlling it, was the way to rise in the Nixon administration. Although later he tried to minimize his efforts in this regard, it is fairly obvious that Dean repeatedly tried to get approval for political intelligence operations that would prove useful and would enhance his reputation. So, when Dean, who was “great friends” with Cathy/Heidi, learned of the DNC connection with Heidi Rikan’s business, he knew this would be, if tapped (couldn’t resist), a gold mine of political intelligence that could be used to compromise Democratic politicians, thereby advancing the power of Republicans and his own power. This was why he had Anthony Ulasewicz walk through the DNC headquarters, to assess the feasibility of bugging those offices in order to get damaging political intelligence on Democrats. That is, Dean knew what no one else knew, “that valuable intelligence information could be gleaned from the DNC.” It was opportunity an ambitious fellow like Dean would not pass up, especially as he had the personnel and the means to covertly enter the DNC and bug its phones and offices.

 

            The problem was – and it was or would become a big problem – that there was another agency that knew of and was taking an active interest in the call girl ring at Columbia Plaza, and that other agency was the CIA. For some time, the CIA had engaged in such clandestine spying in order to discover and record politicians in compromising situations. The CIA’ interests in this regard was two-fold: To draw up what it called “machines” or psychological profiles of politicians so it could predict what they would do and, perhaps, influence their doings as well. In fact, the CIA was involved in such clandestine activities with regard to the Columbia Plaza call girl ring, which included as “johns” some of the most prominent political and social persons in the D.C. area, including some judges and even a senator.

 

            Well, you can see the problem that Dean ran into. His operation to spy on the Democrats and the Columbia Plaza call girl ring could and probably would in all likelihood expose the CIA’s operation, which was of course illegal. Therefore, Dean’s operation had to be stopped, had to be undermined, which was made possible by the presence of at least two CIA assets working in the Nixon administration, E. Howard Hunt and James McCord, both of whom claimed to have left the CIA. But, of course, they hadn’t done that and by making “mistake” after “mistake,” making the burglary look like “a third-rate burglary,” as the Nixon people described it, the burglars were caught red-handed, as it were. And then with an assist from McCord, who wrote to Judge Sirica to say perjury had been and was being committed, the attempted cover-up failed and, eventually, Richard Nixon was forced to resign as the Watergate operation, an operation initiated by John Dean, was seen as part of a broader attack on America’s democracy. That this alleged attack on America’s democracy was subverted by the CIA acting secretly should lead one to question the conventional understanding of Watergate as a morality tale wherein democratic heroes from the Washington Post and elsewhere road to rescue of American democracy.

 

            In fact, if this was a morality tale, it was one where no one acted morally. John Dean’s attempt at a cover-up could be seen as his attempt to protect the honor or reputation of his love, Mo Biner, but of course that love and her honor didn’t stop him from undertaking a covert operation that, if exposed, would have compromised her reputation and honor as well, and all for the sake of satisfying his “blind ambition.” The CIA did not, unsurprisingly, act morally, as it gathered intelligence it could use to compromise politicians, thereby undermining democracy. Nor did Nixon and his administration act morally. Indeed, if Nixon had acted morally, that is, had he actually tried to discover what the burglary was about, and who was responsible, instead of covering it up, he would have saved his presidency and come out “smelling like a rose.” Nor did Nixon’s enemies act morally, as they proved willing to ignore aspects of the situation that would have lessened their animosity toward Nixon and compromised their desires to destroy him politically. But a morality play needs “good guys” and “bad guys,” and so Watergate continues to be seen through the eyes of those who were allegedly the “good guys.” And it is quite remarkable how many flaws get covered up by designating someone one of “good guys.”

Idle Questions: Modernity, Nihilistic Savagery

 

Idle Questions: Modernity

Peter Schultz

 

            Two idle questions: (1) What if in fact the United States does represent the peak of modernity? (2) But what if that peak proves to be a nihilistic savagery – disguised as “progress,” as “globalization,” as “the war on terror,” as “anti-Communism,” as “humanistic war-making,” or as “a new world order?”

 

            If so, then the savagery we see around us is not “aberrant behavior.” Rather, it lies at the heart of our “civilization,” “the Heart of Darkness.”

Machiavelli: Learning Not To Be Good

 

Machiavelli: Learning Not To Be Good

Peter Schultz

 

            Machiavelli recommends that human beings should learn to be able not to be good. Most often, this is taken to mean that they should be “bad.” And, of course, there is some truth to that conclusion. But what of other alternatives, like being happy, being content with oneself, being successful?

 

            What Machiavelli is challenging is the aspiration to be good, and he implies that aspiring to be good is a common trait of human beings, so common that they have to learn to not aspire to goodness. So, it is useful to ask: how this aspiration might be criticized? What does aspiring to goodness produce? What does it produce practically and politically speaking?

 

            One possibility is that aspiring for goodness becomes, willy nilly, a sacrificial striving because humans, while they are disposed to want to be good, are not naturally disposed to being good. So, insofar as this is the case, such striving for goodness or moral virtue necessarily becomes sacrificial. Another possibility is that this striving, which is common to human beings, can be manipulated and used to control or rule over human beings, much as it could be argued that this is what Christianity did. The sacrificial striving for goodness becomes or became under the Christian dispensation the basis for what Nietzsche called “slave morality.” That is, the sacrificial striving for goodness is used to enslave the many for the benefit of the few, who are controlled by ambition, and do not strive to be good. They strive for, even lust after power, for rule, for conquest.

 

            And it is also possible that that phenomenon is not simply historical, that is, arose only with the rise of Christianity. It is possible that this phenomenon is common to political life, that it is a universal feature of political life. The few embrace and manipulate the sacrificial striving of the many to be good; they encourage the many to be good even as they provide opportunities for the many to be bad, as a way of controlling them, ruling them as they see fit. This is how the few, the ambitious few, the despotic few control and rule the many. Insofar as this is so, then the many should learn to be able not to be good to protect themselves and to establish a basis for republican government. It is only by means of such a consciousness – a self-regarding, non-sacrificial consciousness – that republican governments can be created and maintained. So, if the many don’t learn to be able not to be good, learn not to aspire to goodness, they will be abused and oppressed by the few. Learning not to be good, for Machiavelli, is the key to establishing republican or non-despotic governments.

Irony and The Human Condition

 

Irony and The Human Condition

Peter Schultz

 

            One problem with Jimmy Dore and some other political comics is that they aren’t ironic. Dore’s humor is like slapstick, that is, like a slap in the face as if intended to wake us up to what is going on. But there is also irony, another form of humor, and one employed by the likes of Plato, Aristotle, and even Machiavelli. It has been contended that each of these political philosophers embraced irony, and insofar as this is true, we may ask how irony illuminates the human condition.

 

            Pascal wrote in his Pensees that the political writings of Plato and Aristotle should be read as comedy, as irony because both knew that trying to reform the political world is like trying to bring order into a madhouse. That is, perhaps irony and its uses reflects the unredeemable character of the human condition. That is, irony is appropriate because attempts to politically redeem the human condition are bound to fail. It might even be said that irony is appropriate because of what may be called the nihilistic character of the human condition.  And one of the most common human thoughts, one of the most common human endeavors is to reform or redeem the human condition via politics. But what if any attempt to redeem the human condition politically is bound to fail? Or, even worse, what if any such attempt will, most often, make the human condition worse?  

 

            Playing with these ideas about irony, if we read Plato and Aristotle as recommended by Pascal, as ironical, then their political teachings may be characterized as warnings. For example, Plato’s Republic becomes a warning about the dangers of trying to politically redeem the human condition because it would involve such policies as arranging marriages by some mathematical formula – a formula no one has ever been able to make sense of – or communism among the guardians or even the rule of philosophers as kings. If Pascal is correct, Plato did not intend these recommendations seriously; rather, he intended them, and perhaps even intended Socrates himself, as pedagogical, as meant to illuminate the character of politics, of the political life.

 

            Reading Aristotle in the same ironical way, how likely is it that Aristotle seriously understood as true his first account of the origin of the polis, of political communities; an account that simply assumes that when men and women come together originally, they do so for the sake of marriage and procreation. This leads to households being formed, which include slaves whose origin is not revealed. The account is so simplistic, so ironical – I mean when I met a woman I found attractive, I wasn’t thinking about marriage and children – that it invites one to think about the origin of political communities in other ways. After all, Aristotle certainly understood that it wasn’t only men and women who come together intimately and that the coming together of “same sex” partners must be taken into account in forming any polis. And, of course, Aristotle’s best regime includes slavery of the unjust variety because, among other things, those who are justly held as slaves are worthless as helpmates.

 

            Even Machiavelli may be read this way, as ironical. When so read, it could seem that Machiavelli’s bold, shocking endorsements of cruelty, his “shock and awe” tactics, are warnings about the requirements of trying to politically redeem the human condition. They are pedagogical, meant to illuminate the character of politics, and not practical recommendations meant to be implemented. And the worth of his warnings may be said to be confirmed by the rise of “Machiavellians,” who because they think Machiavelli embraced inhuman cruelty, would have made Machiavelli chuckle and ask, “Are they nuts?” That Machiavelli was capable of such irony is made clear by his comedy La Mandragola.

 

So why irony? Because It both disguises and reveals. It disguises the nihilistic character of the human condition, thereby not being subversive of that most common of human endeavors, politics. Even if political life is like life in a madhouse, it is still necessary to make that madhouse as orderly, as humain as possible. But irony is also revealing; it reveals the nihilistic character of the human condition. That is, it reveals in a comedic way the emptiness, the madness of the political life. But this revelation is not open to all and because of the character of irony, this conclusion about the human condition can be and will be disputed.

 

Many, even most, don’t chuckle nearly enough when reading Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, to say nothing of his A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court and his Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. There are not a few people who think that Twain genuinely admired Joan of Arc and thought her more than qualified for her sainthood, to say nothing of those who would make, on the basis of A Connecticut Yankee, Twain a supporter of what is now called “neo-liberalism.” And if you look at an institution like the British hereditary aristocracy ironically, you can’t help but chuckle at this attempt to paper over the nihilistic character of the human condition, as Twain did in A Connecticut Yankee. I would even say that people don’t chuckle nearly enough when reading Jane Austen, especially those who want to turn her into a modern-day feminist or a defender of what are called “traditional family values.” Austen chuckled and causes alert readers to chuckle at the “traditional family values” that underlay British society, to say nothing of its imperialism. She even made an anal sex joke about “admirals and rear admirals” in one of her novels [look it up].

 

Taking for granted momentarily the nihilistic character of the human condition and the limits of politics to overcome that character, what is the best option for humans? Well, here irony teaches us that best alternative is a kind of levity, a lightheartedness or, ala’ Jane Austen, genuine erotic attachments, in a word, romance or love. But whatever the case, the best options for humans are not available in politics, in the political arena, in a political life. And this seems to be a recurring theme running through the very best writers. I call it the “hedonistic alternative.” By this I mean that life should be looked at as a spiritual adventure, experienced in fellowship with other such adventurers, some of whom you may even be intimate with, even ala’ Jane Austen marry.

 

David Graeber, in his book Bullshit Jobs, points out that what he calls “playful sadomasochism” is superior to the kind of sadomasochism found in our corporate capitalism and its jobs because the playful sadomasochists have “safe words,” which of course are unavailable against your boss or the corporation you “work” for. Again, a private life devoted to pleasure seems superior to whatever is available in the public realm, whether that be the corporate world or the political world. But, as the long-running show, Seinfeld, illustrated so well, a private life is no guarantee against a narcissism that is, in the final analysis, quite despicable – as illustrated by the last episode of Seinfeld.

 

To conclude: Generally, the serious, the un-ironic may be dangerous human beings because, being un-ironic, they aren’t aware of their and our condition. They are not aware of the limitations of politics and seek to create “new world orders” of one kind or another. But irony recommends that we chuckle at them. As Tom Robbins put it in one of his novels: If only the Germans had been able to laugh at Hitler’s beer house rant and had pelted him with sausage skins, the holocaust might have been avoided. [Look it up.]

     

          

The Conspiratorial Character of Political Life

 

The Conspiratorial Character of Political Life

Peter Schultz

 

            Here’s a question: Can American political life be understood without referring to conspiracies? A more general question is: Can political life itself be understood without reference to conspiracies? I think the answer to both questions is “No.” Conspiracies are central to political life in general and to American political life in particular.

 

            Regarding American political life, it cannot be understood without taking a conspiratorial view of, say, the assassination of JFK, as well as others. If that assassination was not the result of a conspiracy, i.e., was not planned for by persons for political purposes, then it was nothing more a random event, almost as if it were a traffic accident. And that’s how many Americans want to think about it. JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald, moving separately, ultimately met in Dallas, where they “ran into each other,” and JFK ended up dead. This is what “the lone gunman theory” of that crime meant and means. And it is a comforting theory, more comforting than if JFK was assassinated by the CIA, the Soviets, or Cubans who were protecting Castro from Kennedy’s attempts to have him assassinated. Such explanations are similar to those used to account for, say, the Vietnam War, which is said to have been “a quagmire” into which the US was dragged, almost against its will.

 

            One reason such explanations are popular is because we Americans don’t want to think that not only are conspiracies a permanent part of political life, but that they often control our political life. We prefer to think that our political life is controlled by laws, elections, Supreme Court decisions, and outstanding individuals, e.g., “great presidents.” To think that conspiracies are key to determining our political life would require us to rethink things we take for granted as “common sense” or “conventional wisdom.” This would be a major task; one most people have no desire to undertake. Hence, they are quite content to think of “conspiracy theorists” as delusional, paranoid persons who live in fantasy worlds of their own creation. But it could be that in fact it is the rest of us who are living in a fantasy world, although not of our own making.

 

            Aristotle wrote about political life as characterized by what he called “regimes.” That is, there are democratic regimes, oligarchic regimes, monarchical regimes, aristocratic regimes, and tyrannical regimes. These regimes are arrangements of power that reflect “the values” – as we say – of the most powerful. Democratic regimes rest on democratic values, values which are embraced by and motivate those who have them. So, democrats seek to maintain and fortify their democracy, and act in ways to accomplish that end. You may say that democrats will join together, act conspiratorially to maintain and fortify their democracy, whereas oligarchs will do the same. To see political life in terms of regimes is to see political life in terms of conspiracies. Machiavelli, famous as a conspiracy theorist, knew nothing about conspiracies that Aristotle didn’t know too. For both, conspiracies were the stuff of political life. Regimes can only be preserved or subverted by way of conspiracies, as Aristotle’s Politics and Machiavelli’s The Prince and The Discourses make clear.

 

            Most Americans don’t think about political life in terms of regimes, as did Aristotle. Even Machiavelli downplayed their importance, without ever downplaying the centrality of conspiracies in political life. This points to the differences between Aristotle’s political teaching and Machiavelli’s political teaching. Whereas political life was animated by conflicting ideas of justice for Aristotle, for Machiavelli political life was animated by psychological forces – as we say – by different types of human beings that are not best described in political terms. For Machiavelli, there are essentially the ambitious few and the insecure many, rather than there being democrats, oligarchs, aristocrats, or tyrants. Machiavelli redefined political life by minimizing or rejecting concerns about justice as central. Questions of justice and injustice are, for Machiavelli, ultimately irrelevant when understanding or constructing republics or princedoms. For Machiavelli, the best political order is not defined as the most just political order, as it was for Aristotle; rather it is the most secure, the most stable, the most prosperous, the most powerful, and the one that secures “the general welfare” and does so over time, “for ourselves and our posterity.”

 

            Despite these differences, however, Aristotle, like Machiavelli, saw political life as essentially conspiratorial. Democrats want a regime that is just as democrats understand justice, that is, as essentially egalitarian. But to achieve that goal, democrats join forces, conspiring against the oligarchs, the aristocrats, the monarchists, and the tyrants, while the latter are conspiring against the democrats. Appeals to justice are made. But the character of political life is not determined in the final analysis by such appeals. Rather, the character of political life, the character of any regime, is determined by conspiracies, i.e., covert and overt actions meant to secure and fortify the prevailing arrangements of power, whether democratic, oligarchic, aristocratic, monarchic, tyrannical. Because all arrangements of power are partial, all are unjust in some ways. Hence, all are unstable, even open to subversion. Democrats, oligarchs, aristocrats, monarchists, even tyrants must join forces, i.e., conspire to preserve their rule, their regime. And even the best regime, as Aristotle’s account of it in his Politics illustrates, would need to conspire to preserve itself.

Machiavelli, the Ancients, and Hedonism

 

Machiavelli, the Ancients, and Hedonism

Peter Schultz

 

            There is a very interesting paragraph in Harvey Mansfield, Jr.’s introduction to his and Nathan Tarcov’s translation of Machiavelli’s Discourses.

 

“To answer the question of why Machiavelli felt it necessary to change ancient virtue, we return to the criticism of Christianity in which he blames it for creating ‘ambitious idleness’ (DI, pr. 2) and for being interpreted according to leisure and not virtue (DII, 2.2). Idleness, or leisure (as ozio can also be translated), is the contrary of virtue in Machiavelli’s view. For Aristotle, leisure (schole) was the very condition of the virtuous. Machiavelli directs his venomous criticism of idleness against not only the priests but also the gentlemen (DI, 55.4), who were bearers of worldly honor according to the ancients. Thus, it is not enough to recover the honor of the world against Christian humility if honor is still be found in high-minded leisure. Leisure makes republics either effeminate or divided, or both: the idle or the leisurely are included among the enemies of the human race. Machiavelli puts necessity over leisure as the concern of the legislator. He wants men to seek that worldly honor – or, better to say, glory – that is consistent with vigorous devotion to answering one’s necessities. However much ancient virtue and Christian virtue are divided over worldly honor, they are together in their high-minded rejection of motives arising from necessity and, in general, of the acquisitive life.” [xxxv-xxxvi]

 

            There is a suggestion here that for Machiavelli, the ancients were too hedonistic as their embrace of the superiority of the leisurely life implies. For Aristotle, virtue is to be found in a life of leisure, not in a life of necessity, a life of acquisition, or a life devoted to the pursuit of glory. This implies that at least for the ancients, if not for Christians, pleasures such as contemplation define the peak of human potential. Gentlemen are not defined by lives of acquisition or by the pursuit of glory or fame, which is achieved through great political acts. And while gentlemen are not philosophers and so cannot enjoy the most intense pleasures available, their lives reflect the kind of life that is best, an essentially private life devoted to the enjoyment of the finer things of life, a life of “high-minded leisure.” For Machiavelli, such lives are effeminate, not manly, and, hence, are “among the enemies of the human race.” “Both [the ancients and Christianity] find the highest types – philosopher and saint – in one who puts the contemplative life over politics….” [xxxvi] In a material world, a world of matter, both of these arch types will prove to be dangerously weak, “and thus who could not be described as a ‘new prince,’ Machiavelli’s highest type.”