Marty's Bon Mots (Selections found in: Glad You Asked)

Romney Bain and South Carolina

2012-01-23T12:49:00.002-05:00

Before we jump to any hastyconclusions and draw our money out of the betting pool we can still pretty muchrest assured that Willard Mitt Romney will capture the Republication nominationfor the Presidential election this year. Yes. Yes. Respectfully graying at the temples Mitt willtake that podium in Tampa Bay in August (better him than me) and waxphilosophical as to exactly what a great guy he is.

But he lost! I hear you say. But he lost! Yes. He lost. But look where he lost. In South Carolina of all places. What exactly did you expect? Sure the fair governor of South Carolinaendorsed him. But again, what did youexpect? The right honorable Nikki Haley isa political hack who like to play with a fixed deck. More than just a bit of a racist,demonstrated by standing behind initiatives such as requiring voters to showtheir IDs at South Carolina voting polls, she hooks her star to the perceivedwinner regardless of how that purported winner has screwed her state.

And screw South Carolina Romney mostcertainly did. While working at Bain& Company he helped form spinoff capital investment firm Bain Capital LLC.

Bain Capital LLC more than doubled itsmoney on GS Industries Inc., the formerparent company of Georgetown Steel. Thesteel manufacturer went on to cut more than 1,750 jobs, shuttered a divisionthat had been around for 100 years and eventually sank into bankruptcy. Less than a year after taking a controllinginterest in the Georgetown plant, Bain Capital cut the employees'profit-sharing plan twice - lowering the plan's hourly rate from $5.60 an hourto $1.25 per hour. Most of the workers didn't learn about the cuts until theyreceived their paychecks. The profit-sharing checks eventually disappeared altogether.

Let’s recount the story of the Holson Burnes Group, a photo-albummaker based in Gaffney South Carolina. The prospectus shows Bain Capital'spartners made more than twice their investment, earning $22.6 million,according to the prospectus, between 1986 and 1992, when Holson Burnes Groupwent out of business and 150 people lost their jobs. Holson Burnes thenproceeded to open andshut a plant in South Carolina and to do the same in New Hampshire.Each time, it created, then cut, jobs. In South Carolina, at least, it cutthose jobs after having extracted big incentives from the government to openthe plant. For Bain, the plan was a financial success: Holson Burnes raised $24 million from its initial public offering on the over-the-counter tradingmarket, with Bain executives retaining the majority of the company’s shares.Bain, in the end, reaped more than double the return on its initial investment.But workers were left jobless just as the local economy began to slump.

To create ever-more profit for Bain, Holson Burnes shipped jobs overseas. By 1992, the company manufactured nearly 75percent of its photo frames overseas, according to documents filed with theSecurities and Exchange Commission. One of the company’s clock-making divisionsalso shipped work overseas from a Rhode Island plant.

So do you think the good people ofSouth Carolina are stupid? Hmm. Never mind. While they tossed Romney to the wolves, as well they should have, whodid they tap as their boy? Family valuesman, Newt Gingrich.

In his victory speech, Gingrich wasa riot. Explaining his appeal to thoseeligible South Carolina voters he advised, "It's that I articulate thedeepest-held values of the American people.” Now that’s entertainment.

Newt is another story. The nerve of this guy even showing his nakedface in public. Incredible.

But, let’s take a closer look atthis South Carolina primary. Seems thatof the 600,000 people that voted (of the 2.8 million registered voters of thestate), about 167,000 of them voted for Romney anyway. Santorum and Paul trailed behind in third andfourth respectively. Newt took about 40%of the vote where Romney took close to 28%. No question that Romney fell on his face. But when you consider that 8.6% of the votingpublic selected Newt and 6% of the voting public went for Romney, the spreadwasn’t all that impressive.

By all accounts, what should havehappened, is the people of South Carolina should have run Romney tarred andfeathered through the streets of Charleston. Instead, he came in a more or less respectable second.

So does this mean that Mitt shoulddig a hole and disappear from the rest of the campaign? Hardly. He lost where he should have lost. He’ll gain it all back quickly. Santorum will eventually have to bow out. The fun part will revolve around the pointwhere Ron Paul will decide to go independent and draw votes away from theRepublicans. Much like on the Democraticside when Ralph Nader did the same to Al Gore.

At this point, Obama’s people willdefinitely ramp up the rip and tear attack dog tactics. We’ll start to see that soon. But assuming Obama goes on the attack bigtime, he won’t have much to worry about in November.

Schadenfreude and me

2012-01-16T10:02:00.001-05:00

I’ve just unearthed an interesting facet of my personality that, 'til now, Idid not know existed.

In German it’s called schadenfreude, or the feeling of pleasureone gets upon learning of the misfortune of another. Leave it to the Germans to coin such aword.

There were a couple issues this morning. The first was thata major disc drive failed and the work everyone did yesterday, including mine, thatwas saved to that network drive was lost.

The second issue involves the new phone system we’re supposed toget here. The admins (they are called admins these days; not secretaries) are getting trained on it today, and the cutover, complete with new phones onall our desks, is supposed to go down Sunday.

I overheard something while the tech guy was setting up in theconference room. Apparently there aresome connections wholly incompatible with us and our requirements. Thereare a slew of features the sales folk promised on their children that would beavailable within this marvelous new phone system. Guess what! These features are not available for us. There’s a likelihood that this particular project will have to bescuttled.

So this one individual who is ultimately responsible for both ofthese earth shaking catastrophes is storming around the facility, huffing andpuffing and exhibiting his slow burn in unmistakable body language none sosubtly advising all who might approach that they would be exacting more thanthey bargained for should one even consider approaching him.

In both instances, the file corruption and the errant phonesystem, I found myself smiling inwardly. In the first case, someone’sgoing to get their ass handed to them for having such a crappy system that wouldallow an entire organization to lose an entire day’s work. In thesecond case someone’s going to get their ass handed to them for not vetting theproject sufficiently. The fact that I’m going to have to spend some timeremembering what I did and recreating some documentation is no biggiereally. Pain in the ass, perhaps, but it’s not that I’m jammed to thenines anyway.

So here I am, cup of coffee in hand, smiling like the proverbialCheshire cat and wondering why I’m in such a great mood.

And then it struck me. My God. I’m deriving pleasurefrom the knowledge of someone else’s stress. All patterns in the past saythat I should be empathetic and feel for the angst of the other person. Of course, all reasonable courses of conduct dictate that what one should do incases such as this is shrug one’s shoulders and thank their lucky stars thatit’s not their problem. Sucks for them. But here I am findingmyself not only happy about, but reveling in some form of psychopathic orsociopathic bubble bath. I’m positively chortling with glee in mymorning’s java.

Never felt this way before.

There is an English expression with a similar meaning. 'Roman holiday'is a metaphor taken from the poem "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" by George Gordon, Lord Byron, where a gladiatorin Ancient Romeexpects to be "butcher'd to make a Roman holiday" while the audiencewould take pleasure from watching his suffering. The term suggests debaucheryand disorder in addition to sadistic enjoyment. The philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer mentioned Schadenfreude asthe most evil sin of human feeling, saying famously "To feel envy ishuman, to savor schadenfreude is devilish." Susan Sontag'sbook "Regarding the Pain of Others",published in 2003, is a study of the issue of how the pain/misfortune of someaffects others, namely whether war photography and war paintings can be helpfulas anti-war tools or if they only serve some sense of schadenfreude in someviewers. A 2009 study indicates that thehormone oxytocinmay be involved in the feeling of schadenfreude. In that study, it was reported that when participantsin a game of chance were pitted against a player they considered arrogant,inhaling oxytocin through the nose enhanced their feelings of schadenfreudewhen their opponent lost as well as their feelings of envy when their opponentwon.

Do I need to objectify and examine this? Or should I just enjoy my coffee and mymorning?

Funny waiter

2012-01-11T08:39:00.002-05:00

“I’m fast. Yes. I’m on the ball!”

This is a quote from our waiter Saturday night at one of ourlocal Chinese restaurants. I supposethis can be filed under quirky characters we have encountered.

We had a Chinese restaurant we had frequented over theyears. At first it was awful but we werelater advised it improved substantially. We returned and they were correct. The economic downturn was not kind to it and they closed up shop.

This reminds me of a saying comparing something pretty goodto Chinese food. “Chinese food is kindof like sex. When it’s good, it’s reallyreally good! But when it’s bad … … it’sstill pretty good.”

So we learned of a restaurant a short drive from us whichwas, and remains, quite satisfactory. And so we arrived on Saturday evening as a treat to ourselves tocelebrate both a trying week and our laziness.

Among the things we remember about this place is that thefood is good and the prices are reasonable. While it is never crowded, it is also never empty. Among the things we forget is that it’s twotraffic lights down the street, not one. And also there’s this waiter there who is quite a character.

I’m not sure if he owns it, or he’s a partner, or he’s a familyfriend, or he’s … well … a waiter, plain and simple.

It’s not that he’s one of life’s unforgettable characterslike Moondog, the blind six foot six Viking who stalked Greenwich Village inthe sixties, or a barber my brother and I frequented when we were kids whoterrified people with tales of UFOs victimizing us hapless earthlings.

This gentleman is just sort of … well … a character.

Remember that time in 80s when fashionably chic trendoidsshaved one side of their head while allowing great locks on the other side togrow? Apparently our waiter man is stillcaught up in that. Only he’s bested ourfriends of days gone by. Both sides ofhis head are shaved and the middle locks have grown long.

He wears boots. Notjust any boots, mind you. Cowboyboots. Pointy toed snake skin cowboyboots. Pointy toed snake skin cowboyboots that he wears every day with no exception. In all fairness here, I cannot say this willall accuracy because we do not frequent this particular establishment on eithera daily or a weekly basis. Suffice it tosay, that my wife and I have seen him sporting these things every time we haveappeared on the scene. All pretense offinish has long since been removed from the boots. I can only imagine the number of holes wornthrough on the soles. As it turns out, Ino longer have to lay awake at night worrying fretfully concerning thecondition of the soles on the gentleman’s boots. We paid a visit to the restaurant and he did,in fact display the same footwear with which he has been attached for theseyears. However, there was one differenceboth of us spotted. His heels and soleswere replaced. They were not replacedwith anything that appeared even remotely as though they were to havecomplemented the rest of the gear. As amatter of fact, these heels and soles were substantially wider than the widthof the boot and appeared to have been carved out of a B F Goodrich surplusremnant discount store. If you wanted,you could probably have rested a few nickels on the rubber extending from thebottom of the boots.

These characteristics are, however, mere windowdressing. The facets of the gentlementhat portend to bolster this fellow into the annals of characterdom have lessto do with his outward portrayl of himself than his mannerisms.

Bear in mind now, neither my wife nor I are offended by hisquirks, mannerisms or verbal expectorations. In fact, we smile at each other after the fact in abject amusement.

We feel that this man thinks he is caught within thewhirlwind fast paced lane inhabited nearly exclusively by either mid town ordowntown New York City Chinese restaurant/factories where there is not a minuteto waste, least of all on lowly customers. He seems to have completely obliterated the fact that he is servingsuburban customers in a decidedly low key restaurant in an equally decidedlylow key suburb.

With this in mind, his service is fast paced and heapproaches the table as though he were the cartoon roadrunner sansbeep-beep. As though let out of thechute in a rodeo, this bull charges the table laden with menus, tea cups, a teapot, a bowl of crispy noodles and some sauce, turns heel and disappears. No words are spoken as he slams down theseaccoutrements within our reach. Withinexactly three (count ‘em three) minutes he arrives again pen in right hand,order pad in left and inquires as to what we would care to drink. Sometimes he writes it down. Often times, he does not. Regardless, his inquiry is couched not alongthe lines of ‘what would you care to drink before dinner’, so much as though hewere on a timer. It comes out as oneword in as few syllables as possible. “Wotchuwon!!” We casuallyacknowledge his presence and advise that we are interested in water or soda orcoffee. No sooner do the sound wavesgenerate from our faces than he impatiently turns heel, leaves dust and runstoward the kitchen in order to collect the charge to which he just gainedintelligence. Forty five seconds after ourannouncement was constructed, our drinks arrive and again his vocal fastforward makes gentle inquiry, albeit even faster than was previouslyalluded. “Wotchuwon!!” As we explained our desired repast of choiceto him we saw him visibly redden with irresolute impatience. The countdown started and it was now wellpast T minus 1 and counting. Hepositively quaked at the prospect of delivering our order in record time to thekitchen staff. Our delivery is clearlycrowding his style and he makes it plain that we are but mindless anchors to hissoaring jet ski. Within a very shortperiod he returns with our dishes. LastSaturday, he made a mistake! We orderedbrown rice yet he beep beeped with white race. Our attitude was decidedly ‘no-big-deal-but’ when we advised of thisminor error he gave a stage grunt and exited white rice in tow only to returnin less than a minute with two bowls of brown rice.

We raised our eyebrows and commented, “That was fast.” Sometimes I’m so clever I can hardly standmyself. His immediate reply in brokenEnglish was, “I’m fast. Yes. I’m on the ball!”

The table next to us became filled with a young family andour hero waited on this table. Theirordering was neither organized, rapid fire or even decided. He left in disgust mid order.

My wife asked for a container to take the remaining sesamechicken home, he returned a minute later with a small Styrofoam container and aplate holding a bunch of canned pineapple pieces, two wrapped fortune and thebill.

No “thank you, come again please.” No “have a nice day.” Just the back silhouette of an emaciatedAsian man with decrepit but resoled cowboy boots.

Funny guy.

Payroll Politics

2011-12-21T12:37:00.001-05:00

Over thepast few weeks I’ve had my fits and starts with columns about things thatstruck my fancy. Let’s see, one columninvolved the top corporations who paid more in lobbying fees than taxes. Another involved the hopeless meanderings ofthe so-called super committee, its composition and its predisposition towardsfailure.

Otherobligations interfered with my train of thought. But, in an angular sort of way, this week’scolumn touches peripherally upon both of the aforementioned subjects.

The objectof this morning’s fancy is that of this morning’s CNN headline. It announced that Congress in a pique of I’m-just-going-to-pick-up-my-bat-and-ball-and-go-homehissy fit, decided it didn’t want to eat its respective brussel sprouts andinstead of helping the people of this fair land by finishing the work that mustbe done, just collectively shrugged their shoulders and went home for theholidays.

It’s veryrare that a news headline will actually make me laugh out loud. This morning’s CNN headline made me laugh outloud. And here’s why.

Let’sexamine this payroll tax cut thing. Currently there’s a payroll tax cut in place where we pay 4.2% towardssocial security as opposed to the 6.2% we lowly wage earners were forced tofork over every pay check a short while ago. For many of us, that translatesinto about $1,000 a year in savings. Thistax cut is about to run out on us. Sothe debate revolves around extending, or more accurately, how to extend thistax cut to about 160 million American wage earners.

According toexperts, three possible scenarios can unfold:

Keep the current 4.2% rate in place for two monthsand apply it to the first $18,350 in wages, which represents one-sixth of theannual wages subject to the tax;

Keep the current 4.2% rate in place for a year;or

Not reach a political agreement, meaningthe rate would revert to the normal 6.2% on Jan. 1 until furthernotice.

At one point Congress will, in all liklihood agree to an extensionof the 4.2% next year and make it retroactive to January 1.

To me, this is gamesmanship of the most transparent and the mostchildish.

The Senate, a Democratic party majority, approved a two monthextension where the 4.2% would apply only on $18,350 in order to prevent thehighest income workers from benefiting disproportionately from the tax cut. You see, someone making over $110,100 duringthe first two months of the year would enjoy the 4.2% rate on all of theirSocial Security taxable wages for the year. On the other hand, those making $50,000,would only benefit from the cut on less than 20% of their taxable wages.

The argument being raised against making this decision and keepingthe majority of employees in the lurch is as follows:

Extending the tax cuts currently would create a burdensomeimposition on Payroll staff because, well dog gone it, it’s just too darn complicated. The National Payroll Reporting Consortiumtold CNNMoney,

“Many payroll systems may not be able to make all the neededchanges in January, the NPRC believes. And some may even struggle to get thejob done by February.”

There are two reasons why: The first is the reason we discussedabove.

The second reason concerns the quarterly forms that payrollprocessors have to fill out for the IRS. A quarter is three months, but theextension would be for two months. So those forms would need to be redesignedand the systems would need to be programmed to reflect those adjustments. Ifall that can't be done by March 31, companies may later have to amend theirreturns.

Sort of gets you right here doesn’t it? Those poor payroll reporting types. No overtime for them this year, I guess.

So Congress, or more accurately the Republican faction of Congressis pointing fingers at the Executive branch accusing the President of hisunwillingness to compromise. But, itseems the GOP has shot itself in the foot. Even the Wall Street Journal slapped itself in the proverbial foreheadover Boehner’s boys’ stupidity.

”.. they had "achieved the small miracle of letting Mr. Obamaposition himself as an election-year tax cutter."

"At this stage, Republicans would do best to cut their lossesand find a way to extend the payroll holiday quickly …then go home and returnin January with a united House-Senate strategy that forces Democrats to makespecific policy choices that highlight the differences between the parties onspending, taxes and regulation. ... The alternative is more chaotic retreat andthe return of all-Democratic rule."

In an attempt to discredit the White House, the GOP House justpainted themselves as anti working class and pro one-percenters.

Of course the funniest part of all was John Boehner’s earliercomment before he and his buddies decided to call it a night. "We're here. We're ready to work,"Boehner told reporters on Capitol Hill. "We can resolve these differencesbetween the two parties and give the American people a real Christmaspresent."

Sure John.

Misogyny

2011-11-18T12:52:00.001-05:00

I became very concerned for my liberal persuasions the otherday. At the same time, I also becamequite concerned that a new phase of intolerance had just swept over myotherwise benign composure, transporting into me into the realms of my father’svast capacities of intolerance.

You see, I scheduled this meeting at work. During the meeting I asked what I consideredto be a genuinely plausible question. Apparently this one gal not only considered my otherwise reasonablyplaced query less than a plausible question, she considered it downrightstupid. So stupid, in fact, that shefelt it landed right within her particular authority to throw low level insultsat me and laugh at me at the same time. This in a meeting with several of our colleagues.

My first reaction was to shrug it off and ignore it. But the laughter persisted. “Ok. Enough.” And the laughterpersisted. My attention was focused andthe eyebrows were raised. “Ok. Enough.” And the laughter persisted. Nowthe attention was piercing, the eyebrows raised further and the decibelsincreased. “OK. ENOUGH!” And the laughter persisted. Atthis point, my decades of counseling kicked in. Recognizing the problem I have with uncontrolled temper, I had theability at that time to remove my rage and objectively recognize it for what itwas. In my mind, I had two options. I could either start screaming and throwingthings, or I could extricate myself from the situation before irreparabledamage could occur. The latter optionwas selected. My writing materials weregathered, I stood up, announced, “I don’t need this” and left my ownmeeting.

Let me back track just a bit. This is the second time I’ve been therecipient of my colleague’s inclination towards disrespect. She called my work bullshit. The stuff I do is the stuff people hate todo. I do the paperwork, the legal longrange type of regulatory and administrative type stuff that auditors inspect. In announcing what she thought of my work,she hit a nerve and I unloaded on her.

A number of thoughts ran through their respective courses asI seethed and stewed in my office. “Iknow what I’ll do. I’ll lodge apersonnel complaint against her for creating a hostile work environment.” I then indulged everyone’s inclinationstowards viewing the video tape and chastising oneself for not saying or doingwhatever scenario you reconstruct. However,the most prevalent thought that managed to control the actions with which I wasabout to engage rang true. Specificallyit repeated a life lesson I learned the hard way a long time ago: Don’t make decisions when you’re hot.

And so I remained and stayed quiet until I called my wife atwhich time I expressed my concerns regarding co-workers, misogynism and havingto work in general.

In truth, there was no small piece of me that expected mywife to rush towards the sisterhood corner and chastise me for being such apig. In fact, this was one of thoseoccasions where she listened patiently and attentively to my rant. To my surprise, she actually agreed that theperson at issue behaved in a manner unbecoming of a colleague. However, she did take the time andopportunity to remind me of the fact that, as of late, I had been acting with arather profound hair triggered temper for one inexplicable reason oranother.

This she explained to me by pointing out that I have astrong need for physical outlet and, as of late, I have been sorely lacking inthis type of output.

To this end, I wholeheartedly agree. I still am of the opinion that my walking outof the situation, given my state of mind, was probably the most intelligentthing I could have done at that point.

But the larger concern was still for myself. That is, the first thing I did was not tolevel my darts at an individual, but rather to characterize an entiregender.

Well, that ain’t right.

I suppose what I need to do is recognize yet another majorflaw in my crazy patchwork of personality foibles and try to mend that one,too.

Wall Street et Gateaux

2011-10-24T17:09:00.002-04:00

It may notbe a revelation to you. But when I madethe connection, I found it quite revelatory. I was actually proud of myself for having the ability to connect thesedots.

You see,part of the criticism, if not the main criticism, of the Wall Street Occupationprotest is that there does not appear to be any particular brand.

Forinstance, in the sixties, the big brand was ‘Get Out of VietNam!” You see? That’s a brand. Simple. Punchy. How about ‘Free Huey!” Again. Straight from the shouldertype of objective. Get this guy out ofjail. There was nothing fuzzy there atall here.

These WallStreet Occupiers do not have the advantage of a nice neat slogan or abrand. They’re at a disadvantage in thisregard. What are they going to carry ontheir placards? “No more mortgage based derivatives?” Lackluster. “Cool it with sub-prime mortgage defaults!” Too wordy. “Hedge funds are bad!” Arethey? Are the protesters really footstomping over derivatives? Clearinghouses? Hedge funds? Toxic assets? Doesa reasonable percentage of the protestors even know how to define any of thesethings or what role, if any, each of them played in our current economic meltdown? Probably not.

TheOccupiers are making news because there are a lot of them and they’re makingnoise and there are a lot of signs and they’re on Wall Street and theirmovement is being picked up in far away lands. But the best the newscasters can do is to put a catchy label on them:‘Occupiers’. Sort of like home squatterswith the constitutional right to assemble.

So exactlywhat is the brand? What are theyselling? As my good buddy John says, ‘What’sthe rumpus?’

Here’s thedeal. There is no single slogan. There is no objective as such. There is no serious program insisting onhousing, increased wages, job benefits or even a lowered social securityage. The real issue is rage. Many of these people have been out of work solong they no longer appear on any unemployment register. Manyof these do not have, and cannot buy, health insurance. Many of these people have been taxed out of ahouse or out of the ability to buy one.

Well. So you may say. That’s just too bad for them, isn’t it? Not exactly. You see, they are not bemoaning their own individual fate. They are raising fists in the air because theyare emphasizing the glaring division between the masses (which they claim to represent) and the elitewithin our society. The claim is asfollows: You, the privileged, the elite,occupy a small percentage of our population yet you indiscriminately lord overour existence in the form of policies, taxation, hiring and the availability,or lack thereof, of public services. Because of your greed and the obviouspractices of backroom winks, you skim off the top, dole out billions to yourbrethren and, except for the most of the flamboyant, those who widen theirwallets in defiance of law and ethics float well out of reach of any form ofretribution, let alone indictments.

“We arepissed!” And that is the message.

Seems tome that we’ve seen this sort of thing before.

Qu'ils mangent de la brioche. Then let themeat brioche. Supposedly this was utteredby Marie Antoinette when learning the peasants were starving and were demandingbread. If there was no bread, let themeat cake. Drol.

This came from a story Jean-Jacques Rousseau, probablymanufactured, written in 1765, when Marie Antoinette was nine years of age. Apparently Rousseau wanted bread to accompanysome wine he had stolen. He felt he wastoo elegantly dressed to go into an ordinary bakery, so he went to a fancypastry shop where only enriched pastries like brioche were sold. He recollected the words of a "greatprincess" who was told that the peasants had no bread, and who responded:"Let them eat brioche." This storywhich first appeared in a German children's book in 1931, "Pünktchen undAnton" by Erich Kaestner. It acquired symbolic importance when pro-revolutionaryhistorians sought to demonstrate the obliviousness and selfishness of theFrench upper-classes at that time.

In Chinese culture, there is a similar storythat involves rice and meat, instead of bread and cake: "an ancientChinese emperor who, being told that his subjects didn't have enough rice toeat, replied, 'Why don't they eat meat?'" Drol.

The newKing of France, Louis XVI ascended to the throne amidst a financialcrisis; the state was nearing bankruptcy and outlays outpaced income.This was because of France’s financial obligations stemming from involvement inthe Seven Years War and its participation in the American Revolutionary War. Not the Afghanistan or Iraqi war, however.

Jacques Necker was appointedComptroller-General of Finance. Necker realized that the country's extremely regressivetax system subjected the lower classes to a heavy burden,while numerous exemptions existed for thenobility and clergy. (Sounding familiar?) He argued that the country could notbe taxed higher and tax exemptions for the nobility and clergy must bereduced. He proposed that borrowing moremoney would solve the country's fiscal shortages. Not from China necessarily.

Necker was fired, and Charles Alexandre de Calonne was appointedto the Comptrollership. Charley proposed a new tax code.Theproposal included a consistent land taxincluding the taxation of the nobility and clergy. You canimagine how well this went down. Justlike our business friendly Washington politicians. King Louis did something unusual. He called for the Estates-General , the first time the bodyhad been summoned since 1614.

In July 1789 Necker published an inaccurateaccount of the government's debts and made it available to the public. The King then completely restructured thefinance ministry. Many Parisianspresumed Louis's actions to be aimed against the Assembly and began openrebellion when they heard the news the next day. They were also afraid that arriving soldiers –mostly foreign mercenaries – had been summoned to shut down the National Constituent Assembly. Paris wassoon consumed by riots, chaos, and widespread looting. The mobs soon had thesupport of some of the French Guard, who were armed and trainedsoldiers. You know the rest. Bastille, Tale of Two Cities, Louis and Marie’srespective executions, reign of terror, etc.

Let’s discuss Russia around the 1917 timeframe.

In Octoberof 1914, Turkeyleft Russia to join the Central Powers. Russiawas now deprived of a major trade route causing an economic crisis where Russiacould not provide munitions to their army in the years leading to 1917.

World War Ifound a lack of food in response to the disruption of agriculture. Food hadbecome a considerable problem in Russia, but the cause of this did not lie inany failure of the harvests. The indirectreason was that the government, in order to finance the war, had been printingoff millions of rouble notes, and by 1917 inflation had sent prices up to fourtimes what they had been in 1914. The peasantrywere consequently faced with the higher cost of purchases, but made nocorresponding gain in the sale of their own produce, since this was largelytaken by the middlemen on whom they depended. Personally I feel there is a direct parallelbetween this and the conduct of major Wall Street brokerage firms as well asthe Insurance industry. Anyway, thefarmers started to hoard their grain and reverted to subsistence farming.Therefore, the cities were constantly short of food. At the same time, rising prices led todemands for higher wages in the factories, and in January and February 1916revolutionary propaganda, aided by German funds, lead to widespread strikes.The outcome of all this, however, was a growing criticism of the governmentrather than any war-weariness. Thesefactors had given rise to a major loss of confidence in the Tsar’s regime by1916.

Factoryworking conditions were abysmal. Yet, atthe same time, urban industrial life was full of benefits. There were manyencouragements to expect more from life. Acquiring new skills gave many workers a senseof self-respect and confidence, heightening expectations and desires. Living in cities, workers encountered materialgoods such as they had never seen while in the villages. Most importantly,living in cities, they were exposed to new ideas about the social and politicalorder. Dissatisfaction with Russianautocracy culminated in the huge national upheaval that followed the Bloody Sunday massacre of January 1905, inwhich hundreds of unarmed protesters were shot by the Tsar's troops. Workersresponded to the massacre with a crippling general strike, forcing Nicholas toput forth the October Manifesto, which established ademocratically elected parliament (the State Duma). The Tsar undermined this promise of reform a yearlater and dismissed the first two Dumas when they proved uncooperative. Unfulfilled hopes of democracy fueledrevolutionary ideas and violent outbursts targeted at the monarchy.

Cue theorgan music and bring us to the present. We now have yet another parallel where we have recent polls expressingthe levels of satisfaction the general population has towards their electedrepresentatives. According to a recentgallup poll, the highest the satisfaction rating has risen was up to 24%. This, however was right after Bin Laden waskilled. It has since returned to itsprevious 17%.

There are direct dots to connect. The people of the United States who areconsidered the upper echelon, the elite, if you will, probably occupysubstantially more than the 1% the Occupiers currently claim. But it certainly does not reflect a properdivision between lower, middle and upper class citizens. Ninety-nine per cent is not an even remotelyaccurate depiction of the division of disaffected and disenfranchised citizens. But you get their point. The disenfranchised are the majority. Just like in France in the 1780s. Just like pre Revolution Russia.

Look at what has happened when the masses havebeen ill treated and down trodden. Lookat the historical facts where ruling classes have chosen to either ignore the bestinterests of their constituency or have chosen the easy path of catering totheir well heeled backers.

First of all, we should recognize that theground work is being laid for a wholesale revolution. Secondly, our elected representatives wouldbe best served to take heed and recognize that the rumblings history hascreated and voiced many times before are becoming more resonant on a dailybasis.

Soul Searching

2011-10-04T12:43:00.001-04:00

I had the opportunity to do a bit of soul searching theother day. A very minor event hadsurfaced that forced me to simultaneously confront my emotions and myvalues.

I received an electronic message through the mechanism knownas Linkedin. For those of you who areunaware of the inner mechanisms of such a software environment, allow me theluxury of an explanation.

Linkedin is atype of email/professional/social networking sort of thing. Professional groups keep you posted on thelatest goings on in your particular professional niche or hobby. You can post questions. You can receive responses. You can solicit yourself to those to whom youthink might care either a feather or a fig. Most do not care that much. Onthe other hand, it is the very definition of true blue networking. You have the opportunity of innocentlyplacing yourself out there on the great plains of the internet ether. You also have the opportunity of sniffing andpoking around to see who is doing what and what is going where.

And so occasionally an old colleague of mine will run acrossmy name somehow, and that will trigger a request to place yet another link to achain of others that may or may not be common acquaintances.

And so it was theother day. A request floated in from aname I hadn’t thought of in almost a quarter of a century. It took a few seconds of cobweb clearing toremember this person.

And then I remembered her.

The recollection process was a strange one for me. My first association to the name was not theface. My first association to the past,as it concerned her, were the floodgates of emotions that re-opened. Then the face emerged.

It was many years ago. We worked together. I was anemployee and she was a consultant. Myson was just born. She brought in somebaby clothes as a present. We became friends. We would talk often and share coffee andstories. We would discuss our hopes andaspirations. We would discuss ourconcerns, fears and suspicions.

And it was here that I broke the third law of corporatesurvival. The first being: The boss may be an asshole, but the boss isalways right. The second being: keepoffice and romance absolutely separate. The third immutable law of office survival is to keep your privatethoughts private. The subtext here is,of course, don’t trust people at work. Make nice. Smile. But co-workers are not your friends. Your friends are your friends.

And it was here, at that time, that I fell from grace. In one of our conversations, and against mybetter judgment, I had let it known my feelings and thoughts with respect tocertain individuals of influence surrounding us.

Her consulting assignment had run its course and within afew days she was gone. I was alsoreceived of some profoundly negative feedback. Seems that my so-called friend had decided, for reasons known only toherself, that it would be in her best interests to rat on me and relay thesubstance of our otherwise confidential discussions to the subjects of theseotherwise private series of discourse.

It had come back to haunt me and I had to weather a numberof cold shouldered political setbacks (I was a relatively highly placedmanager) and had a substantial amount of damage control to cover.

My calls to her were left unreturned. I called not to berate her, but to understandwhat, if any, thoughts, were the underpinnings behind her decisions to blab theway she did.

The years and the stories marched on. Since then, there have been many other talesinvolving choices both good and bad.

And so we cue the organ music. We find ourselves a little older, a littlegrayer, a little larger in color and the recipient of a Linkedinrequest.

The request I had received was more than what I had beenaccustomed. This invitation alsoincluded a nice greeting and the fact that she had run into a person of mutualacquaintance that reminded her of me. Soshe requested that I establish a link with her in her network.

And thus, dear reader, we have arrived at an eventtriggering an ethical flow of combined thoughts and emotions.

On the one hand, the teachings of Epictetus ring. Specifically regarding the reactions toexternal stimuli, one has no control over external stimuli. Therefore, the only area with which you havecontrol here is the manner with which you decide to react to them. On the other hand, without the calminginfluence of Roman philosophers past, my emotions spring forward and myinstincts advise to vehemently respond and tell her in no uncertainterms to sit and spin. I often findmyself in internal conflicts such as these.

So with these thoughts careening inside what is the propercourse of action? I mean, it’s been along time.

Shouldn’t I just let bygonesbe bygones and start fresh? I’m surethere are many facets of my being that have changed over the years. Shouldn’t it be likewise for others? Shouldn’t I give the benefit of thedoubt? Would it be more satisfying, towrite her a note and tell her my last contacts with her found me angry, hurt anddisappointed?

She has reached out to me. That must account for something.

But my decision unfolded thusly: Much like Facebook, a person is either afriend or not a friend. Granted the term ‘friend’ is extremely looselyinterpreted when throwing it into the internet melting pot.

A friend is someone I trust. I don’t trust her. Therefore shecannot be my friend. So I advised theLinkedin software to treat further such messages as spam. There was an advisory to the software thatthe tendered offer would be unceremoniously rejected.

Was I still angry? After much reflection I determined that it this point in my life I wascertainly no longer angry. Do I forgiveher her transgressions? Absolutely. Do I trust her now? Absolutely not.

Was my simple rejection the right way to handle this? Should I have responded explaining the natureof my rejection?

I have to feel that the first option was the optimum. Rather than stir the pot and waste time andangst on events past and not worth resurrecting, they were opposed and ended.

The fact is, this was not the sea of troubles written of somany years ago.

The Dog Park

2011-09-27T15:25:00.003-04:00

Little did I know, but a month or so ago I was advised by mywife that my little suburban town boasts a dog park.

Prior to my first visit to such an establishment, my visionof your basic dog park was profoundly less than inviting. I envisioned a gated off area. I envisioned hordes of canines of everydescription and demeanor whose sole purpose was to tear into me and leave theircalling cards at every available, or unavailable, spot within theconfines. I anticipated nauseatingsmells and sights.

And so it was with no small amount of apprehension that I securedour happy puppy and drove with her to the gated area tucked discretely behindour local municipal building in the attempt to gain admittance to this dogpark.

The outer gate allowed my access into a twelve by twelvegated area. The inner gate providedaccess to the inner sanctum. I waspleasantly surprised. The area was coveredin small stone gravel. It was roughlythe size of a good sized suburban back yard and sported shade trees, a handfulof park benches, drinking bowls, water hoses, exercise hoops, inclines andwooden platforms. They even offereddiscretely placed bags and containers. Plenty of space for a seven month oldenergetic pup to smile and run her ya yas out.

And so she did.

I was concerned that I would be bowled over by a teeming populationof overly aggressive, suspicious, protective pets. Our first exposure to the place found usalone. And so Jersey and I communed withthe gravel and the benches by sniffing and prancing. So did the dog. There was an old tennisball. This was thrown, happily retrievedand chased. For the most part, I sat inthe shade and read a book only occasionally looking about to determine whetherJersey was enjoying herself. She wasquite content with the environs and had herself a wonderful time.

I advised myself that this was not an unpleasant way at allto kill off an hour or so. I vowed toreturn.

And so we have, a number of times. However, the first experience was the onlytime we found ourselves alone. Sincethen we have encountered dogs of every age, size, description and socializationskill. Since then we have encountereddog owners of every age, size, description and socialization skill.

I must admit, my socialization inclinations at these outingsoccupy a fairly low rung. Our entrance iscasually observed by the other locals and these observations are duly noted andreturned with a single nod accompanied by an unleashing and a slow butpurposeful saunter over to the farthest bench.

The interactions that take place during these sessions aresubtle but interesting nonetheless. Iequate the communications that take place in the dog park as equivalent tothose that take place in an elevator. Onthe one hand, we are obliged to acknowledge the presence of the other. Yet, we have little inclination to initiatean unsolicited ice breaker.

“How’s the old prostate?” Hmm. Maybe not.

“My wife has developed a feminine itch.” Possibly a bit much.

Perhaps some common ground? “I see you’re going to the 7^thfloor. Isn’t there a parole office onthat floor?” Maybe a little less intrusive.

“Nice day if it don’t rain, huh?”

Looks like my ice breaking skills might need some touchup.

But in the dog park there are several ice breakers.

“What kind?”

“How old?”

“How did you get your dog?”

I’ve tried all of these ice breakers. From there, the owners, thus far, have beenenthusiastic about spilling their proverbial beans.

I have learned of divorces, pet adoptions, surgeries, recuperationperiods, weddings, illnesses, births, house purchases, relocations,graduations, book reviews, favorite television shows, relatives both past andpresent, occupations and avocations. AllI have to do in order to solicit and later maintain this level of untoward airof forthrightness and openness is to pretend I have an interest andoccasionally nod or utter a “Yeah” or “I’llsay” or “No kidding?” Having said that, and now that I think of it, protocolrequires I must occasionally offer up a tidbit of my own. So I will offer vague particulars regardingthe adoption of our fair Jersey.

Occasionally one of these pet owners willunilaterally unload their wellspring of knowledge with respect to the propercare, maintenance and feeding of my particular charge. Again, I feign interest complete withfurrowed brow and a well timed “you don’t say?”

I also observe the interactions between the dogs. I would have to say the following withrespect to the smaller dogs. It appearsas though they are terribly insecure and they feel it is, therefore, incumbentupon them to sublimate their stature with vocal protestations. The larger and/or older animals do not feelso compelled and, in general, receive these high decibeled intrusions withsubstantial doses of ennui and ignore them outright. When Jersey was several months younger, shewould be terribly intimidated by these caterwaulings and would tuck tail andprance away despite the fact that she was as large as those who wouldst protestso vehemently. This particular trait hassince evaporated.

The dogs’ socialization expression, of which I have observedthus far, is pretty limited. Their ideaof hello is an approach and a rear end sniffing. Among people I have known, this type ofbehavior might be considered unusual and perhaps even unwelcome. Nevertheless this may be one of the manyareas that distinguish western human civilization and the canine kingdom. After the sniff, a decision is made betweenthe sniffer and the sniffee. Assumingall is well, the sniffee becomes the sniffer and all ends civilly with adecision to either run together playfully or to sashay off in their owndirections.

On the other hand, the recipient of a sniffing may bethoroughly untrusting with respect to this prospective exchange. In fact, the potential recipient might tucktail and seek refuge behind the master or under a park bench where there is amistaken belief that a certain measure of security and safety awaits. Little realizing the social gaffe that hasjust been committed, the hiding party has unwittingly just opened the door tocertain feelings of superiority, or at least an enhanced sense of curiosity, onthe part of the previously pursuing canine, either one of which mandatesfurther pursuit. It therefore becomesincumbent upon the otherwise reclusive dog to either further dig in, orreassess his or her situation by letting go and joining in the wildrumpus. The latter forum remains inconsistentin that there are several variables with which to consider including, but notlimited to, the scariness factor possessed of the pursuer or his or heragedness. It has become clear thatneither size nor age nor gender nor coloration is a factor within thisparticular equation. I can only narrow this scariness factor downto what was once referred to as ‘vibe’.

I have yet to witness a full on fight requiring an owner’sintervention. Make no mistake, there hasbeen barking aplenty but it takes hardly any imagination or skill todistinguish between the bark intended to convey fear or a greeting or awarning.

I enjoy my time in the dog park. I enjoy petting the other dogs that come overto check out this new old guy. I enjoywatching them play together.

I don’t get a lot of reading done and I can live without thehuman small talk. But it’s a small priceto pay.

When Their Lips Move

2011-09-20T16:35:00.002-04:00

It has been said that Michelle Bachmann is the candidate for those who feel that Sarah Palin is too intellectual.

The gaffes of hopeless foot in your mouth stupidity that comes out of her face is so hopeless that you could sit back and watch video tapes of these things while relaxed on your couch, cozied up with a bowl of popcorn. Here are just a few: “My husband and I have never gotten a penny of money from a family farm.” Actually her personal financial disclosure reports show that she holds an interest in the farm, that the farm received $259,332 in federal payments between 1995 and 2010, and that she earned income between $32,500 and $105,000 from it between 2006 and 2009.

"The president released all of the oil from the strategic oil reserve" No. President Obama approved the release of about 4%."One. That's the number of new drilling permits under the Obama administration" No. It is well over 269.

"Five decades ago in America, we had less debt than we have today. We had $300 billion or less in debt. A gallon of gasoline was 31 cents." Adjusting for inflation, that 31 cents turns into about $2.25. And that $300 billion in national debt was 55% of the 1961 GDP. Today's $14 trillion in debt is 96% of the GDP. So she has a point, but the difference is not nearly as dramatic as she's implying.

Her claim that President Obama stated stimulus legislation would prevent unemployment from rising above 8%: No. In fact, President Obama never said that. She's referring to a projection, which was not even an official government assessment, issued by two aides before Obama took office.

“But we also know that the very founders that wrote those documents worked tirelessly until slavery was no more in the United States. And I think it is high time that we recognize the contribution of our forebears, who worked tirelessly, men like John Quincy Adams, who would not rest until slavery was extinguished in the country." Many of the founding fathers were slave holders and abolishing slavery was the farthest thing from their collective minds. Further, John Quincy Adams was the sixth President of the United States, the son of founder John Adams. JQA might have been about 6 years old at the time of the Revolution.

Bachmann evoked the memory of beloved Western movie icon John Wayne at an in Waterloo Iowa. She told the audience, “… I want them to know is just like, John Wayne was from Waterloo, Iowa. That's the kind of spirit that I have, too." Except that his birthplace is nearly three hours away, in Winterset, Iowa. Serial killer and clown make-up enthusiast John Wayne Gacy, who was executed in 1994 after being convicted on 33 counts of murder was from Waterloo, Iowa. She has that kind of spirit?

"What people recognize is that there’s a fear that the United States is in an unstoppable decline. They see the rise of China, the rise of India, the rise of the Soviet Union and our loss militarily going forward." Bachmann fails to note, that the American public are not concerned about the rise of the Soviet Union in that the Soviet Union was dismantled over 20 years ago.

She referenced President Franklin D. Roosevelt and the "Hoot-Smalley" tariffs, creating regulatory burdens and tax barriers to business. Ridiculous. First of all the so-called “Hoot-Smalley” tariff was actually the Smoot-Hawley bill. That bill was proposed by Senator Reed Smoot of Utah and Rep. Willis Hawley of Oregon, both of whom were Republicans. It was then signed into law by Herbert Hoover. A Republican.In New Hampshire she advised that, “After all, you’re the state where the shot was heard ‘round the world at Lexington and Concord." No. These towns are in Massachusetts.

"I find it interesting that it was back in the 1970s that the swine flu broke out then under another Democrat president Jimmy Carter. And I'm not blaming this on President Obama, I just think it's an interesting coincidence." Blatant revisionist. The panic over swine flu that led to the initial bout of vaccinations happened in 1976 after an outbreak at Fort Dix during Gerald Ford’s Presidency. Carter continued on the already-active program when he entered The White House.

You all remember this one. “Before we get started, let's all say 'Happy Birthday' to Elvis Presley today. You can't do better than Elvis Presley.” That was the day he died. Happy deathday!

In July of 2011, Bachmann appeared on Fox News to discuss President Obama and to criticize some of his fiscal policies. Bachmann tried to throw in some Yiddish and tossed out the word ‘chutzpah’. But instead of pronouncing it correctly starting with the throaty "H” she pronounced it "choot-spa" causing millions to slap their foreheads in disbelief.

Her most recent misstatement revolved around the HPV vaccine. Not so much the vaccine itself as criticizing Rick Perry’s Texas mandate on administering this vaccine to adolescent Texas ladies. Never mind Perry’s clear overreaching. She insists she was approached by a tearful mother who advised that her daughter suffered “mental retardation” as a direct and proximate result of her having taken the dreadful vaccine. Yet another painful governmental intrusion on our personal right to live our lives. Hopeless. Of course she never produced the tearful mother. At least John McCain had the decency to produce Joe the Plumber despite the fact that Joe’s name was not Joe, didn’t have a plumber’s license and made claims so false as to embarrass most of us. Secondly, the claim is absolute nonsense and she’s been attacked by Pediatric societies and others, blaming her for attempting to smear facts with nonsense. She spins it nonetheless, advising she is merely conveying information and that she is neither doctor nor scientist.

Could have fooled me.

At this point, you can say to yourself, “Now, that’s entertainment!” Or you might say to yourself, “Hm. I don’t think that’s quite accurate.” Or you could say to yourself, “Wonder if there’s any blueberry pie left?” On the other hand you could just as easily say to yourself, “Politician, you don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about. You don’t even care that everyone knows you don’t what you’re talking about. You’re just talking to get your face in front of the camera and everyone knows you are lying.

It’s the old joke. How do you when politicians are lying?

The Fence

2011-09-08T15:22:00.002-04:00

I watched as much of the Republican candidates’ debate last night as I could stomach. I watched them havea lot of fun stomping on Obama, and all agreed that Obama is a bum, clueless, incompetent, a wastrel and a spendthrift and should be run out of town with his pants on fire. At that point the whole crew of them should have sat around the camp fire, roasted marshmallows and sung Kumbaya in three part harmony.

And the topics were, of course, no surprise to anyone but the hopelessly clueless. The lack of jobs and high unemployment. These are entirely Obama’s fault. Hopeless economic chaos. All Obama’s fault. Health care. Oh my goodness. Health Care is the huge dark all enveloping cloak of death, madness and certain ruin. Obamacare.

The job killer. Someone will have to explain that to me one day. But it hardly matters. On the podium last night it was understood by all that the institution of an inclusive national health care coverage system would, by its very nature, ensure the devastation of the American work force.

Other topics flitted about as so many flies hovering over yesterday’s refuse. The Federal government is bad. Too much intrusion into State’s rights. Too much bureaucracy. Too costly. Somehow or another there was mention of the Federal government’s role in securing our national integrity. All agreed on this overtly bizarre state of hypocrisy. But we can let this go because the subject turned from national security to FEMA. It should be dismantled. It should be made more gooder. Whatever. But from the subject matters surrounding FEMA, the topics seemed to naturally lean towards our policies, or the respective lack thereof, regarding immigration or, more accurately, illegal immigration.

There’s still the image Republicans attempt to instill in us where it concerns the illegal immigrant. Who is the illegal immigrant? First of all, it’s a he. He’s Mexican. He brings his whole extended family. They set up in some hovel somewhere north of the border and they become a big burden to us all by having babies, doing nothing, getting drunk, getting free emergency medical care, refusing to speak English, and getting lots and lots of tax payer’s welfare money while they shoot off their pistolas in the streets going “Riba Riba!” As you all know, this picture is the epitome of insincerity and ignorance. They come across the border to get better paying jobs where they can better support their families by sending money to them.

Mitt Romney, by the way, was the only one who recognized that the true culprit in this scenario is the cheap bastard business owner who wants cheap labor and has no problem whatsoever in skirting the law and hiring people who do not possess social security cards.

However, in discussing the illegal immigrant issue, all the members of the slam fest last agreed on two principles: first and foremost, there needs to be a fence. Yes indeed, some sort of big gigantumongous biggus dickus fence. Never mind who’s going to pay for this. I would imagine this fence thing would be of local benefit but paid for by the big bad bureaucratic bastions of Federal baggage. But I digress.

What kind of fence, you ask? Somehow they never really did get into specifics about this. A chain link fence? An electric fence? A barbed wire fence? A wall, perhaps?

They all agreed that there had to be “…boots on the ground…” Boy, that sounds masculine, doesn’t it? Conjures up images of GI Joe types with a three day growth of beard (women, too) in full combat gear, helmets, M1 clutched knowingly and comfortably in both hands, unlit stub of a cigar secured in the left corner of snarling lips, scrambling hidden in the underbrush, awaiting the attack of the nasty nasties. Again, these wouldn’t be local types, would they? These are Federal soldiers, right? But why quibble.

The big issue was ‘THE FENCE’.

Let us harken back to those thrilling days of yesteryear. Cue the organ music. Fade to 60s sepia. I was in my early teens in 1964. New York City. The summer of 1964. And there … beckoning to me … in all its wonderment … lay the wonders and splendors and just sheer fun of the 1964 New York City World’s Fair.

There were exhibits and rides and shows and Belgian waffles and scantily clad young ladies. All beckoned to me and my buddies, as the Sirens beckoned to the bound Odysseus. The minor difference between us and Odysseus and the mast to which he was secured, is that Odysseus didn’t have the fifteen cents to buy a subway token. We did not secure ourselves to either a ship’s mast or even a 1959 Buick Invicta. Why, we just shuffled our teenage selves to the IRT 7 train and a day’s enchantment awaited us.

Although open to the public, the World’s Fair was not a freebie. You had to purchase a ticket to enable such a legal entrance.

On the third night of the opening of the 1964 World’s Fair, my otherwise very proper, organized and decidedly unspontaneous father posed a suggestion at the dinner table. “Hey, let’s go to the World’s Fair!” The other three in my family looked at each other as though this suggestion was uttered by Howdy Doody’s ventriloquist. Was this Dad suggesting such a thing? After the second of realization and confirmation passed, we unanimously agreed that this would be an idea unsurpassed in righteousness and downright coolness. And so we went and had an absolutely marvelous time. Perhaps one day I will elaborate on those warm memories.

However, and for purposes of this particular diatribe, that was the first and last time I saw any form of payment go between me or my respective representatives and a World’s Fair ticket vendor.

No. Separating the allure of the World’s Fair Sirens and my lawless buddies was a fence secured internally and externally by roving, bored, sometimes sleeping rent-a-cops. Neither the fence nor the men in blue posed even the remotest sense of discouragement, or disincentive or even hindrance towards free entrance into this giant magnet of enchantment.

We, like thousands of other New York City kids, quickly learned all the holes, the guards who couldn’t care less and the right moments with which we could secret ourselves into the belly of this temporary land of complete amusement.

Let me say that again to those either skimming or not paying attention here. Between us kids and the World’s Fair was a fence. That fence and the purported boots on the ground impeded our progress and goals not at all.

And so it is with a border fence between the United States of America and Mexico.

On one side are those with a purpose, a goal and the desperate need to make a better life for themselves and their families. On the other side of the fence lies a world of potential and betterment.

So let me ask you. In the analogy I have so crudely penned, we have a bunch of kids looking for an afternoon’s diversion. The other aspect of the analogy finds adults with a true fire in their belly. Do you honestly believe for more than a few seconds, that if a bunch of New York kids with one pair of pliers between them can get through a fence, a properly motivated and equipped team of Mexican nationals cannot get through in the same manner? C’mon. Think it through.

Yet there they were. Eight blowhards. Count ‘em, eight. All sanctimoniously acknowledging the wisdom of this sole strategy towards immigration strengthening.

After several minutes of suffering through this bilge, the television and I parted company and I posted my first Facebook entry in several months announcing that sticking needles in my eyes would prove to be a more convivial opportunity than allowing myself further agony from the receipt of these otherwise untoward airwaves.

The pontificating politicians are so good at their brand of spin, there were a scant few moments that I actually believed that they believed what they were saying.

Vacationing

2011-09-06T10:24:00.001-04:00

It wasn’t really her indecisiveness. It had more to do with finding the right place at the right price.

We’re talking vacation here. I have learned long ago to avoid the following scenario when discussing vacation venues.

Me: “How about we go to such-and-such?”
Wife: “Oh no. We were just there a few years ago.”
Me: “Ok. Well then, how about that-place?”
Wife: “No. I don’t think so. My friend went there and she didn’t like it. Plus it’s too expensive.”
Me: “Fair enough. How about this place over there?”
Wife: “No. I don’t know anything about it.”
Me: “Well then, where do you want to go?”
Wife: “Why is it always me that has to make the decisions?”

Now before you start passing judgments in my direction let me just re-state for the record, that my vacation requirements, demands and expectations are low to the point of being almost immeasurable.

A venue for me is all but superfluous. Activities and sight-seeing hold only marginal value at this point in my life. Wining and dining are merely aspects of every day nutritional fundamentals. What are my vacation requirements? Simple.

1. I’m not at work
2. My wife is with me
3. I have a guitar and music
4. I have books to read

Simple stuff, no? I could be at home. Granted I don’t want to vacation in a rat infested dungeon or spend my time freezing or burning. I’d rather not be hungry. So I suppose there should be a fifth requirement that wherever I am situated, I need to be reasonably comfortable.

But really, I couldn’t care less. And, owing to the fact that my wife is more particular to an order of magnitude, the aspect of vacationing venue selection falls squarely within her purview.

And so I would waftily gaze on my lovely wife as she ensconced herself comfortably in our recliner chair whilst she navigated peacefully on her laptop computer through what used to be termed the information superhighway. She would look at Facebook entries and also research locales for a nice vacation spot. She has long ago relegated my input to the status of ‘useless’ insofar as vacation spot selection is concerned.

What are my wife’s criteria for selecting accordingly? The following would probably represent a fair listing comprising my wife’s vacationing wish list: near the beach. Also, near the beach. Did I mention that it should probably be near the beach? On the other hand, on a handful of occasions she would throw out the prospect of what she, in her mind, has been loosely defined as a ‘road trip’. What does she consider a road trip? How far? What direction? Where to stay? What to see? Haven’t a clue. Who can say?

With respect to said trip and this would be tossed out as an idea, I would respond, “Sounds good.” And then, not five minutes later a venue would be suggested.

Wife: “Myrtle Beach”
Me: “Sounds good.”
Wife: “How about Rehobeth Beach?”
Me: “Sounds good.”
Wife: “Chincoteague?”
Me: “Sounds good.”
Wife: “The Outer Banks?”
Me: “Sounds good.”
Wife: “Hilton Head?”
Me: “Sounds good.”
Wife: “You’re a big help.”
Me: “Sounds good.”

What are the other criteria my wife probably harbors? I would throw out the following for consideration: A nicely furnished house or condo with a fully equipped kitchen so we can prepare our own snacks and/or meals. Local grocery shopping. Local outlet malls. A nearby beach. Something new to see. Nice nearby restaurants. A quiet spot. Pretty scenery A pool. A hot tub. A beach. If it involves substantial travel, flying automatically goes to the very bottom of the list. But perhaps at the very top of the list, over comfort, over dining, over scenery, even over an accumulation of sand is: the price. In other words, the whole enchilada has to fall squarely within these essentials, but it also has to be reasonably priced. So scratch the Hamptons or Cape Cod or Hilton Head.

Believe me. This is not as easy as you might think. Oh, one more thing. All this has to be a week long and it has to be available during the time frame within which my wife has unilaterally dictated regardless of how nigh approaching her unannounced deadline might happen to be.

In fact, at the book club widower’s dinner, the guys turned to me and said, “Say, I understand that in two days you’re going to go to Rehobeth Beach for a week.” My response was, “Is that so? Well, well. Live and learn.” Seems like my wife told her girl friends. The girl friends told their husbands. However, there was one small item omitted from this equation, to wit: me. Details. Details.

As it turns out, she found a better deal in a little golf community condo north of Myrtle Beach. It was a bargain. It was gorgeous. It was just right. Long drive down, perhaps. But again. I didn’t care. I was on vacation.

We stopped overnight in Richmond, Virginia at an inexpensive motel in a less than desirable part of town. But all in all, the place was clean and serviceable despite being far from our ‘A’ list.

We found a nice restaurant where we were served by, easily, the best waiter we’ve ever had.

Thanks, in no small part to our wonderful little GPS and despite traffic congestion, we got to our destination on time. It was a gorgeous perfectly sized 2 bedroom 2 bath second floor condo overlooking a golf course and pond. A pool and Jacuzzi were right across the way. Fully furnished. Fully equipped kitchen. They even had a semi decent selection of books. We even had wi-fi so we could connect to work and home email.

We had family vacationing about 45 minutes away. We had old friends who had moved to the area. We spent some time visiting both. There was a winery. There was ice cream. There was shopping. And, of course, there was the beach and the pool.

However, there was certain bit of reality that was insistent in its attendance and nudged to the point of annoyance. Information concerning the recent 5.9 east coast earthquake proved interesting. However, the more surreal bit of news revolved around the developing hurricane named Irene. Not only was she large and looming but she was headed our way and was threatening to strike landfall right where we were vacationing on the very day we were planning to leave.

My wife and I have become jaded stock and to us, all news is to be taken with a rather large dose of skepticism and several grains of salt. However, even we had to agree that this bit of newsworthiness was now beginning to develop into something substantive.

So we discussed the issue and decided that, number one, we didn’t want to drive in the pouring rain that was being threatened for that Saturday and, number two, we didn’t want to be on the road with every yahoo, bubba and their grandmother traveling to higher ground.

And so, in order to avoid traffic in DC and Philly, we cut across Maryland to Pennsylvania in order to go east towards Jersey. It turned out to be a slightly longer drive but it would have been substantially longer had we decided to brave DC and Philly.

And we arrived home earlier than originally anticipated in northern Jersey. The next day, Saturday was gloomy and gray waiting for Irene’s slam fest.

Saturday evening and Sunday evening welcomed the wicked witch of the South draped in her darkest and wettest gray finery, long unkempt locks flying, wild eyed and talon-like fingers outstretched and at the ready.

We were fortunate. There were downed branches all around. There was some water in the basement. There was a minor leak in one bathroom. We were without power for 12 hours. But we didn’t have over 4 feet of water in the house. We didn’t lose heaters and water tanks. We didn’t lose roofs. Trees did not crash into our house. We regained power within the day. We were a lot luckier than many.

The aftermath, is, however, something we are now living through in the guise of detours and blockaded roadways.

This deserves its own space and I will sign off at this point.

Dog Training

2011-08-04T13:10:00.001-04:00

A new form of consumer oriented enticement has managed to slither up from the mire into the consciousness of the techno adroit. It’s called Groupon. I’ll have to ask my wife for more details. But apparently it works something like this: For a percentage of the cost it would normally cost for a ‘fill-in-the-blank’ you pay that price over the net to Groupon, they send you an email with your purchase confirmation, you print that confirmation and present it to the service or goods provider in exchange for the goods and/or services for which you would have normally overpaid. For example, my wife will pay a cool twenty bucks over the net for a restaurant’s dining experience that would ordinarily cost sixty. We dine out at the establishment, get a dinner for two for sixty bucks or less and, when presented with the bill, we fling the Groupon certificate in the general direction of the server accompanied with a drily delivered, “Suck on that, bitch!” and we will have walked away having paid a mere twenty bucks. Ok. Twenty one with the tip.

And so we turn our attention to canine instruction, or dog training, if you will. The day after I put my beloved Shepherd, Cambridge, down, my wife dragged my pitiful and tear soaked carcass to a local dog rescue adoption type of affair in a nearby town. She’d read about it either in the paper or online and felt this would be a right fine thing to do. She found an adorable puppy (is that redundant?) attempted to shove the little ball of fluff in my face and made extended cooing female noises extolling the virtues and relative and respective cuteness quotients of this terrified shaking little thing. I made it very clear certainly to my wife and pretty much anyone within listening distance of my low grumblings, that I had no interest and that I still bore profound and labored millstone weights of sorrow over my lost friend and even greater burdens of guilt surrounding the hint of a prospect of harboring what I considered to be a replacement. To make a long story short, the nearby assemblage assured me that this new acquisition would not be a replacement, simply a new member of the family.

I am embarrassed to admit that I received this cloyingly and nauseatingly simplistic bit of Hallmark card sophomoric cutesy ass tripe from within a reasonably quasi philosophical framework. And so, in an out of body experience, I watched the events of the next few minutes unfold around me. We shelled out a cool two hundred semolians, filled out a bunch of paper work attesting to the fact that we are not animal abusers and we had neither short nor long term designs on serving ourselves Schnauzer tartare, and watched the rescue types contact and talk to our vet about his opinion of us as animal owners (apparently and somehow he reluctantly provided his approval, probably more to rid himself of these pesky rescue types interrupting his well earned Sunday morning hangover). Oh yes. We also had to sign in blood an agreement allowing a member of this dog rescue service to pay us a visit or three at home in order for the rescue service to feel satisfied that, yet again, we were not a collection of drooling troglodytes living in a complex of Sears refrigerator boxes. Sure enough, a week later, some do-gooder type flounced on over to our middle class digs, voiced general approval and left us with a bagful of advertisements, plastic dog toys and certificates relative to our new charge’s history of care and inoculations.

And so the next several weeks marched by interspersed contrapuntally and regularly with trails of paper towels, Resolve carpet cleaner and vet visits.

I must reluctantly acquiesce that this little gal is pretty bright for a dog. Come to think of it, she’d probably give a few of my co-workers a run for their money, too. But then again, so would a pet rock. But I digress. She sits and knows her name and smiles and is very attentive to flitting and fluttering creatures of the glen. Nevertheless, she nips and chews shoes and barks inappropriately and can be your basic nickel plated card carrying member in good standing pain in the ass. And on occasion, in a move as subtle as a power shovel, our vet offices will shove a dog trainer’s calling card in our general direction.

And so it came to pass that my wife and I tacitly agreed that a series of dog training sessions might be in good order. I even picked up a few brochures at a local pet supply chain. I walked away from that particular venue with a line from a Talking Heads song blasting away at my very being: “My God! What Have I Done?!”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my wife does one of the many things she does best. Whilst net surfing a softly seductive voice beckoned to her. “Come here, baby. Look at what I’ve got for just you. That’s right, baby. Don’t be shy. Come on, baby. Take a look. That’s it. Look at it, honey. It’s all for you.” Yes. It was a Groupon for a series of puppy training sessions. I’m still not certain about the details here. I think my wife paid Groupon ninety-nine bucks for the series of training that would otherwise have set us back at least $199. I don’t know. I’m probably wrong. I usually am. But you get the idea.

And so it was written. And it was so.

And know the time had come when it comes to all. I am the logistics guy in the house. Ideas are flung around, talks are talked, and decisions are made. But somehow or another, someone has to measure the door and get the dates and times and find out how long something will take and find out the address get the directions and determine as to whether the thing will fit in the car or through the door. I’m the logistics guy. And so boldly armed with information and then some, I engaged in telephonic discourse with the powers that be at the local K9 training establishment.

I received a learning experience in spades. One does not merely plunk down one’s moolah and then traipse on in with your mutt in tow tugging on the leash in protest. Oh my no! One must make an appointment. And not just an appointment. Goodness! This is for the orientation. And you just don’t attend an orientation, there are only so many that are scheduled. And if it was filled, you were temporarily SOL and you’d have to wait for the next chorus to roll around. In our case, the next session was filled. My wife and I had commitments for the session scheduled after that and so we had to wait several weeks for a Sunday afternoon where my wife and I and a handful of others appeared sans animals.

For an hour and half my fellow folding chair hostages and I were subjected to our future trainer’s effervescence and enthusiasm surrounding the art and science of getting dogs to either do your bidding or at least not be such a pain.

One of the gals in attendance apparently didn’t get the purpose of the meeting and felt compelled to throw in questions pertaining to her unique particulars. “Do you work with Jack Russels?” Robin, the trainer felt equally compelled towards an animated affirmative, at which point the lady who missed the point decided she would relay to all concerned her plights and woes surrounding her misbehaving Jack Russell terrier. Robin politely nodded her head occasionally. The rest of us studied our shoe tips.

Several days later we collectively arrived at the scheduled time with our dogs and the supplies we were obliged to bring according to the mandate cheerfully delivered by our bubbly professor. As I walked through the doors to the establishment I banished the thoughts pulling at me regarding, why we needed to wait for an orientation. Couldn’t we have been told to show up at such and such with our dog using this kind of leash, bringing a couple handfuls of those kinds of dog treats? Did we really need to wait several weeks for an orientation? I didn’t understand then, I don’t understand now.

And we showed up. My wife thought it would be the proper thing for her to do to sit back and watch me make a fool of myself while she just sat there and took notes concerning what a fool I was.

Let me tell you. This stuff ain’t easy. Everything is done on the leash. The leash is in your left hand. The treats are grabbed with your right. By the way, the treats are stashed away in a special treat bag, actually it’s a bait bag and you’re not supposed to use the word ‘treat’. You’re supposed to use the word ‘reward’. Tough. Anyway, the treat bag discretely attaches to your pants. Yours today for the low price of $16.99. The instructor is instructing and you have to apply the instructions on your dog at the same time the instructor is moving on to the next topic. It isn’t easy to hear the instructor because the room within which we are all imprisoned has the perfected acoustics of a forty foot high enclosed basketball ball court filled with barking dogs.

And within this environment the dog is repeatedly advised to sit, while eyeing a nice chewy little doggy treat held in your right hand. Then the dog is advised to lie down … enticed by a nice chewy little doggy treat. Then the dog walks and is suddenly requested to sit. The dog is purposely distracted by a person or another dog and your job is to ensure that your dog focuses on the nice chewy little doggy treat. The dog is lured to stand and walk. This is how we discourage the barking and nipping behavior and we are treated to a low level lecture focusing on the fundamentals of canine psychology. Apparently yelling and scolding are the desired objects of a dog’s attention getting devices. So ignoring them or walking away from the dog is supposed to blast a message advising that this behavior isn’t going to get them their attention, so just knock it off.

Meanwhile, surprise to everyone, the dog continues to act like a dog. But overtime, the dog is supposed to make a synaptical connection between your spoken command and a treat, its name and a treat and your hand gesture and a treat. My hand gestures are usually not accompanied with treats. At any rate and at a time yet to be determined, the treat that is supposed to accompany your behavior will no longer be necessary and the dog will respond as trained. Personally I think that sucks, but I guess that’s God’s punishment to dogs for being so damn stupid. In the mean time, at least in my case, our dog is having herself one big time canine blast of a time. It’s loud, there are a bunch of other dogs, she’s getting treats hand over fist, there are new and interesting smells, people are paying attention to her. Man, this is the life! But of course, it’s my job to turn her into a cuddly, snuggly smiling automaton.

To date, I’ve been to two of these sessions. When I get home I repeat the stuff we did and we practice what we did during the sessions. Is the dog learning things? Am I learning things? Is the dog getting trained? Time will tell, I guess.

I suppose I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing I suppose at this point I guess I kind of like the dog. I am sure that at this point I am not in love with her. Perhaps this too will change in time.

I do know absolutely that my wife is pleased as punch on several levels. First and foremost, in her mind anyway, she got a deal thanks in no small part to her bargain hunting ingenuity and Groupon. Secondly, the dog is getting trained … probably. Thirdly, possibly most important of all, she got her dope of a husband to do the heavy lifting.

Thanks Groupon.

Kool-Aid and credit cards

2011-08-01T10:23:00.002-04:00

We have a relatively new expression in the American lexicon. We say, “we drank the Kool Aid.” This comes from an incident in 1978, now called the Jonestown Massacre, where in Guyana members of a cult, called the Peoples Temple, drank Kool-Aid (actually it was Flavor-Aid, but why quibble) laced with cyanide in order to commit communal suicide for a faith based ritual. Today, “drinking the Kool-Aid” is a metaphor meaning to blindly and unquestioningly believe in an ideology, or to accept an argument or philosophy without critical examination.

Which brings us to today’s headlines surrounding our near-the-brink economic debacle. I read incredulously as people just don’t get it. These people listen to other people who, completely misunderstanding the economic crisis within which we currently find ourselves. The talking heads projectile vomit their ignorant bile fully expecting others to buy into their jive. The more meek and more prone-to-follow types stand in line, nod their heads and regurgitate the same goop without bothering to take the few synapses and the few minutes it would take to connect the dots for themselves. In some so-called newspaper or another, some dude at some Tea Party like gathering was photographed all dressed up in Revolutionary garb and held up banners decrying that our problems will be solved not be raising the debt ceiling but by spending less.

Stupid! This is a typical Ron Reagan response. Simple answers to impossibly complex questions. People like to grab on to simple. This reminds me of a movie called ‘Dave’. The premise of the movie had a brain dead President. A look alike with unerringly do-gooder tendencies was enlisted as a temporary replacement and the replacement made things better despite the gross and underhanded political wanking surrounding him. In one scene we have the do-gooder going through deficit line items and during the course of an afternoon, cut out billions and billions of wasteful expenditures to the delight of the majority of Congress.

Isn’t life like that? Isn’t life like the movies?

Uhm. No.

A few years ago during yet another bogus gas shortage, a well intentioned but woefully misguided boyfriend of a co-worker explained the exorbitant gas prices simply, “…supply and demand…” This explanation sent yours truly into almost uncontrollable fits of paroxysms with the utter and complete hopeless display of even attempting to uncover the actual root causes of the mass screwing we were collectively receiving.

We have an extremely complex economic situation. The causes behind this situation are an intertwined web of even more complex tendrils of wars, buying habits, mishandled energy policies, bad decisions regarding international trade policies, delicate balances of international relationships, and on and on.

Is the answer to spend less? Well, and to be honest, spending less is, in fact, one aspect of a long term recovery. But, and after giving it some thought, one realizes that it isn’t quite that simple.

Yes, we have to spend less. And just as we have to spend wisely, we also have to examine what we eliminate from our spending habits equally as wisely.

Will eliminating Planned Parenthood or National Public Radio save our economy? No. It won’t even make a dent. Do we have to monitor our military wisely? Yes. Do we need to re-examine our import and tariff policies? Desperately. Should we put a comprehensive all inclusive energy policy in place? Yesterday. Should we let the market decide its own fate, just like we did with Wall Street, the oil and insurance industries? Don’t think so.

Cutting to the chase and the definitions. Raising the deficit ceiling has absolutely nothing, I repeat, absolutely nothing to do with future spending trends. The issue of the debt ceiling enables the United States of America to pay its respective bills.

Let’s take the issue of your credit card. I know you don’t want to think about. Well … neither does our government. But, assuming you actually want to be responsible and keep your decent credit rating, you just have to gird your loins and pay up. Is this something you like doing? Of course not. But, again, you have to pay your bills. If you don’t, there are nasty consequences.

In a simplistic move of either bombastic misunderstanding, or, more likely, in a move to provide simplistic forms of spoon feeding to the huddled masses, the political types are trying to create a new definition and purpose behind the debt ceiling. The impression these folks intend is to foster is that the prospect of a debt ceiling raise is the natural equivalent of a spending vacuum. The picture being painted by these types involves the following scenario: As soon as the debt ceiling is raised (which by the way, it most assuredly must) there will be the equivalent of a dam burst of spending on over priced buildings, luxury items, travel, patronage assignments, unnecessary government programs, golf junkets and, of course, wholesale abortions. The picture being painted is that of the Roman gentry languishing idly by fountains being fed grapes by scantily clad nubile nymphs and being gently fanned by loyal harmless eunuchs.

Let’s eradicate that picture and allow me to less than humbly ‘splain things.

As we said before, if the debt ceiling is not raised, we’re not going to be able to pay Master Charge. Again, all we’d be doing with this new debt ceiling is not spending, but rather, paying. How’s that for simple?

The issue of deficit reduction is an altogether different matter. Hello out there. The two have nothing to do with each other. The sad fact is, with all of Congressional hesitancy, we've already hurt our credit score.

An estimate from the Congressional Budget Office is that if our borrowing costs rose just one-tenth of a percentage point, it could translate into $130 billion more in what we owe over the next 10 years. We will have Washington dithering to thank for that.

Add to this the fact that the rate of economic growth the past two quarters has been incredibly low, and we have nearly 25 million Americans either unemployed or stuck working part-time.

The fact is we wouldn't have a deficit crisis, if we had more people working. The revenue that would come from halving our unemployment rate would reduce our long-term debt to manageable levels.

So if you’re strung out for overly simple answers, well here it is. Raise the budget ceiling so we can start paying our bills. At the same time, we need a WPA like program in order to get people back to work and have them input and circulating into the economy.

So what’s with all the brouhaha surrounding less spending instead of adjusting the current debt ceiling?

It has nothing to do with the economy. It’s a photo opp. It’s about hustling for sound bites on the boob tube. It’s about getting the masses to grasp on to mind numbingly simple, yet incorrect, economic falsehoods. It’s about getting the masses to tie these sound bites with these talking heads. It’s about building non-credible political credibility. It’s about getting votes.

And all they have to do is to get you to drink the Kool-Aid.

Economic Insensitivity

2011-07-25T11:08:00.002-04:00

After having exercised a certain level of introspection and a general connecting of the dots I find it of no surprise that we find ourselves in the economic quagmire of the day.

I was witness to several incidents which had occurred over the last few days serving as both microcosms of our American existence while serving as an explanation of the embarrassing economic debacle being performed on a world stage.

One incident is indicative of several observed at least twice on a daily basis. To drive on a daily basis, at least where I drive, is to regularly observe selfishness, stupidity and bad judgment. For example, there I was, attempting in vain yet again to behave like a good citizen and provide input to our local re-cycling center. Upon my return I was confronted with another individual wanting to exercise the same privileges. Separating the south bound driving populace from the re-cycling center is a double yellow line. I was driving northbound. The approaching individual thought absolutely nothing about cutting me off by turning left across the double yellow line, mandating, as a matter of course, that I stand on my brakes, screech and smoke tires and narrowly miss caving in his passenger door and my front end. I, of course, left my Epictetus-like inclinations towards my hindmost and replaced said inclinations with loudly decibeled rude utterances and even more vile hand gestures. These were returned with a mere shrug of the shoulder by our transgressor. Bottom line: he could not have cared less who he inconvenienced or how his behavior was received. He had a mission, and the rest of the world could go screw.

Then, of course, was my Saturday night. I play classical guitar at a local restaurant. These guys have double booked me once where I walked in with my gear on a Saturday night only to find a young gentleman strumming chords and singing Jim Croce songs whilst seated in my designated performance place. Since my weekend planning, and those of my wife, need to take into consideration this bit of social scheduling, our Saturday evening was replaced with our spending time together and dining at a local pizza joint.

Let me regroup here. I know this may sound as though I do not enjoy my wife’s company or our local pizza joint. This is quite the opposite. I love my wife dearly and I relish our time together, even if it might be spent in non verbal proximity. The pizza place is pretty good, too.

But, and the fact remains, this bit of incompetent scheduling threw the proverbial spanner in the works insofar as our weekend was concerned.

To be fair, the place acknowledged their role in the mishap and, the next time I played there, they comped my wife and our friend their respective dinners as a means of retribution and good faith.

And so I sojourned out yet again on another Saturday night. As I drove in, I noted the marked and profound dearth of automobiles in a parking lot that I would normally have to scout in order to find a suitable parking arrangement. Cleverly, I found myself speaking to myself yet again. “This can’t be good.” I had run across this incident once before where I went to play at an establishment where I was so scheduled. The parking spaces were empty, and the establishment was dark. That place, as it turned out, went belly up, and no one was notified. And with this in mind I approached the locked door and discovered a message advising that the entire staff was attending a wedding.

So the place was not out of business. That was the silver lining. When I was double-booked about a month previously, I was genuinely pissed. On this occasion, I found myself disappointed. I was disappointed over the fact that I was not notified. In my mind, if you’re not going to be able to follow through, you advise the necessary parties of the issue at hand. My disappointment was focused around the incompetence and lack of general consideration for those affected by this.

And I have seen these minor occurrences in my negligible existence as indicative of larger and more substantial indiciae of carryings on within the realm of high state.

And it is with this that I see posturings of John Boehner, Eric Cantor, Barack Obama, Mitch McConnell, Harry Reid, Joe Biden and the talking heads who so enjoy pontificating with no regard to the bile projectiling from their selfish, evil, egocentric faces.

These guys take the attitude of the guy crossing the double line to a greater and more intensive stratosphere of piggishness and self righteousness.

They do not care about you. They do not care about the double yellow line. They are unheeding of your weekends, your time, your money, your income, your livelihood. What is important to them, is their posturing, their ability to fund raise, to get re-elected, to walk in the lime light.

In short, our representatives care only for their agenda, not their respective constituents’ representation.

After all, what will it do to them if the United States’ bond ratings are lowered, or if there is no money to pay out benefits or social security. They’re rich. They’ll be fine. What do they care?

I suppose what is worse is the downright stupid economy lessons they have so obviously and so successfully jammed down the throats of our teeming masses’ throats.

Cut taxes and inexplicably, government revenue rises. Do you believe this? I don’t. Has anyone seen this occur anywhere, in any civilization? I haven’t read of such a thing. Give money to the wealthy and jobs will be created. Do you really believe this? Reagan attempted to foist that on the great unwashed during his Presidency. ‘Trickle-down’ theory. Remember that? No? Look it up. As you may or may not recall, the trickle-down theory is explained roughly as follows: Rich people win big, the crumbs will fall off and the little people will benefit, too.

Turned out that this theory, like all the other nonsensical bits of whimsy and drek attempted, was just so much hooey, as usual. When the rich get money, they keep it. And why not? If someone gave you money, wouldn’t you keep it? Of course. This isn’t really being selfish or stupid. The theory is selfish and stupid. Do you really in a half a minute think that a business creates a job merely because there happens to be extra bread lying around? Hell no! Let me explain or reiterate something pretty basic in business. A business hires someone, not because they have the cash to do so. An individual is hired to do a job because the business needs that individual to provide goods and services to the business’ customers. Without the individual doing the work, the goods and services do not become available and the customers go elsewhere. Yes, yes. I know. It’s not necessarily that simple. Yes, yes. There are certain incentives the government provides in hiring veterans, minorities and the handicapped, etc. etc. But even the veterans, minorities and the handicapped wouldn’t be hired if the business was not able to support the head count.

FDR got it right in creating the WPA. The Works Progress Administration spent the cash America did not have in order to create government based jobs which jump started the economy after the selfish bastards on Wall Street nearly crippled the world economy.

And we find ourselves, yet again, in the same situation. The selfish bastards on Wall Street damn near crippled us and businesses close all around us. The government tries to kick start the economy but now, all of a sudden, the rich guys raise their eyebrows and all of a sudden they develop an economic conscience. “How are we going to pay for it?” is the mantra these hypocrites voice to us in order to try and get us to believe this.

In order to answer this, you have to understand another fundamental aspect of running a country. Running a country is not even remotely like running a business. Yes there are executives and you can’t just go blindly bumping about making bone headed decisions. Yes the government is not a charity. In this, there are similarities between businesses and governments. However, the fundamental distinction between business and government is the fundamental agenda which the two do not share: the objective of business is profit. The objective of government is the welfare of its people.

And it is with this frame of mind that I find our dear darling Federal legislature missing the proverbial boat. The question you ask first is not “how much is this going to cost” or “where are we getting the money?” These are business questions. The question our dear darling legislative types need to ask is, “how can we best serve the people of the United States of America?”

To behave otherwise is to cross the double yellow line with no concern or sensitivity to the people they serve.

Our legislative branch is behaving with acute economic insensitivity.

The iPad and Me

2011-06-23T14:11:00.000-04:00

For my 60th birthday, and behind my back, my kids chipped and bought the most useless gadget in the world that I cannot live without.
You guessed it. They collectively schemed and got me an iPad 2. It’s the WiFi model not the 3G.

Let me start off by telling you some of the things about it that I found a bit of a nuisance.

First of all, there is no Flash support. A fair number of videos out there are made using Flash. So you will need a legit computer with Flash capability in order to view these things. I hear that there are workarounds for this type of thing, but I remain skeptical.

Secondly, there’s no real multi-tasking. In other words, you can’t have two or more application in front of you simultaneously. You have to open and close and open and close. A bit of a nuisance.

Thirdly, constant use of the thing can drain the battery in a day. This is unlike my wife’s Kindle where it can be used for days on the same charge.

Fourthly, before this thing starts to install, you have to USB connect the thing to a computer that has iTunes installed.

Fifthly, the thing that annoys me most of all though is that there is no open directory structure. In other words, if I’ve created or downloaded a file and it resides all comfy and cozy inside of one application, I can’t just grab that file and copy and/or move the thing wherever my whims and caprices beckon. No. This thing is all application driven. Meaning that wherever that file is … there it is.

Now, for the good stuff.

First of all, it’s so cool looking and so cool feeling. It has an absolutely gorgeous screen (hence the power drain) and, assuming you haven’t turned this function off, the screen will adjust its orientation based upon whether you are holding the thing in a landscape or portrait position.

The most expensive application (app, for those in the know) you can get for the thing I’ve seen so far is a cool fifteen bucks. Most of them are ninety nine cents.

You get a handful of applications to start with. You get this admin function type of thing. You get Facetime. This is a Skype sort of thing which is actually much better than Skype. If you’ve never done a Skype thing, you owe it to yourself.

There’s iTunes, of course. Contacts, Notes, Videos, Camera, iPod, Calendar, Game Center, App Store and the Apple net browser Safari. And then you start scouring the App Store for free stuff. So I got the following things for free: Netflix, Skype, Digits Lite (a calculator), Pandora, Youtube, Mail, Facebook, DropBox (An absolute must have) Evernote, Twitter, Weather Channel, Google Earth, AP news, Chess, Flipboard and, of course, Kindle. I’ve paid for a handful of apps: GarageBand, Maps, GoodReader, and DocsToGo.

Everything is activated with a finger tap. When you need to type in something into a form like a name or an email address, you just tap once on that blank space and then the iPad presents you with a keyboard. The keyboard is a little funky in that you have to touch one key to get a keyboard with numbers and special characters. But with just a minor bit of fumbling, that turns out to be no big deal. There’s even a ‘.com’ key to slightly ease your typing burdens.

At this point in time I have to say my favorite ‘app’ is a thing for which I paid a cool ninety nine cents called TuneInRadio. This thing has the radio stations that stream across the internet as well as the air waves. And these stations are categorized: Talk, Rock, Hard Rock, 60s, Jazz, Opera, Classical, Bluegrass, Comedy, etc. So you just tap here and there and you can listen to your stations. This, by the way, is the only multi-tasker I have. That is, I can navigate away from this as I do something else on the iPad and the music still plays. Also, with the included recording clock, I can configure the settings in order to record stuff in the night so that I might listen to the file it creates the next day. Very cool.

But I have to say, the apps I use routinely are Mail, Weather Channel, Facebook and AP News.

With a tap of the finger I can read my office and personal email in the time it takes my wife to boot up the laptop. Some of my emails actually require responses. To that end, I just tap to get my reply keyboard, tap tap and type away and tap to send. After that, I check out the weather, news and my Facebook stuff. By this time my wife is just beginning to get to her email site.

Oh yes, this thing is all finger centric. If I need to see the ‘next’ page, I just put my finger somewhere on the right of the screen and drag that finger to the left of the screen. Voila! The ‘next’ page.

If I need to zoom in to get a better look at something, I merely put my thumb and forefinger together in the middle of the screen and then move my fingers apart. Voila! Bigger screen. If you want it smaller, just take your spread fingers and put them on the screen and bring them together. Voila! Smaller. I do this with the New York City subway map.

But here’s the thing that turned me on to the iPad before I started even thinking about it as a serious addition to my arsenal of cutesy ass man toys.

I’m a musician. Make no mistake, I’d starve to death now if I had to rely on this as my only source of income. But I do get paid for playing at restaurants and weddings and parties and such. So I guess I’m a musician. Unfortunately, as all musicians know, when you obtain sheet music, there are no standard formats. Some sheet music comes in larger books. Some manuscripts are in single sheets, some are in spiral notebooks some are that high. Some are that high. Now, wouldn’t it be cool if I could just scan my working repertoire into one environment and one manuscript would look, more or less the same as the other? That would be nice.

Instead of lugging around a bunch of different sized manuscripts, there they’d all be in one thin little device. Cool no? Well … almost. There’s still the pesky task of having to turn pages as you’re playing.

We’ve all seen the poor slob that has to sit behind the piano player while he watches the manuscript as the musician is playing. Then he turns the page at precisely the right moment. Right? This guy is paid. With the amount of dough I collect at my gigs, there’s not a small chance I’ll be hiring anybody none too quickly in order to just turn a couple pages. No. I’d have to reach over to the music stand and turn the page. A deft maneuver at its best. I’ve seen disasters complete with crashing music stands.

The iPad by itself offers a small solution; and that is all you need do is to give a mere little finger flick and lo and behold, your virtual page turns.

Sounds great, right? Close. But no cigar. This still means I have to break concentration and touch the iPad. There’s this new kid on the block making the following claim: for musicians: It’s a wireless Bluetooth foot controller page turner sort of thingie. Step on the right one, your page turns forward. Step on the left one, your page turns backward. This little device ain’t cheap, though. I mean, in the larger scheme of things, it’s not going to break the bank at Monte Carlo. But still at about $175 its almost 1/3 the price of the unit itself. Technology has to improve and competition has to stiffen before I venture into this territory.

But obviously, this too is around the corner. In the mean time, I’ll just be amassing my repertoire.

At this point in time, I’m sitting here typing and I’ll just have a listen for a while to whatever my jazz station in San Francisco was doing at one in the morning.
Like I said: Totally useless. But just too cool for fools.

Thank you very much, kids!! Love you all!!

The Nature of Insensitivity

2011-06-13T15:35:00.001-04:00

I find myself confused where it concerns the nature of an individual’s thoughts relative to his or her place within the context of the whole.

Yes, there were specific incidents underlying the provocation of these questions. On my back from having dinner with the guys (the wives’ book club night always has the book club widowers congregating at a restaurant serving dishes the wives would ill approve) I received a text message from the mother of one of my guitar students. You see her family and my next door neighbors are members of the same church and my name has been floated about within their community as the go-to guitar teacher type guy. The above referenced text message cheerfully invited me and my wife to attend a social gathering taking place at my neighbors’ house. The majority of folk in attendance would be members of their church group.

Innocently enough, my thought processes triggered along the following lines: “… nice people. Susan’s out. A little bit of light harmless socializing. Why not?” And so, around 7:30 or so, I sashayed across two suburban lawns to knock-knock.
And so, and as expected, there was a group of nice people at an informal pot luck gathering. The prospect of a second dining experience held no allure for me whatever as I had only just ingloriously stuffed my face with the offerings of a newly found Mexican joint with three of my buddies. No, I was looking forward to smiles and small talk. And for the next few moments, my expectations did not disappoint.

What took place, took me by surprise. It seems that one of the merry makers was the group’s pastor. I realized, that while I was otherwise engaged, a circle of chairs was formed and I was unceremoniously handed a single page copied from the New Testament. This particular quotation, involved the nature of good acts committed either with or without a personal relationship with Jesus. Specifically, the question of the day, evening actually, revolved around the ultimate objective of entering the hallowed holy grounds after having performed a life’s worth of good acts. Do you gain access regardless of having a relationship with a specific deity?

Never mind the fact that the answer to the question is obvious. Never mind the fact, that the obvious answer was a warm fuzzy blanket intended to assure the attendees that theirs was the exclusive path of the righteous and they represented the elite and that only they held the key. Never mind all that.

There I sat holding this sheet of paper upon which were words of scripture. My curiosity had bested me many times, and I have read, and to a lesser extent studied, said lines of New Testament. So no stranger was I to the words and their respective interpretations. Regardless of this, there I sat wanting all the world to rise, potentially embarrassing my neighbors, and announcing that this particular setting was not my scene and later to you all. No. I remained steadfast. Was it cowardly, or worse, dishonest, on my part to so remain? After mulling it over several times since, I have resolved that no, it was merely an act of politeness and civility.

The larger question of the day remains. What was the underlying rationale behind our having been invited to this soiree? Was this an act of wholesale recruitment where the intent was to unashamedly inculcate me into their midst? I sincerely doubt it. Was this a friendly gesture where nice people invited other nice people to join them and participate in an activity they collectively enjoyed? I suspect the latter. However, in so inviting anyone outside their clique and failing to advise that there was going to be a come-home-to-Jesus discussion, the act of having so invited anyone in such a manner, it seems to me that this was a rather thoughtless gesture. No. Not merely thoughtless. Insensitive. Borderline selfish.

Self-indulgent in the sense that one projects one’s own pleasure centers in a full expectation that others have identical propensities. It obviously never entered anyone’s minds that this guy, this neighbor, is Jewish. He might be uncomfortable in being dropped in the middle of discussion where it was understood that not only did some guy name Jesus Christ existed (I hold no such belief) but that this same dude somehow is, or at least represents, the Almighty and that such a belief is universal in its application.

After the discussion and everyone was satisfied that he or she was not only a good person, but that eternal salvation was all but guaranteed, there was a collective dig in to the goodies people brought. I hung around for a respectful amount of time with sufficient chit chat after which there were ‘thank yous’ and ‘gotta gos’ and a bid of a hasty but subtle outahere.

My wife insists that I should raise this point and advise that I was uncomfortable with the scene imposed upon me. I’m reconciled that I’ll mention something. But I am not certain as to what.

Another incident occurred on Saturday evening that threw me into more than just a bit of ire.

I play classical guitar. Fairly well, I might add immodestly. And a couple times a month, I play in local restaurants. I am not exclusive to these places, nor they to me, so they schedule me with others who offer different types of musical fare.

And what’s to a schedule? There’s a piece of paper. You write down a name associated with the date and time. Presto! Schedule! Not tough.

So my friends, neighbors, family and co-workers want to know when and where I’m playing so they can dine casually and listen to my ambient background noise. Such was the case Saturday.

And with little fanfare or bombast my presence was made known. As I sought the spot where I would offer my humble tunes, I noted another individual who was singing innocuous familiar songs accompanying himself by strumming chords on a steel string guitar. I turned to the staff questioningly.

Let me back up a few weeks. The day after another such gig, my wife and I were working around our cabin in the Poconos when I received a phone call from the staff at the restaurant. They were calling to apologize because after scheduling additional gig dates, they failed to recognize they had double booked; a process of accidentally scheduling two acts where only one can fit. After a brief discussion, a re-scheduling was arrived that was mutually agreeable. Cue the organ music and we’re back to the present.

You will recall my turning to the staff questioningly? My inquiry was posed succinctly, directly albeit without customary eloguence: “What the fuck is this?”

What came next was a flurry of, “Oh we’re so sorry. We tried to call you but you didn’t pick up.” I pulled out my phone and looked at the messaging section that did not convey messages from this establishment. I showed them the absence of such contact accompanied without words but with a visible none too pretty scowl. “You’re still scheduled these dates.” They offered as though it were some sort of conciliatory point.

“First off, I have to call a bunch of folks who were coming here with the express purpose of seeing me.”

“Oh we’re so sorry. We can offer you and your wife a dinner on the house.”
“Secondly, I’ve been doing this for over 40 years. I’ve never once been double booked and you guys have done it to me twice in one month. Seems to me, something’s a tad disorganized here.”

And so I left agreeing to see everyone in a few days.

So the question still nags at me.

Is this what we have de-evolved into? A bunch of self absorbed myopic insensitive incompetents?

News in full spin

2011-06-09T10:59:00.001-04:00

I’ve been writing about my family situation for the past few weeks and have, therefore, failed to post anything in quite a while. We’ve been quite busy.

However, recent events floating within our news entertainment has been of such a caliber that warrants my pushing these other project temporarily aside in order that I might address these particularly juicy topics.

The spin doctors from left and right have been hard at work.

I can understand those who rally behind Sarah Palin. Look. She’s just pure fun. She’s terrific press. Face it. Don’t you think she says stupid things just to garner the press? She can’t really be that ignorant? Can she?

Recently, before being snubbed by Baroness Thatcher (more on this later) Sarah decided she needed to churn even more press. So off she goes on her tour bus and stops and fields questions involving revolutionary war history.

When my brother was in elementary school he learned of the ‘Midnight Ride of Paul Revere’. This was dashing stuff. Midnight. Galloping horses. Secret signals. Covert operations. Life and death. Heros. And so my brother was charged by his elementary school teacher to come up with an essay that would designed to vividly convey the extent to which this story had captured the imagination of his very tender young mind. In his little essay, he wrote the following, as was supposed to have been shouted by Mr. Revere in his midnight ride, “… The Britons are coming! The Britons are coming!” Isn’t that precious? In this same essay he wrote of a “chimendis battle”

Point of fact. Paul Revere, upon learning of the method and means by which the red coats were coming to apprehend the locals’ stores of gunpowder, rode through the town of Concord and loudly advised that “… the Regulars are coming…” You see, everyone then was a British subject. Warning about advancing British would be about as confusing then as yelling, “Watch out for the Americans” today.

As usual, Sarah put her uneducated foot in her face and decided to wing American history. She got things a tad confused. Warning settlers. Warning the British. They’re going to take our armaments. They’re going to prevent us from bearing arms. Whatever. The stone fact of the matter is, she blew it. Automatically, however, the apologists start to spin hard.

“No! No!” They say. “She got it right.” Her handlers tried to spin it in such a way that Revere did, in fact, warn the British not to take our arms, by advising everyone that we would be left defenseless if we didn’t pull off some fast three card monty. Wouldn’t it be less of an exercise in wholesale disingenuousness if she just came out with it and said the heat of the moment got to her and she misspoke?

Such an idiot is she that in a hopeless attempt at proving to the world exactly how worldly she is, Sarah is taking her tour to, of all places, Europe! How exotic! London! Paris! Rome! Wait a minute … Sounds more like a vacation than a diplomatic proving ground. Regardless. She had made it known that she much admired the former British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, known now as Baronness Thatcher. And so, Sarah attempted to reach out with a meet and greet and a potential photo op. Thatcher’s keepers shined her on, indicating, “allies believe that Palin is a frivolous figure who is unworthy of an audience with the Iron Lady. Lady Thatcher will not be seeing Sarah Palin. That would be belittling for Margaret. Sarah Palin is nuts."

On the other side, we have Weiner and his weaner. Jeez I’m sick to death of this story. Look. I think the guy obviously made some hopelessly immature and stupid decisions. Men! Whaddayagonnado? They never grow up and they never stop obsessing over their own genitalia. You can’t even ask, “What was he thinking?” Because the obvious answer is, “He wasn’t.”

And now Nancy Pelosi is calling for an investigation. What a world! What a jerk! Weiner was a jerk for sexting his schlong to some bimbo who obviously felt she could score big in revealing this. Stupid thing in the first place. But before he came clean, he had to come up with these junior-hig-like it-wasn’t-meisms. I love this. “My Twitter account got hacked.” F’God’s sake! Hacked. This is the same thing as junior claiming that he can’t find his homework because the house got robbed. Sure thing, Tony.

Breitbart got hold of only your Twitter and was able to finagle his way into your business. Obviously his handlers got to him, sat him down and told him the story of Bill Clinton and his famous “Ah did not have sexual relation with that woman …” Best way to get it behind you is to come clean.

Now there’s this racist pig who is somehow managing to convince Californians to pass a law banning the practice of circumcision. Circumcision is not the issue. You can argue one way or another, pro or con, and you would be correct assuming that your arguments are well reasoned and well presented. But think about this.

Circumcision, although performed on infants that are not Jewish, is based upon a very fundamental Jewish precept surrounding old world visions of cleanliness. Is it relevant in today’s United States society? Probably not. But it is still routinely practiced by Jewish parents throughout the world, the United States and yes folks, even California. Therefore, does this law have a ghost’s chance, dare I say, a prayer, in passing? Hell no. It’s a fundamental imposition on freedom of religion.

The advocacy of the law is, of course, vacuous. But the bile that’s feeding this current is nothing short of disturbing. Matthew Hess insists that his advocacy has nothing to do with anti-semitism. However, he produces a comic book couched in super hero garb. A blonde haired chiseled featured Aryan hero type called Foreskin Man fights his evil nemesis, a loathsome looking cackling bad guy with a long black beard, big black hat and long black clothes, looking suspiciously like an orthodox Jew, whose name is, get this, Monster Mohel. For those who don’t know, a mohel (pronounced moil) is a designated holy man who is religiously and medically trained to perform circumcisions. The sort of propaganda being spewed here appears the same as the type of anti-semitic posturing that was done in Germany after World War I, complete with gross stereo typical depictions of Jewish features. “It’s not anti-semitism, it’s anti-mutilation.” He says.

Spin, spin, spin.

Don’t how about history, how to behave in public and how to be a human being?
Just keep talking fast. Maybe no one will notice.

The Royals

2011-04-28T10:25:00.001-04:00

The Royals.

I don’t know anything about The Royals. I couldn’t care less about The Royals. There is an extremely small likelihood that I will ever learn of or care for The Royals.

If you wish to learn more of, or gather further opinions concerning, The Royals, look elsewhere.

Transocean's Bonuses

2011-04-25T12:24:00.001-04:00

I was unaware of this until I just happened to glance past an article buried in the back pages. Do you remember a company called Transocean Ltd.? During the gulf oil rig disaster of 2010 when everyone was pointing fingers to determine fault finding, British Petroleum bravely pointed the finger at the builder and maintainer of the oil rigs. That company was, and remains, of course, Transocean Ltd.

These fine folk were right smack in the middle of the worst oil disaster in history. Right? Eleven people were killed, environmental disaster, wildlife destroyed, coast businesses ruined. Right?

Well, it seems that Transocean Ltd., in a recent filing with the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission, noted huge bonuses and raises to its top executives and based all this on what they referred to as the company's "performance under safety" last year.

This must have raised a few eyebrows at the SEC.

"We acknowledge that some of the wording in our 2010 proxy statement may have been insensitive in light of the incident that claimed the lives of eleven exceptional men last year and we deeply regret any pain that it may have caused," Transocean said in a statement to CNN. "Nothing in the proxy was intended to minimize this tragedy or diminish the impact it has had on those who lost loved ones. Everyone at Transocean continues to mourn the loss of these friends and colleagues."

As you might have expected, the statement did not address the controversy over the decision to give out cash awards despite the oil spill disaster.

That includes a $200,000 salary increase for Transocean President and Chief Executive Officer Steven L. Newman, whose base salary will increase from $900,000 to $1.1 million. Newman's bonus was $374,062, according to the report.

Newman also has a $5.4 million long-term compensation package the company awarded him upon his appointment as CEO in March 2010, according to the SEC filing.

"Notwithstanding the tragic loss of life in the Gulf of Mexico, we achieved an exemplary statistical safety record as measured by our total recordable incident rate and total potential severity rate," the SEC statement reads. "As measured by these standards, we recorded the best year in safety performance in our company's history."

The company called that record "a reflection on our commitment to achieving an incident-free environment, all the time, everywhere," the SEC filing said.

Let’s hear this again. “…our commitment to achieving and incident-free environment…” The April 20, 2010, explosion on the Deepwater Horizon rig injured 17 workers and killed 11 others, including nine Transocean employees, according to the SEC filing. It has been called the worst spill in U.S. history. The well was capped three months later, but not before millions of barrels of oil spilled into the Gulf. And this was the best recorded year of safety performance in the company’s history?

My God, this can only mean that Transocean’s annual safety record must read like georgey bush’s gubernatorial execution rates, coupled with all the sensitivity of the Ukraine’s Chernobyl handlers.

In January, President Barack Obama's National Commission on the BP Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill and Offshore Drilling released a report that spread blame for the accident among Transocean, BP -- which leased the rig -- and Halliburton, which installed the rig's cement casing, calling the problems with deepwater drilling "systemic" and that only "significant reform" will prevent another disaster.

The oil spill has prompted a flood of lawsuits against BP, Transocean and Halliburton from a variety of plaintiffs, including owners of Gulf businesses who say they suffered heavy financial losses because of the spill. The plaintiffs also include Transocean shareholders who contend the company falsely claimed it had remedied past safety problems with its blowout preventers before the Gulf spill.

And yet it still remains. This was a banner year for Transocean and the hotshots get raises. And you wonder what causes populist revolutions?

Recerccio de la Jersia

2011-04-05T11:08:00.001-04:00

Recerccio de la Jersia
An Opera in Three Acts

Act One

Labradoria reclines in a hammock in the town of Hydrantia when Grossotto bursts into to his backyard complaining that his presence is upsetting her newly arrived and delicately disposed niece, Fifi. She explains that Fifi has recently arrived from Wyckoffia in order to escape her step father, Cassineste, who is hopelessly addicted to pinochle. (Businesse este inna toilete). Overhearing Grossotto’s bellowing alto, Fifi more fully explains her situation to Labradoria (Tu mucha Mahnike Businesse) advising that Cassineste has many addictions aside from pinochle. Included within many of Cassineste’s growing troubles is his unnatural attraction to red enameled entrenching tools. At first Labradoria seems sympathetic to Fifi’s plight and relates this to Grossotto (Atta sucksa fo hera). But when Labradoria finally sees Fifi, he suddenly realizes that he is passionately in love with her (Atsa hotta stuffa). Fifi finally notices Labradoria and quickly turns to leave announcing that she cannot have anything to do with him because she is promised to the Duke of Hopatcong, the fearsome Herbie. (Goombah Herbie nunja like). Anyway she is late to a party that Herbie will be throwing in honor of their nigh approaching nuptials and Fifi rushes off. Labradoria attempts to follow her but he is suddenly run over by Grossotto’s husband, Trader Giussepe in his garbage truck. Giussepe is horrified at the condition of Labradoria and offers to put him out of his misery by calling his nephew, Sichewachin, asking him to bring over his steam roller (Crusha da suckaza’s gutso). Sichewachin arrives only to catch a glimpse of the fleeing Fifi. Sichewachin suddenly realizes that Fifi is the long lost sister of his friend, Kunta Kuntessa (Ay! Looka da punim). Labradoria tells Sichewachin of Herbie’s party and Sichewachin tells Kunta of the party. Labroadoria miraculously recovers and all of them decide to attend the party uninvited for their own reasons (Quartet – Gedda Loadon Annahow).

Act Two

The uninvited Labradoria decides to dress up as a female in order to remain unthreatening to the fearsome Herbie. Fortunately, Hopatcong women all have mustaches. (Femalia, dey luka lakka mah grannapapa). Labradoria is approached by Verdespan. Verdespan is a wealthy and very elderly gentleman who is in charge of all the finances of Hydrantia and thinking him a woman, expresses an interest in Labradoria (Molto ricci y molto hornoso). While trying not to make a scene, Labradoria attempts to extract himself from Verdespan’s advances and make inroads towards Herbie in order to see if he can persuade Herbie to give up Fifi. In the process, it becomes obvious that Herbie is himself now attracted to Labradoria. (Haboy ah donna needa dees). Meanwhile Sichewachin has disguised himself as the Viscount of Wyckoffia in order to advise Fifi of Kunta Kuntessa’s presence and his equal desire to reestablish his relationship with his long lost sister. However Fifi, who at one point ran a side business selling lists of newly available wealthy widows, would have recognized the Viscount of Wyckoffia as one of her clients and knows that Sichewachin is a fraud. (Dica guysa fulla mozzarella). However, just as Fifi is about to denounce Sichewachin as a fraud, Trader Giussepe, who is dressed as a court jester, intervenes between Fifi and Sichewachin and gently tries to persuade Fifi that Sichewachin is actually here to represent Fifi’s best interests and also to advise that Herbie is completely wrong for her. (Paysan! Wakeuppa enna smella d’coffee). After being told of the combined efforts of Labradoria, Trader Giussepe and Sichewachin, Fifi suddenly realizes the huge mistake with which she is about to embark (Ahva binna putza). Labradoria, however, now finds himself attempting to extricate himself from the attentions of both Verdespan and Herbie and finally is able to leave despite the protests of both Verdespan and Herbie. (Trio – Layde fe dees/Ahschpetz! Weh yu tinka yu gowann!).

Act Three

At Labradoria’s house, Grossotto scolds Labradoria, Fifi, Sichewachin and Trader Giussepe. (Whassa madda fromma yu?). The four of them defend themselves in front of Grossotto advising her that they were acting in the best interests of Fifi. (Eh fuhgeddaboudid). After which Herbie rushes in with his entourage and begs forgiveness from Fifi (Ahva binna a bigga putza). Verdespan then enters the house looking for the previously disguised Labradoria. Both Herbie and Verdespan suddenly realize that the Labradoria they are currently confronting is the Labradoria who was disguised at the party. At first they are both angry at Labradoria but quickly become embarrassed. (Ah shudda brekka yu face). Verdespan suddenly realizes that Herbie will be getting a tax windfall from the town of Hydrantia and tells him about. (Eh yu sunzaba gunz). When Herbie and Verdespan smile at each other, they suddenly realize there is a genuine bond of affection between them they need to explore. (Izza thata gunna innayu pockete). Kunte Kuntessa shows up announcing he received a message from Sechewachin. Both Fifi and Kunte fall into each other’s arms happy in being reunited. The cast closes the opera with Donna pissuppa me bacha anna tella me itsa rainin.

Pesky Intrusions

2011-03-30T11:15:00.000-04:00

I’ll tell you what. It’s a good thing there’s a movement underway to keep that pesky bureaucratic, nasty, self-indulgent, self-important, burdensome, expensive and just plain pain in the ass government, out of our collective lives.

Do you remember a few weeks back? Well, I’ll remind you. It seems that Mr. Ophadel Williams, aka Eric Williams, was driving for the World Wide Tours tour company and drove a bus owned by the Webster Trucking Company. He carted people from and to Connecticut’s Mohegan Sun Casino primarily on behalf of New York City carousers.

On the above referenced occasion, it appears as though Mr. Williams made a profoundly less than handily transacted vehicle manipulation and, instead, hoisted the large vehicle against an inanimate object. Of the 32 passengers on that fateful night, 15 were killed.

Let’s examine the record for a bit. “Who is this Mr. Ophadel Williams?” I hear you ask. It appears as though said Mr. Williams has himself a bit of history.

Let’s see, Williams was convicted of manslaughter for his role in fatally stabbing a man in 1990 and served just over two years, according to New York State Department of Correctional Services. He had initially been charged with second-degree murder. He also served about three years, from 1998 through the middle of 2002, for grand larceny for removing an $83,905 check from a Police Athletic League fund, according to Linda Foglia, correctional services spokeswoman. Williams used aliases in both those cases. He was imprisoned from 1998 to 2002.

He also was arrested by New York City police on June 4, 2003, for driving with a suspended license, and for possession of police radios. In 1987, he was arrested on charges of trying to get on public transportation without paying.

His driving privileges were suspended after he ignored tickets for speeding and driving without a license in 1995,

And, of course, these trifles were omitted in attempting to obtain gainful employ and so advising World Wide Tours of his background.

Thus far, New York State has boldly stepped where no man has stepped before. All present and future driving privileges are hereby revoked and refused. Small consolation for the relatives of the victims.

My friend Peter was jubiliant! “My faith in American justice has been restored.” Said he, with right hand placed over his heart and left index finger pointed heaven ward. I could all but hear the background music to the ‘Superman’ weekly television show as Superman stood, arms akimbo while Jackson Beck advised that Superman was fighting for “…truth, justice and the American way.” Sort of gets you right here doesn’t it?

As we discussed the safeguards with which we the American public impose upon those who access our local and Federal highways, we came to reaffirm the significance of the stature within which our government attempts to regulate the goings-on surrounding this bit of business.

And then it occurred to me: the mantra of Dick Armey, Reaganites and Tea-Partiers. Let the free market regulate trade. This mantra is more in response to the perception of the government’s meddling in private affairs. In fact, however, the government is ensuring that there is, in fact, a free market at all, by policing whether everyone’s playing fair. In this case, the government is in industry’s face in order to ensure public safety. The Tea Partiers have recently complained about this level of intrusion, too. Witness Rand Paul’s latest noise concerning our relative clean air these days and how government should keep out of policing so called pollutants. He fails, of course, to mention that part of the reason for cleaner air today is directly due in no small part to the clean-air and clean-manufacturing government imposed regulations which has been the rule of law over the past forty years.

And now here we have a reason for maintaining records which enable potential employers to perform background checks on potential employees. These records are here for a purpose. Let’s hear it, class: To protect us. Yes. That’s right. To protect us.

Repeated Uprisings

2011-03-15T14:13:00.000-04:00

Let us examine current events and relate them to historical events. Let us turn our attention to Egypt. Without assistance of outside agitation, the people of Egypt got their proverbial belly full. The fat cat sitting in office for decades has been skimming off the top for decades to the tunes of billions in personal wealth. During all of this, people have endured low paying situations, scurrying to make due.

Last autumn Egypt held parliamentary elections, where the opposition was suppressed. Although the Muslim Brotherhood is a banned organization, it ran candidates as independents in 2005, and the Muslim Brotherhood won 88 out of 450 parliamentary seats. This time they received no seats. Did Mubarek suddenly gain all that popular favor? Were the people disappointed with the Muslim Brotherhood? No. Monitors reported widespread fraud in the election. Why was it rigged? Because disappointment and anti-government sentiment had grown even stronger? Because the elite was just going to replace Hosni Mubarak with Gamal Mubarak? These were the scenarios that were being discussed before the New Year. As we can see now, inner political/economic tensions and the example of the Tunisian uprising have led to the recent activity in Egypt. In Tunisia the uprisings were social and psychological in nature, while in Egypt they were a result of economic problems coupled with a deteriorating ruling elite.

Let us turn our attention to the events leading up to our own Revolutionary War. It is true, many of us were working and many of us were successful enough with our lives and professions, chosen or otherwise. But looming over all of us was King George III who could do, and pretty much did, anything, his agriculturally oriented heart desired. It was no secret that his desire to keep the Amercian colonies under his thumb was superseded only by his porphyria suffering.

Although loved by those with personal ties to British royalty and by those whose well being and wealth were directly attributable to the King’s grace, he was despised by those colonists where restraint of trade and onerous taxes dug heavily into their livelihood.

And so dissatisfaction grew to turmoil which grew to skirmishes which grew to revolution, attracting assistance from Spain and France. The result is the happy democratic experiment we currently enjoy. And so it was with France, whose people so despised their ruling elite that heads, literally rolled.

These revolutions do not always end so valiantly. So it was with Russia creating the Communist experiment. And so it was with the Shah of Iran whose despotism single handedly created the power of the reactionary theistic wing nutism of the Ayatollah Khomeni.

And now I am seeing rumblings of the past repeat themselves today.

There is an ever widening gap between the haves and the have nots. Unions, once the saving grace of otherwise downtrodden workers, are being summarily dismantled for purposes of political expedience by those holding sway within the halls of political and financial power. Secularism is being slowly pecked away by a loud and growing faction of the holier than thou clan, genuinely in belief that they have the whole thing figured and their piety gives them society’s guiding light; just like the Crusades and Al Qaeda.

From all appearances to me, it seems that this environment is laying the seeds for a harvest of grass roots uprising whose rage will indiscriminately wash away those who hold, or even appears to hold, any reins of authority.

When a government erodes the quality of life of its people, the government ultimately endangers itself.

Highway Sensibilities

2011-03-09T13:50:00.004-05:00

There were two incidents that struck me at work in a way that was at both terribly dissimilar and yet definitive in the means by which certain modes of conduct are motivated.

I scheduled an internal meeting electronically. No big deal in and of itself. The two invitees accepted the invite. No conference room was required in that said meeting was to take place in my office. The agenda was clear. The time was clear. The date was clear. The brief length of the meeting was clear. Yes sir. It could safely be said that all things were clear. Our electronic calendaring system even has a reminder that flashes on your computer screen reminding the invitees that they agreed to go to a meeting at such and such a time at such and such a place for so long about the topic at hand.

So the agreed upon time came and went.

It might make a small difference to note that in the not terribly distant past, meetings I have scheduled have either been poorly attended or attended not at all.

Such was the case at hand.

I called my two esteemed invitees at issue. And provided both with the following:
“You accepted the invitation to the meeting. Where are you?” I was none too pleased and made no attempt to hide it. This somewhat surly invective was answered with, more or less, the following:

“Oh. Our priorities changed and we have to do this other thing. Could you reschedule this?”

My response was the same to both. I grunted, hung up and sent a rescheduled meeting for the next day.

It was, and remains, my feeling that I was treated discourteously, unprofessionally and this is not the sort of conduct that should be professionally condoned.

And so I fired off the following missive to our Office Manager:

My Dear Office Manger,

I have a bone to pick and I realize I’m probably just venting.

Let’s just assume that a meeting has been scheduled and the agenda, time and place for that meeting is clear and the invitees have accepted. Now let us assume that the invitees just decide not to show up.

There are always very good legitimate reasons for this sort of thing, be they oversight, overbooking, last minute emergencies, reorganized priorities, absences, etc. But it would seem to this overly sensitive soul that the very least of common courtesy would dictate that the invitees should advise that meeting’s organizer that they will not be attending.

This is happening on a more frequent basis, and I don’t feel like rolling over on this any longer.

Should we discuss?

She was genuinely concerned and came over to my office to receive my gentle yet firm harangue. She was very calm, sensitive and understanding. And although there was a tiny bit of hope that she would broadcast an office message to all indicating that ‘if you become aware that you will not attend a meeting to which you’ve accepted an invitation, have the courtesy to advise that you will not be attending’, this was not going to happen. But she listened attentively and was receptive to my vitriol and rant. During this rant I indicated that on the highways, people behave in inconsiderate, rude and dangerous ways. That is the norm and so be it. But in the office filled with intelligent, friendly professionals, it is expected that we behave in a manner above that of the common yahoo.

Along the same lines, our office has a Friday morning tradition of providing bags and bags of fresh bagels. It’s well appreciated by all … I think … I hope. Our office also has a two-bagel toaster in our kitchen. I am one of those who prefers a toasted bagel. There are a few others who are of the same persuasion. As a toaster slot becomes available, I drop my sliced bagel in the appropriate receptacle and wait patiently for my toasted treat to noisily appear above the toaster’s brushed aluminum housing. However, there are those, who, without giving it two and a half thoughts, think nothing of stopping my process, dropping there’s in, restarting the thing (thereby subjecting my bagel to a double dose of rontgen measurements) and popping there’s when they feel the time is right for them.

A minor issue. Granted. And there are those of you out there who would correctly suggest that I gently request the offending party that they may consider just holding off a short while until my cycle is complete before the commence with theirs.

In my mind the issues of inconsiderate bagel toaster hogs and those who do not show at meetings to they’ve accepted invitations are identical. In both instances they are the product of selfish inconsiderate minds who either can not or will not take into consideration the consequences of which their respective action or inaction may have on others.

As I write this, I throw both hands in the air. I reschedules, as requested. And again, the both of them didn’t show without word of explanation.

Union Solution

2011-03-02T15:47:00.001-05:00

Unions are a scourge of the earth! They gather together the masses to gouge their fellows in providing minimal services while reaping unheard of benefits for their members. Collective bargaining indeed! When you’re old and in the way, have the grace to step aside. Never mind about this sick leave and tenure and health insurance and pay raises. Bob Dylan said it best when he wrote his anti-union song, thinly disguised as a song regarding progressive protest, “Come mothers and fathers throughout the land. And don’t criticize what you can’t understand. Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command. Your old roads are rapidly aging. Get out of the new one if you can’t lend a hand, for the times they are a changing.”

Wisconsin’s Governor, the right Honorable Scott Walker has it right. The teachers’ unions are wreaking havoc upon the otherwise fragile economy of Wisconsin. Likewise with nurses, police and fire fighters.

While the upstanding citizens supporting our untaxed stock transfer businesses are sorely burdened with the weight of financing these otherwise untoward entitlements, they suffer the barbs thrown at them by the left leaners controlling the press and other media.

It suddenly came upon me in a flash. We can save billions in otherwise mis-spent infrastructure dollars while placing a solid value proposition within the confines of a self determined economy.

Consider the following. There are approximately 2.2 million adults incarcerated and over 7.2 million adults on probation in these United States. Consider such an untapped resource as the, yet to be fully realized, Alaska pipeline. Consider the enormous loss of productivity. Aside from producing license plates, the majority of the time an incarcerated inmate spends involves sleeping, attempting DNA based appeals, sodomizing their cellmates and attaching ‘LOVE’ tattoos on their knuckles. Consider the structures within which they are housed, not including the half-way houses within which some of the parolees reside.

It would seem that rather than have this untapped resource idling their hours by lifting weights, busting stones, and cleaning highway shoulders, a greater benefit can be reaped by having these same individuals, as a condition of their incarceration and as an incentive for either more lenient conditions or earlier release dates, these grossly under-utilized resources could serve as the replacement for the infrastructure currently and quickly eroding the fabric of our economy.

We could have the current inmate population serve as educators, fire fighters, nurses and law enforcement agents.

In Wisconsin alone there are 32 prisons and correctional facilities with an average inmate population of approximately 1,000 males per institution. There are currently approximately 60,000 teachers in Wisconsin.

With a little bit of belt tightening in these tough times we can arrive at a relatively mundane solution towards the resolution of Wisconsin’s woes.

Let’s start by increasing the classroom size to 50. I’m sure you feel as I do, that this namby pamby business of personalized teaching is just so much tree hugging nonsense. In the old days, a teacher taught in a classroom that was filled to the brim with kids of all ages and abilities. It was her job to make sure everyone received their book learning. Nowadays, the save-the-snail-darter types want a one to one relationship between teacher and student and they should be insightful towards the sufferings of the student who may exhibit signs of varying attention deficit disorders, glutin and lactose intolerances, overly sensitive sensibilities or various and sundry sexual orientations.

Enough of this! Lump ‘em all together like they did in the good old days. And if they fall behind, they fall behind.

These existing inmates would, for mere pennies on the dollar I might add, assume the responsibilities of those overpaid individuals in receipt of princely benefits, charged with the education of our youth. In so converting, this would reduce the burden upon our tax payers by enormous levels.

The same would hold for nurses, fire fighters and local law enforcement. All of these individuals hide behind the skirts of their union representatives making wholesale and outlandish demands of their neighbors.

Consider the number of schools, hospitals, fire houses and police stations the tax payers are called upon to support. These edifices are currently filled with the parasites draining the life blood from the economic health of their own state. If we were to reallocate the prison population to these resources, therefore displacing the useless dredge currently occupying them, the buildings would be able to serve double duty: to wit, housing the inmate population while serving, in addition, as a service outlet for students, the sick and those requiring fire and police related services. There would be no more call for prison reform, at least insofar as crowded prison conditions would be concerned.

Is this a perfect solution? Of course not. None of this takes into account the obvious issues of inmate training and supervision, the displaced individuals, previously raping the economy, re-designing issues of the structures at issue or the leap of faith necessary for the rest of our hard working population to embrace.

But this is what makes the United States great! This will represent our finest hour! This will represent the spirit of the American peoples’ ability to take a collective deep breath and sally forth with vigor, determination, courage, spirit, hard work, perseverance and good old fashioned American know-how!

Fiscal Games and Realities

2011-02-21T12:27:00.004-05:00

A few months ago in Long Island, Nassau County specifically, a basic lesson was learned.

Edward Mangano, a Tea Party backed Republican, was elected Nassau County Executive. The first thing he did upon coming to office was to sign a repeal of a home energy tax. At the time, it was applauded by his supporters. But as the county suffered from grievous non-funding issues, the Nassau County Interim Financial Authority decided to exercise their respective authority. It seems that Mangano’s tax repeal set Nassau in such a fiscal tailspin that the Authority had to step in and seize control of that county’s finances.

You see, there are very basic economic concepts with which some folks have a hard time coming to grips. Despite the fact that one is dealing with gargantuan sized numbers, conceptually the facts remain the same. If you want to buy something, you have to pay for it. See? Easy. Right?

Let’s break this down. Regardless of the form of government, be it Democrat, Republican, Tea Party, Communist, Socialist, Whig or Benevolent Dictatorship, we are faced with certain unalienable truths, one amongst them being that, stuff don’t get done for free. There has to be an exchange somewhere regarding the receipt of goods and services.

Tax cuts!! Tax cuts!! I hear you cry. Well, that’s real swell and everything, but where does the money come from to pay for police, fire equipment and personnel, road services, teachers, schools, snow removal, and the list goes on and on? Taxes.
"A lot of people who got elected on this type of anti-tax platform are running into the brick wall of fiscal reality," Matthew Gardner, executive director of the non-partisan Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy in Washington was prompted to admonish.

Now let’s bring the clock forward to today’s romper room type setting in Congress.

Let’s cut spending!! Yahoo!! The first Republican proposal was to cut the rest of the 2011 budget by $32 billion. Then, since we’re on such a nice roll, let’s not stop there. Let’s go to $61 billion in cuts. At last count, the Republicans now want to slash a total of $81 billion, all out of the next seven months of government operations.

Hold on a moment. What are talking about as far as these proposed cuts? What programs are being slashed? One proposal suggests the United States would stop paying dues to the United Nations. Other proposals would cut all financing for the health care reform law, or Planned Parenthood, or any foreign aid to a country that regularly disagrees with the United States at the United Nations. And by the way, the programs being slashed have nothing to do with the programs driving up the long-term deficit: Medicare, Medicaid and, to a lesser extent, Social Security.

Asked on Tuesday if he was concerned that the proposed cuts could lead to tens of thousands of new layoffs, John Boehner said he was not. “Over the last two years, since President Obama has taken office, the federal government has added 200,000 new federal jobs.” “And if some of those jobs are lost in this, so be it.”

It is true. The Federal government has added jobs. But Johnny boy is a tad off here. The federal roster has increased, but more to the tune of around 63,000. Also, cuts of the order proposed by Republicans would result in more than just “… some of these jobs …” as he so glibly puts it. When polled, economists have indicated that cuts in the order of the proposed 81 billion could result in about 800,000 job losses throughout and across the entirety of the American economy.

Oh. You want to hear a priceless (pun intended) quote? You’re going to hear it anyway. Get a load of the genius of newly elected South Dakota Republican Representative Kristi Noem. “A lot of us freshmen don’t have a whole lot of knowledge about how Washington, D.C., is operated. And, frankly, we don’t really care.”

The prospect of working the rest of my life is something I find less than attractive. However, mortgages, electric, gas, oil and grocery bills beckon. You see, as unappetizing as this might seem Kristi, before money goes out, it has to come in. See? No? Well just work that red pen, Kristi!

It all comes down to public posturing for the 2012 elections. Johnny and company know full well that these proposals have 0 chance of getting past the President’s desk.

But this is a risky game being played. Not for us, the American public, but for the politicos attempting to put budget related issues front and center. The Republican gamble goes something like this: The economy is in the toilet and our bills and proposals were vetoed. Therefore, get that miserable Democrat out. But the risk they run is an economic upturn and an unemployment down turn.

Does someone besides me feel that wishing the worst for one’s country is kind of sick?

The Trip that Almost Wasn't

2011-02-16T13:39:00.003-05:00

It’s been about three months now, so I can now speak of it as rationally as I am able.

As some of you are already aware, my brother and his family live in Las Vegas. Although it’s all but an annual event, we oftentimes attend my brother’s Thanksgiving family reunion, gala and gustatory marathon.

We love going to those things for two hopelessly obvious reasons. First of all, and no offense meant, dear brother, but it’s Vegas. Bad mouth Vegas as much as you want, but I think Las Vegas is possibly the most insane place on earth. Hence it’s particular appeal to me. I don’t gamble. Well, let me qualify that. I sit around and play cheap slots, but that’s about it. But I love Vegas anyway. Why? Because it’s so honest. There is no hype spouted by the Las Vegas chamber of commerce regarding the wonderful weather or the myriad of business opportunities, or the golf, or community spirit or, frankly, anything cerebral. Las Vegas stands with arms folded and says clearly and unabashedly, “We have no taste. We have no class. We don’t care about you or your dog or your family. We are here and we exist for one purpose and one purpose only: to take your money.” So whilst ensconced within Las Vegas, I watch the craziness unfold around me. We go to shows. We go to buffets. We people watch and drink and shop. An adult Disneyworld in the middle of the stinking desert.

The second reason we love to go to Vegas is that we get to mingle with the rest of my insane family. All of us are oddballs. In many cases, many of us are oddballs on several levels. Look at who’s writing this, after all. So there are always lots of stories and even more opinions. Lots of raised voices, finger pointing, name calling, laughter, yelling, jokes, live music, singing and drama. All of this is, of course, underscored with the ever and overwhelming presence of food. Some of this is prepared. Some of this appears in cans or jars. No matter. It’s there and then it disappears within someone’s face.

In other words, we are more fortunate than your average garden variety Vegas visitor because we have the added attraction or diversion (you pick) of mixing family with debauchery.

And this is the Vegas atmosphere to which my son has been exposed for many many years. He was actually considering a pre-paid Vegas outing for himself and a friend, as a twenty first birthday present. This never came to pass for a variety of complex reasons best left explained within another vehicle.

This year, actually it was last year at this point, we all planned to go it again. And so we all planned. The kids are more or less independent and they have lives, agenda and plans of their own. So the comings and goings revolved around themselves as opposed to a singular point of reference. There were, as I recall, at least two hotels and two sets of car rentals and a number of different and complex sets of arrival and departure times. The kids are too big to share a room with Mom and Dad so two of them had their own room to themselves. My daughter had to leave early which meant that my son would have his own room at the Rio for several days. Not bad for your average 22 year old male. So before hand, and I credit this bit of brilliance to my ultra creative wife, we invited my son’s oldest friend in the world to substitute as my son’s Rio roommate after our daughter’s early departure. After considering this proposal for several full seconds, Liam readily acquiesced and was able to pull together the necessary funds for an economy fare to Vegas.

And so after my daughter’s having left, we the family collected Liam at McCarram. Liam and my son spent a bit of time with my family. But most of the time, the two of them spent their waking moments cruising and prowling amongst the bright lights of impropriety and temptation beckoning throughout the Vegas strip. And they succumbed willingly and happily losing money while gathering a lifetime of stories.

But Tuesday morning arrived. The predetermined time at which we would all leave the hotel, return the car and fly homeward.

Slight digression here. All this took place at that point in time when airport security was in the media full blast. Seems that there were supposed to have been installations of new obtrusive and invasive big brother type full body scanning types of gizmos to which one would have to subject oneself prior to allowing yourself the privilege of cramming yourself like so many sardines amongst others of the great unwashed. In other words, in order to be on time, you had to arrive at the airport even earlier.

The hotel was satisfactorily left. The car was returned in a timely manner. There were no mishaps of any kind regarding the car rental shuttle bus. The security line at 6:45 that morning was not exactly your basic Sunday traipse in the park, but all of us have seen much worse.

When we were just about to allow ourselves to be confronted by the underpaid TSA staff member, all of us whipped out the necessary paperwork. Everyone, that is except our boy. I quizzically turned to him, with the wordless interrogatory, “Sup?”

He suddenly became ashen and wide eyed. Now we all stood and eyed him with wordless interrogatories and he responded, “Oh shit!!” Now we all stood and waited silently with wordless interrogatories but with our eyes, otherwise weighted with morning ennui, now widened. He explained, “I think my wallet must still be at the hotel!”
The gravity of this news was not lost upon any of us. In fact, the cartoon safe from the building’s upper floor fell upon us instantaneously! No wallet, no driver’s license. No driver’s license, no photo ID. No photo ID, deep shit.

6:45 am in a McCarran airport security line is generally neither the time nor the place where the act of philosophical waxing falls upon me naturally. And so it did not. However, reality has a unique habit of forcing logic upon me. So as my son intoned niceties such as, “Oh shit!” and “What do I do?” my steel trap reserve of logic and order sprung into overtime and instead of sparring my son’s expository with clever, and readily available, bits of repartee such as, “You fucking idiot!” or “Comes from your mother’s side of the family” I found myself calming down and delivering sensibly placed orders such as, “Call the hotel and see if they can locate the wallet” and, “we need to explain this to security.” And so we did.

We were sufficiently early that the prospect of jumping through the necessary security hoops did not add additional stress to the jolt that we had all experienced. However, the prospect of jumping through additional security hoops held neither attraction to our situation nor did it provide added allure to our son’s personae.

As you might imagine, non violent security issues are run of the mill sorts of fare for TSA. And so we lost our place in line and were confronted with a bleary eyed but otherwise rather understanding TSA supervisor who advised, no surprise to any of us, that there was a procedure to handle this type of situation and we would, as we expected, jump through these procedural hoops. After having explained the situation, it became obvious to all, that the young man was, in fact, our boy, and that he had, in fact, misplaced his wallet and it was still probably somewhere in the Rio. As it turned out, by this time, Josh was able to contact the hotel security folk who actually located the wallet and indicated that they would have no problem whatsoever in mailing the otherwise errant wallet back to us. And so they did. Several days later at home we did receive the wallet from the Rio, driver’s license and all.

But in the mean time, Josh had to fill in some blanks and answer some questions. Address and phone numbers were provided accordingly. So far, so good. Now the TSA person punched in our particulars and was in receipt of even further of our particulars, thus spurring on further questions. Before she started in with the questioning she explained, “Mom and Dad, I’m about to ask Josh here some questions. Please stay here, but please do not answer of the questions for him. And so she began.

“What is your mother’s birthday?” “How old is your father?” “What is your sister’s middle name?”

We all stood slack jawed as my son mawkishly lowered his eyes lower and lower after responding to each of these otherwise innocuous questions with, “I dunno.”

This time, my wife became decidedly un-philosophical and, security issues be damned, expressed her ire rather demonstrably. I could detect a veritable diatribe just itching to sprint and springboard forward that were all going to pronounce our son a self centered, myopic, lazy, selfish, egocentric child. However, all that came out was, “WHAT?” I said nothing. However, my teeth were clenched, my face turned redder and I stared heavenwords.

The TSA supervisor recognized the symptoms and pre-empted what would invariably have turned into a particularly juicy filicide. She strongly urged for us to go forward to our gate and wait for sonny boy on the other side.

Liam went with us and tried to assuage the two of us with a peace offering of two of Starbucks’ finest. About twenty minutes later, sonny boy appeared casually sauntering down the runway casually eyeing the appropriate gate for him to inhabit.

He sheepishly met our steely stares and kept himself quiet for the duration.

The flight itself was uneventful. The ride home was uneventful. The unloading of the limo was uneventful and Josh crept upstairs and remained quiet.

At least that was mature and reasoned.

Swiss Indictments

2011-02-09T11:33:00.002-05:00

I did a bit of research the other day after I had driven into work. The left leaning radio talk show to which I was listening, Mr. Bill Press specifically, advised that former President George W. Bush canceled a trip to Switzerland a few days ago. Former President George W. Bush was slated to be the keynote speaker in Geneva at Keren Hayesod’s annual United Israel Appeal gala.

Although the gala continues, Bush canceled his visit. Why did he cancel? Two reasons were offered. The first one offered was that of mainstream news commentators and Bush’s handlers. Specifically, there was substantial concern over the level of anticipated protest oriented activity surrounding both the State of Israel, and of protesters demonstrating against the former President’s international policies. The second reason offered for the cancellation had been provided by Mr. Press and several members of organizations still hard charged against the former President. The proposition was set forth as follows.

There are existing war crime indictments that exist in Switzerland leveled against George Bush, Dick Cheney, Condoleezza Rice, Donald Rumsfeld and others. That a substantial likelihood exists that if any of these fine folk dare to show their naked faces in the process of disembarking from an international SwissAir flight, they (in this case – he) would be immediately seized upon, handcuffed and summarily whisked away into a run of the mill Switzerland hoosegow in order to subsequently stand trial for crimes against humanity.

I so desperately wanted to believe that. However, the skeptic in me decided it would be best to do a bit of research rather than to take anyone’s word for anything.

As it turns out it is true that the Center for Constitutional Rights, an Alliance for Justice member organization, and the European Center for Constitutional and Human Rights released a 42-page indictment against former President Bush, making the case for his indictment under the Convention Against Torture. This part is true. However the statement regarding an outstanding bench warrant against this former President was not just exaggerated. It was an outright misstatement, a lie, a fabrication, a falsehood, a deception and, at best, a wholesale unmitigated ignorant sham.

It seems that these groups had only planned to file the document as an individual criminal complaint with the Swiss authorities in anticipation of the former president’s trip to Switzerland, but did not do so because Bush canceled his trip the night before the complaint was to be filed. Instead, the groups released the document as an “indictment,” modifiable for future use in other countries. The document sets forth the “fundamental aspects of the case against him, and a preliminary legal analysis of liability for torture, and a response to anticipated defenses.”

The fact of the matter is that because Bush is out of office and constitutionally prohibited from occupying the presidency again, the conditions for prosecuting him are absent.

I was left with rather profound sentiments of misgiving. First off, and after having discussed this with my buddy, Ed, although my disdain for our former President is well documented and I stand pat on my opinion and take on all comers, I still feel as strongly about this as I did about Hugo Chavez publicly dissing the former President while he was still in office.

My sentiments were, and remain, as follows. Dude! You have got a lot of stones to stand there bad mouthing my President. I reserve the right to do so as often and loudly as I damned well please. But that right begins and ends with us … the American people. You, on the other hand, just sit on your ill gotten gains and shutchaface.

I’m pretty sure I would feel exactly the same towards this puissant little bit of land. The rest of the world has allowed Switzerland its own devices, for a variety of reasons. But, in the event that Switzerland dared lay claim to one of our Presidents, I will be the first in line throwing bricks through Swiss embassy windows.

My second series of misgivings focuses on disappointment in the media and in myself. I am disappointed with the media because here is this left leaning radio station. These guys hop up and down when the right wing latches on to a talking point and wrings it dry. The examples go on and on: the non-existent death panels, Obama’s supposed 200 million dollar Asia trip, the lies surrounding the swift boats, the non-controversy regarding Obama’s citizenship and many others.

But yet, the lefties latch on to a talking point on their own and they bray loudly as though it were truth, when in fact it was either researched poorly or not at all.

I am also dismayed at myself for my abject lack of objectivity. I mean, I read the news. I’m reasonably up on things. This Switzerland indictment was news to me. Yet instead of doing what I usually do, and get some facts, I just allowed myself my own immediate series of inferences based upon past prejudices.

Very unfitting.

Note to self: Don’t believe everything you hear.

The Validation of Mediocrity

2011-02-03T11:21:00.000-05:00

You see? That’s why I’m not a leader of men. This is why I occupy the lowliest of rungs on the social ladder. I’m not that insightful. It’s taken me up till now to figure this out. And now with Sarah Palin’s latest comments on Egypt, it has all become very clear.

Ah. I see I must explain myself. In the New York Times yesterday, there was an article concerning the breakup of a band called White Stripes. This guy played loud simple chords while his ex wife made incompetent chimpanzee like attempts at pounding at a drum kit. I’ve never been a fan, so their breakup affected me not at all. No sooner did I make a haiku of this making sure to send it around to my buddies, then Peter sends me something about Britney Spears coming out with a new record. Afterwords, another buddy of mine, ironically enough, named Peter, railed on about the inanity of certain elements of popular culture.

We discussed certain poof offerings of no talents such as Ben Stiller, Britney Spears, Keanu Reeves, Snooki, Justin Bieber, etc. However he came back in defense of Lady Gaga.

As I was throwing him bodily out of my office, left hand on his throat and right hand on his belt buckle, he was somehow able to convey to me the rationale behind his otherwise misplaced admiration. It is Peter’s contention that Lady Gaga is, in fact, a talented musician as was evidenced by her piano based performance on Saturday Night Live. Peter waxed on advising that Lady Gaga knows exactly what she is doing in that she has decided to promote herself as a living spoof of today’s cultural demand towards the celebration of the mediocre. On balance I still remain largely unconvinced.

We went on to discuss the purported offerings of the famed yet talentless. You can take your pick amongst singers, actors, musicians, news casters, radio announcers, or politicians.

It finally dawned on me when sarah commented on the turmoil currently affecting major cities in Egypt.

This topic is something that touches me personally in that I have a cousin who currently lives and works in Cairo. As an American living and working in a country dominated by the currently vilified American supported Husni Mubarek, I have genuine concerns for his safety. Then along comes mush mouthed sarah who decides that the unrest brewing in Egypt is about her. “… sounds good, because there's a lot of chaos in Cairo, and I can't wait to not get blamed for it …” Obviously, Sarah’s take on this has little to do with either the complex and delicate politics of the Middle East or the need for a true democratic voice in Egypt, Tunisia or Jordan.

It was precisely at this moment that the realization hit me. This otherwise moronic statement by a public figure (like it or not, sarah is a public figure at this point) is more a reflection of the state of mind of the uneducated voter than it is for an otherwise average person who has somehow catapulted herself to the bastions of stardom.

I suddenly realized that in our current culture, what is held dear is not the aspiration towards higher achievement. Rather, and somehow, this facet of culture has been held in contempt, branded as elitist and replaced not necessarily with the demand for drek, as much as the demand for self-validation.

Aaron Copland penned his magnificent opus ‘Fanfare for the Common Man’ based upon the ability of the masses to produce genius within the confines of man’s own otherwise limited resources. The fanfare has apparently, been misinterpreted.

As a people we have the ability to find amongst ourselves features in individuals allowing the entirety of the populace to, dare I say it, evolve, thereby seeking as a whole, higher levels of attainment. Goals and aspirations as global motivation. What a concept!

But no. Somehow we hold ourselves not as a people containing an extraordinary ability, but as individuals with entitlements surrounding the validation of each of our individual beings, regardless of value or output.

And now, like a slap to the forehead, what was at first a mild ember glowing towards the rear of the grey matter, flamed forth with burning recognition.

In the fifties, I watched those unfunny sitcoms where people lived in houses and there were no real problems. I lived in an apartment in New York and I listened to people around me screaming and fighting. I grew up confused. Which was normal?

The media decides what is normal. You and I do not decide what is quality. Simon Cowell decides what is quality.

Do we want someone in office who is a Harvard educated editor of the law review? No. We want a good old boy who mispronounces words, smiles a lot and slaps you on the back at his barbecue. We want some dim witted bimbo who says “you betcha” and winks. We want someone who can barely hold a hummable tune consisting of a range of a few notes. We want a guy who can strum three chords on a guitar real loud. We want to see ourselves up there in the tv.

You see, if that individual in the spotlight sounds like and/or acts like me, I score some serious vicarious jollies.

No golden icons for me, Nosirreboberoonie! Gimme a mirror and a cheese burger!

Post Gift Scolding

2011-01-13T15:02:00.001-05:00

I was advised by a friend of mine that the gift that he had given his wife, an electronic picture frame, wasn’t received with the spirit with which it was given. He was disappointed. I was disappointed as well in that I was the one who suggested such a thing. He requested that I write a teasing email to her. The following is that email and he requested that I did not send it in that he felt there might be a possibility of retribution. So here’s that letter.

I must say.

I am surprised, disappointed, crestfallen and, frankly, taken aback by your wholesaledly dismissive response to your loving husband’s birthday gift.

Your husband had come to me all in a lather several weeks prior to your birthday. He came sobbing and knelt before my Clark’s wingtips grabbing my mismatched Target special black socks (all my socks are either black or white) and bemoaned his pitiful fate. “Oh! My soul is at such a loss.” I was able to interpret this between his pitiful wailing.

I had to close the door behind us. It was getting embarrassing.

“My lovely wife. I love her so much!” This time he lay howling prostrate upon my office floor. I leaned back and grabbed my notepad and pen. “So how long have you been feeling like this?” In inquired attempting my best Jungian look and accent.

He was barely able to respond coherently. “About a half hour now.”

“I see. You’ve loved your wife for half an hour?”

He picked his head out of the peanut shells festooning my office carpet only to peer quizzically at me from under his salt and pepper eyebrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I turned away from him and threw my cheap pen behind me, missing his chinos by a good foot and half. “I dunno. What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one on the floor y’know. I’ve got things to do. You gonna talk or wet my carpet?”

He was able to collect himself, realizing that his manliness was in no small regard being wholly chastened. “No. No. I’m trying to think of a nice birthday gift for my wife. It’s coming up fast, I want to get her something special but I’m drawing a blank.”

“Ach Zo!” I commented. “Led uz commizeratenzee.”

And so behind closed doors the two of us threw away at least four and half legal sized notepads scribbling down gift ideas for the better part of 5 and a half hours. The gift ideas ran the gamut from Parisian spas, to Nairobi safaris, to sable furs, down to plastic pencil sharpeners and Swiss army knives and all points in between. The ideas of b b guns, do-it-yourself taxidermy kits and entrenching tools were dismissed after the first round. You should be grateful. The idea of a Mercedes came up but your husband wisely remembered that you had just gotten a new car. So we scaled it back to a spa and massage in Weehauken, or a $100 PathMark gift certificate, or an autographed baseball card from Jose Penseco. After careful consideration, all of these otherwise brilliant ideas and suggestions were filed … circularly.

The question was finally posed. “Does she like pictures?” His eyebrows rose to a frightening height that threatened to permanently establish them atop his beautiful coif. (I’m jealous) “Why yes! He waxed enthusiastic. “She loves pictures!”

At that point the two of listed the gamut of picture oriented type offerings from cameras to photographer family sittings until the two of us simultaneously hit upon the most absolutely perfect idea that could have surfaced this side of the Pecos. An electronic picture frame that would display your most treasured mementos of the past on a revolving basis.

The two of us stood up together and danced the dance of triumph. At that point our boss violently opened my office door. To our surprise the entire office staff was gathered outside my office door all wondering and marginally concerned about the fuss. None too amused boss man berated our unprofessional conduct and summarily booted us out. It was only until the next day where our boss was satisfied that the two of us were not indulging in activities best reserved for outside the office.

But I digress. Your husband was so excited about this gift idea that the two of us marked the date on the calendar where he would venture out after having researched the most appropriate model to purchase and bestow.

The day arrived. He would make the surprise even more special by not merely relying on plunking the thing in your unsuspecting lap; he would actually take the time and effort to select your most precious documented moments and install them on this new electronic marvel.

And after all this … after all this anticipation … what does he receive? An enthusiastic whoop of surprise? A loving smile? A heartfelt ‘Thank You’? A shrug and a ‘Thanks I guess’? No. Instead virtually every piece of Cuisinart cutlery was thrown in his general direction with admonitions to relegate the couch as his sleeping domain of choice for an as of yet undetermined period.

Honestly. Flowers, bon bons and a dinner out are so passé.

Again. I am surprised, disappointed, crestfallen and, frankly, taken aback by your wholesaledly dismissive response to your loving husband’s birthday gift.

I remain,

Marty

Special News Report

2011-01-10T16:03:00.003-05:00

I do not watch television terribly often. My aversion to television lately, has more to do with the inanity of what is supposed to pass as entertainment than anything else. The insulting boorish advertisements, commercials, if you will, figure in to this level of distaste to no small extent either. But the fact remains, and for whatever reason, I do watch television terribly often. This means, of course, that I do subject myself to television viewing.

This also means that there are those occasions when I and my fellow viewers are confronted with those gut wrenching words that appear at the bottom of the television screen: Special News Report.

Usually these special news reports focus upon weather alerts or sports announcements. Neither of these concern me and usually do not strike me as anything special. However, and especially lately, whenever I see these lonely words scrolling lifelessly and unconcernedly, streaming from right to left, I feel my entire being tighten with trepidation and unpleasant expectation. I hold my breath when I tell my computer’s browser to pounce upon the internet and tear into CNN.

I have a fear. Yes. It is unreasonable. Absolutely, it borders upon definitive paranoia. But for the briefest of seconds I find myself internally coiled expecting the worst. I fear screaming headlines advising of the assassination of our President.

Of course this is an unreasonable subset of emotions with which to burden myself. But in my defense I must add that I have lived through news flashings of unspeakable insanity. The Cuba blockade was genuinely chilling to us children where we were called upon regularly to shield ourselves from pending Armageddon by fetally kowtowing underneath our aged wrought iron ink wells. The Kennedys disappeared as did Dr. King as did Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and John Lennon. Reagan was shot and Brady was permanently disfigured. Nut cases stalking movie personalities. Columbine, George Wallace assassination attempt. Nut cases at the holocaust museum and post offices. Buildings blown up and destroyed. Innocent victims galore.

Yesterday I briefly watched a bit of political double speak with Candy Crowley.

This one politico expostulated on the fact that the Arizona events should not be politicized in that this was the event of one single evil or seriously deranged basket case the likes of which should not see the light of civilized day for the rest of his life, however long or short that might prove to be.

This is all well and good, I suppose. But as events unravel we learn of little bits and pieces that fall far afield of my personal sphere of confidence in our ability to protect ourselves and to disseminate appropriate information.

First off, how is it possible that we allow the sale of weaponry taking 31 round clips for semi-automatic pistols? Secondly, how is it possible that these weapons are sold in over the counter neighborhood shop transactions? Thirdly, what kind of system allows the sale of this type of weaponry with the most cursory of background checks which, obviously, forgive erratic or suspicious events of that individual who wanting to acquire this weapon? Why is it ok to depict a voting district as though through the cross hairs of a rifle scope?

Gun control is a political issue. No denying it. And at its most superficial, using the assassination attempt on Congresswoman Giffords as a springboard to argue gun control either pro or con is, at its best, contemptible.

However, there is simply no getting around the fact that the tragedy surrounding Congresswoman Giffords clearly does summon the requirement for substantial self examination where it comes to recognizing what is or what is not an area needing to be addressed.

Yes. Yes. Of course. Digging deep within the underbelly of our darkest sub cultures, for the price you can acquire not only 31 round magazine Glocks. Why, if you look hard and desperately enough, you can buy rocket launchers, flame throwers, Uzis and Russian automatic rifles. But we’re not talking about those with resources and the lowest of covert agenda. We’re talking about you and me on a bad day.

I suppose a case could be made against those within certain political elements or those with access to the media who choose to whip up the predisposed and undereducated into virulent frenzies in order to boost ratings. But no.

Again, we’re talking about the political issue of gun control.

You do not need semi-automatic weapons to scare an intruder or hunt quail. And again, at the risk of the macabre, consider the additional damage which could have been inflected by Sirhan Sirhan or James Earl Ray.

Delightful Creature

2011-01-05T11:19:00.003-05:00

The first Indiana Jones movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark, found our young heroine, played by Karen Allen, in Egypt. While enjoying the sun and hospitality in Cairo, Ms. Allen found herself hosting a small capuchin monkey who felt entitled to treat Ms. Allen as its personal climbing wall. Clearly less than enthralled with the carryings on about her person, the character muttered sarcastically to no one in particular, “What a delightful creature!”

And so it was with our Sunday.

For reasons that to this day remain thoroughly unclear to me, my wife arranged to have a gathering of our young female relatives and their babies at our house. I think there was some vague romantic notion in my wife’s head that seemed to think it both cute and pragmatic to have a meeting with our 9 month old grandson and his toddler relatives. What would these babies be to him? Let’s see. Our daughter’s cousins’ children. Would that make them second cousins? Also it was our middle daughter’s 27th birthday. So instead of just celebrating a birthday with immediate family and friends, a circus was created. The socialization skills of infants, or at least these infants, seemed to be, at best, rudimentary. I observed that the level of discourse and greetings shared betwixt them seemed to hover barely above a few seconds worth of casual non-committal non recognition.

Prior to this merriment, and exclusively for the benefit of my wife, I had jumped during the New Year’s weekend to wifey’s beck and call to clean and straighten, step and fetchit, chop and shop and render and tender in order to prepare for the aforementioned festivities. No slouch she. She had cleaned and straightened and strong armedly coaxed a semblance of order and stateliness to our otherwise, shall we say, lived-in-looking abode. Amongst her proud offerings were not only hand made from scratch pizzas and hand made from scratch salads but a hand made from scratch checkerboard cake. For those amongst you, the unitiated, a checkerboard cake consists of three (count ‘em, three) layers. Each layer has concentric yet alternating rings of chocolate and vanilla. So when cut, the appearance is that of a mini, albeit tasty, chocolate and vanilla checkerboard. Putting together such a thing requires specialized cookware, recipes and technique all of which is possessed by my immeasurably talented wife.

I feel it necessary at this point to clarify that at no point whatsoever did my wife actually whistle or hum a tune or give off any outward appearance of pleasure.

Rather, all of the above processes were accompanied with her profoundly un philosophical under-currents of mutterings, whispers and shouts the likes of: “Who put this here?!” “Jesus Christ!” “This doesn’t belong here!” “This isn’t clean!” “Shit… was that baking powder or baking soda?” “Damn mop!” Etcetera. I have, through undergoing many years of this, learned that to take any of this personally, or even to respond in any way, would be a grave mistake for no good can come of either internalization or response.

The witching hour plus 30 minutes had arrived and the guests started arriving.

It was precisely at this point that our family pet, our 108 pound 11 year old German Shepherd named Cambridge, while realizing that something was afoot, what with all the strum and drang not part of his daily routine, decided he was going to put himself in the middle of things and smile and wag and otherwise make himself as adorable and unknowingly obnoxious to all concerned.

At one point, and in order to make a beeline to party central, he hard charged smilingly right over one of the babies. Said baby was not possessed of sufficient faculty or experience to advise our aging canine to circumnavigate elsewhere.

Instead, said baby, issued high decibeled and high frequencied clarion calls. The surrounding gaggle took issue with Cambridge’s smiling presence and it was strongly recommended by my powers that be to remove hulking canine forthwith.

Cambridge also suffers from epilepsy. Prior to Sunday, the only grand mal epileptic seizures of his that I had witnessed occurred at about two or three in the morning. Frightening things they are with him shaking the house, losing self control and become completely disoriented. Cambridge decided it would be a right fine time to have himself a full on grand mal canine type seizure where yours truly had to provide solo clean up services. Fortunately, this occurred on a hard wood floor out of range of the party. Lovely.

After the guests had departed, my wife, myself, the two daughters and the baby decided to lounge and quietly celebrate our après fete. Cambridge, could sniff the remaining half of the checkerboard cake resting casually on a kitchen counter. Despite his aging aches and pains, he exerted his right self onto the counter and devoured that remaining half of the checkerboard cake.

The oldest one casually mentioned, “I think Cambridge is knocking off the cake.” I raced to the dining room, where dog face had relocated his spoils, only to witness the last gleeful acts of chomping. I must say. He did a great job of completely finishing. I managed to recover the serving dish, which was noisily dumped into the sink and sat back on the couch only to be the recipient of my wife’s unique brand of ire, blaming me for the dog’s transgressions. I took particular umbrage at these particular slings and arrows and I told her to take her derision and place it none too gently where the moon don’t shine. I then departed, daughters still present, up to the boudoir while I watched Arnold Schwarzenegger’s ‘Collateral Damage’.

Testosterone silliness. But I softened the edges a bit by putting the new duvet cover on the duvet. (I only learned what a duvet was about two years ago.)

As I write this, I am searching within to determine whether I am as angry at him as I was. I am not. I’m also trying to determine whether I am angry at him at all. I am not.

He is still as friendly and loving and charming and smelly as ever.

What a delightful creature.

Blessed Car Trouble

2010-12-30T11:38:00.001-05:00

I’ve been put in the unusual circumstance where I was genuinely glad to have car trouble. The only other incident where I’d be a glad recipient of car troubles could be the potential circumstance where obligations, familial or otherwise, would force me to drive to destinations which I would otherwise relegate to the back burner.

The day was Boxing Day. And my 27 year old Brooklyn resident had come to visit for the holidays. There she was, laden with gifts and facing a mass transit return.
I suppose what I could have done was to advise her that she was old growed up now and she would have to deal with her own dealings.

But to me, there is no such thing as a 27 year old independent daughter. To me, she will always be four years old and will always dance on my shoes. The drive itself is about an hour and change, so what the hey.

There were several other complications here. First of all, later that day, we were supposed to get slammed pretty hard with the season’s first snow blizzard. Secondly, my wife was busying herself trying to finagle a means by which she could acquire even more face time with our grandson while grandsonny’s parents (our other daughter and her husband) went on a house hunting expedition in Connecticut. Thirdly, my Brooklyn bound daughter was under a certain element of time constraint in that she and her beau had tickets to a Manhattan ballet later that afternoon.
Brooklyn bound daughter and I were ready for our early morning sojourn and decided not to bother my wife who was none so subtly browbeating our Connecticut bound daughter over the phone.

We weren’t five minutes away on the local roads when I received a cell phone call. My wife advised that the other daughter’s Connecticut trip was to be postponed in light of the pending blizzard and the inhospitable nature to which the roads would inevitably deteriorate. Therefore, and since there would be no grandson cuddling today, my wife decided that it would be a right fun thing to ride along to Brooklyn. We were requested to turn around, collect her and, from that point, sally forth. Since it was not particularly out of our way yet, we felt it was of no particular skin off our respective noses to turn around, collect her and sally forth.

And so we did.

And the three of us traversed in the same manner as in the previous traversement.
We travelled on for about six minutes this time, rather than the aforementioned five minutes, when all of a sudden from underneath the car, there came a clatter! We looked at each other hoping the other would know what was the matter!

We didn’t.

So we pulled into a little strip mall, for which suburbs are so notorious. My daughter layed on her belly on one side of the car whilst I layed on my belly on the other side of the car. And lo. We both spotted the exact same thing.

Wordlessly we stood back up and described the situation to each other. The conversation went something like this:

Dad: “What the hell is that thing?”

Daughter: “I dunno. A hunk of metal or something.”

Dad: “Yeah.”

We both lay down in the same places only this time, we didn’t try to determine the nature of this hanging dragging metallic stuff, we tried to grab it so it wouldn’t make any more dreadful noises on New Jersey’s highways.

Neither of us could reach it.

This was the day after Christmas. It was also a Sunday. What to do? What to do? Well. Don’t you know, the car dealership where we had originally acquired our vehicle was located directly across from on the westerly side of the road. And the service department was open! Much to all of our amazement! The car was persuaded to noisily negotiate the extra ¼ mile to the dealership. We were greeted with open arms. We were advised it would take an hour and some money to replace the errant heat shield on the vehicle’s catalytic converter. Our son was summoned to collect us all.

After said collection was performed, daughter and I switched over to my wife’s car and the sojourn was again attempted for the third time. An hour later, the dealership called to advise that the car was repaired and ready. My wife was driven to the dealership by our son who subsequently returned to bed. The car was restored to its original state of fine fettleness and became safely ensconced within our suburban garage while my daughter and I continued our easterly journey.

Our journey was performed in due time with no delay. When I was satisfied that my daughter was safe in her apartment, we silently watched the flurries gracing the brownstones of her neighborhood through her living room window. If Norman Rockwell painted city scapes, surely this image would have been featured.

My return drive was equally uneventful save for the fact that I too was presented with the picturesque display of snow flurries gently lacing the rolling hills of New Jersey.

The warmth of my home greeted me in the best of ways. The entire family was home before the storm’s full fury. My wife was comfortably surfing the net on the laptop in our recliner, my children were safe and healthy. Had this heat shield affair occurred anywhere else or at another time, this would have created, at its best, a profound inconvenience for many concerned.

So let’s put all these strange occurrences together that would have made for a particularly obnoxious state: we could have left later; my other daughter could have decided to arrange a grandson exchange; my wife might not have called for us to return; the heat shield could fallen off somewhere in territories unfamiliar; the service station could have been located miles away; the service station could have been closed; the heat shield could have fallen off during the work week.

Normally, car troubles are not something I would define as a blessing. In this case, I truly felt a presence greater than us all.

On the other hand, it could have been the lucky double headed rattle snake silver belt buckle I was wearing that my daughter had given me as a Christmas present.

Tailgating Sensitivity

2010-12-23T08:57:00.004-05:00

Hear I sit. Typing away. And I can’t let it go. Driving to work always, and I mean always, provides me with enough frustrations to fill a medium size book. People running lights, cutting people off, entering traffic without looking, backing out of parking spaces without looking, tailgating and taking unnecessary macho risks.

I was tailgated this morning. It’s not that I was going particularly under the speed limit. In fact I was keeping up with traffic. But the gentleman behind me obviously felt that my presence before him was hindering his forward mobility.

After a mile or so of this, I was able to move to the right and gestured to him with right palm upward and fingers forward as if to say, “by all means. Please transact with all haste.” And so he did, only to be blocked by another in front of him. This person would not move and he was forced to change into the right lane if he wanted to maintain his desired rate. And so I observed to myself, “Just another asshole.”

So big deal. Just another asshole, you say to yourself. Well, it’s not quite that simple. You see. I work with this guy. We see each other every day. And there’s another minor complication.

Last year, my son bought a football jersey for a buddy of his for Christmas through some sports web site or another. Apparently this site was running some sort of promotion. If you order this whatever or another, you get a year’s subscription to Sports Illustrated weekly magazine. Now, my son couldn’t care less about sports, and neither do I. So instead of merely tossing the magazine into recycling, I bring that week’s issue into work and give it to Dave. Dave is most appreciative and thanks me accordingly.

This morning was the morning I remembered to bring this weekly mag with me to work in order to deliver it.

And you guessed it. The tailgater was, in fact, Dave. So I bit my tongue and walked to his office and handed him the magazine in this open area without saying a word while others hung around sipping their coffee and having their morning chit chat. As I turned to walk away, he foolishly made the inquiry, “Hey, was that you in the Honda?” I turned my head and nodded slightly to affirm. I continued to silently walk away when I heard him announce to the others, “Son of a bitch drives 20 miles an hour in the fast lane.”

In retrospect, what I should have done was to continue walking away, but my macho button was pushed in exactly the wrong way.

Turning and walking rapidly towards him, “As a matter of fact,” intoned myself in a slightly higher decibel level than office decorum normally permits, “ I was going the speed limit and keeping up with traffic.”

“You were going 45.” Insisted Dave in a matching decibel level.

The decibels increased and the smiles were gone. I suggested, “Next time you decide to tailgate, why don’t you just take a picture up my ass?”

He countered, “I will! If you’re driving slow, get into the other lane!”

The discourse degraded further and louder. I quickly realized that nothing was to be resolved and, further, if this was to continue, there might be real trouble. Somehow I was able to physically extricate myself from the situation by walking away, albeit coincident with two word encores mutually delivered.

So the two of us won’t be exactly swapping spit in the shower over the next couple of weeks.

So what.

I have no doubt that we’ll remain professional and keep our respective distances despite sub surface bubbling animosity.

But for the immediate, I despise my nervous system.

I’m not shaking, but I feel my finger tips tingling. I’m uncomfortable in my office. I feel nervous and anxious and I’m reliving the incidents in my head every second and, knowing myself all too terribly well, the scenarios will simultaneously fester and unfold regularly.

On the other hand, this level of sensitivity enables me to equally relive moments of love, achievement, intimacy, reflection and music.

I suppose like most facets of our being, this is just another blessing and a curse.

Jewish Christmas

2010-12-15T08:22:00.000-05:00

This morning I was trying to explain the Jewish experience surrounding the Christmas holiday. Sylevester Stallone expressed it best in Rocky when he was talking about Thanksgiving. “To youse, it’s Tanksgivin’. T’me it’s Tursday.”

As I was explaining this morning, we have a tree. I put it up. There are lights. Very festive. But as I was also explaining, I have no context where this sort of thing gives me warm fuzzies. Of course, I knew about Christmas. I mean, how could I not? Every December I was inundated with red and green stuff and the same series of songs and visions everywhere of Christmas trees and gift boxes and advertisements for everything from candy to cars.

So Mike asked me, “So were you jealous? Or did you feel left out?”
I responded immediately. “No. I wasn’t jealous. And I certainly didn’t feel left out.” I explained further.

When I was a kid growing up in New York City apartments many many eons ago, television was not the 24 hour a day fare we so know and love today. Oh no. At a certain witching hour there was a signoff with the American flag waving in black and white followed by a sort of cross type shape thing emblazoned across the screen called a test pattern.

In the morning, say 6 or so, we would be greeted with weather, news and/or cartoons. Except Sundays. On early Sunday mornings, our televisions entertained us with a sort of Americana travelogue featuring rolling fields of grain. It wasn’t amber. It was black and white. I didn’t really know what amber was until that Jurassic Park movie. Anyway, we were treated to more than just visions of black and white fields of rolling grain. We were able to gaze upon farm animals the cameras so lovingly caressed. We watched strange machinery in action. We were later instructed that these machines were called combines and they were used in mass harvesting processes. We saw barns and farms and silos and cows and pigs and horses and chickens and roosters and turkeys and sheep and goats. There were apples, oranges, potatoes, grapefruit, lemons, grapes, corn, wheat, oats, barley, beans, peas, tomatoes, onions and pears. We saw farmers milking cows and feeding horses and pigs. We saw handfuls of little seed like things thrown around on the ground that seemed to entice all sorts of chickens and geese and ducks. We saw great wheels of cheese.

The television gave testimony to the existence and nobility of the farm and farm life in the United States of America.

And there sat I in front of my parents’ Zenith in the then-modern, art deco, light colored, enormous wood grained cabinet. There was no dog. This was no yard or wood fence or horse or sheep or tomatoes or oranges. When we opened the door to our home, we entered a hall where there were seven other doors leading to other families’ homes. There was another door for the elevator and another door for the incinerator room where we and our neighbors unceremoniously dumped our garbage. There was also a set of stairs.

Somehow, this particular scenario never quite made it to Sunday morning television testimonials glorifying our American way of life.

In my mind there were two elements presented before me. Firstly, I had never seen any of these visual presentation save for what was capsulized within the Sunday morning study in black and white. Therefore, this presentation was simply another cartoon fantasy and was not real. Secondly, my way of life was simply discounted wholesale and was not worthy as Sunday morning fare.

So I ask you? How could I possibly be jealous of this idyllic bucolic way of life that did not exist? Likewise, Christmas was flashed around me, albeit in vivid color, but there was no relevance to me whatsoever and further, my beliefs were discounted as flippantly as my way of life.

So how on earth could I possibly warm to Christmas trees and Santa?

To this day, I remain baffled by the fantasy and blanketed hypnosis of the various facets of the Christmas season held out to the Western world.

Bears and Chamberlain

2010-12-06T11:44:00.002-05:00

Bear huntin’ season’s open in North Jersey. Yee-Haw!! Seems that, for one reason or t’other, we here in North Jersey got ourselves a right mighty heap a black bear just a traipsin’ around makin’ a regular nuisance of theyselves. So far they’ve appeared in a couple of back yards, climbed up a tree or two, ravaged a mess of garbage cans and bird feeders and I hear tell they might have infiltrated a pic-a-nic basket or three.

So today, December 6, 2010, The New Jersey Division of Fish and Wildlife has defined where, when and how a gunner can take down a bear in Northern New Jersey. There are regulations concerning distances and times and permission and bear check points and ammo types and firearms types and all sorts of other types of stuff that a hunter can and cannot do regarding the bagging of a bear having the misfortune to wander the suburbs of North Jersey.

The goal, state officials say, is not just safety; they also want a fruitful bear kill.

Paul Ritter, a supervising biologist with the Division of Fish and Wildlife, told a group of hunters in Highland Lakes, Vernon, at a recent bear hunt safety seminar, “For you it’s recreation. For us, it’s management. We need a tool to reduce the bear population in this state.”

Black bears now number around 3,500, up from about 500 in 1992, according to the New Jersey State Department of Environmental Protection. The hunt is aimed at thinning the bear population and is part of the state’s Comprehensive Black Bear Management Policy adopted in July. The policy was mandated in a 2005 Supreme Court ruling in order for the state to sanction such a hunt.

The last two hunts were in 2003 and 2005 and yielded 328 and 298 bears, respectively.

Personally, I think our New Jersey black bear is a noble beast and I am not at all convinced that this particular upsurge in population of the black bear creates an atmosphere of danger sufficient in mathematical correlation to warrant the sport and trophy gathering activities the NJDFW currently sanctions. There is a group in West Milford calling itself the Bear Education and Resource Group. They will be protesting the hunt at the Pequest Wildlife Management Area in Oxford, one of five bear check stations. Group members also will join with the Animal Protection League of New Jersey in an afternoon protest at the Whittingham Wildlife Management Area in Fredon, south of Newton.

So here is where I part company with the tree huggers. These folk argue that the hunt is an unnecessary tool that does not get at the real problem: the failure of humans to keep food sources out of bears’ reach. The state should mandate bear-proof garbage containers and enforce illegal bear feeding, said Elaine Dunn, a spokeswoman for the group. “We’re not overrun by bears and they’re nothing to be afraid of,” she said.

Ms. Dunn and company argue that all you have to do is have real good tight lidded garbage cans and real high bird feeders. See? You do that and the bears foraging for Cap’n Crunch boxes and bird seed will just stand up, stare at their feet a while, put their fists on their hips, kick the dirt and mutter, “aw shucks.”

Not quite sure that Elaine has a real good concept of bear deterrence. You see, I have a lot of deer running around in my back yard. It’s unusual not to see them there, but if either my dog or myself casually saunter off to my back yard, those deer scatter like someone’s coming after them full howl with a venison frying pan. On the other hand, and so far, when a bear happens to make its way to my dwellings and either my dog or myself casually saunter off to my back yard accompanied with a lot of noise, the biggest reaction I get out of the bear is that he or she (never have had the opportunity to look up any ursa slips) gets real casual, sort of stops, sort of turns around and casually sashays or moseys its bad self away at a slower saunter than that pace originally taken by either my dog or myself. Like I said, deer scatter. But really. What would prevent that offending bear, the recipient of my sauntering and loud noises, to merely stay put and give me the black bear equivalent of a middle finger Jersey salute? Interesting image, no?

Ms. Dunn’s sage counsel regarding the garbage cans and high bird feeders mode of appeasement towards a black bear’s quest for self preservation fails to take into consideration the slow simmering undercurrent of rage that could unleash itself at any point on us soft bellied humans. The fact of the matter is, and given half an opportunity, should the black bear decide to take him or herself a notion, they could gut us from crotch to jowl in less time than it would anyone I know to get the second word out after “HOLY …”

My buddy Peter equated this line of appeasement logic along the same lines that Neville Chamberlain employed in dealing with Adolf Hitler’s Reich.

You see, after World War I, the Versailles Treaty created the nation of Czechoslovakia. When Hitler started his overtly aggressive march across Europe, the Sudetenland occupied by Czechoslovakia was directly threatened. Britsh Prime Minister at the time, Sir Neville Chamberlain, met with Hitler, Mussolini and Edouar Deladier (the French Prime Minister) in Munich and drafted the Munich Agreement assuring that with the absorption of the Sudetenland into Germany, Austria, etc., Czechosolvakia would be left alone. One month after the signing of the Munich Agreement, Czechoslovakia was no more. Hitler then had his eye on Danzig (now Gdansk) in Poland and Chamberlain told the Polish people it might be better to just give up Danzig than to stand firm. Didn’t work out too well for Poland.

My point is, that if you really honestly believe that you can treat your North Jersey trash can in the same manner as Chamberlain did the Sudetenland, you will be visited by bears anyway.

I suppose I should be troubled by sanctioning a violent solution to an issue of which I am uncertain is, in fact, an issue. And, upon first hearing of the Bear Education and Research Group’s solution, I had no problem at all with it. Of course, had the subject of this activity surrounded a group of people, I would be physically protesting with all my might. Animals’ rights, however, have not yet tugged upon any of my liberal leaning heart strings. Fact is, if you want to get your jollies by lawfully killing a black bear, I say, have a great time.

By the way. The only marsupial in North America is the possum. Marsupials do not carry rabies. Don’t you think that’s a valuable piece of information?

Stumping

2010-11-11T11:05:00.000-05:00

I’ve written letters and posted blogs and let my thoughts known to whomever was or was not intrigued by my views. But, and I am ashamed to admit this, I’ve never done any political stumping before. Never went to a political office offering volunteer envelope stuffing services. Lord knows, I certainly never knocked on doors to either get out the vote or argue one on one in favor of a candidate or an issue.

I learned yesterday, that it isn’t all that tough.

A while back, my wife and I joined a Democratic leaning organization called Move On. We get email from them from time to time extolling the evils of the Republican Party and righteousness of the Democratic Party and all who serve it. Normally I pay no attention to this sort of drivel. My boss and his father are Republicans and I like them just fine. We have friends who’ve been friends with us for decades and we like them just fine, too. Most of the time, I see their email and I just wind up deleting the message as a matter of course.

But the other day, my wife showed me an email that I had summarily overlooked. This one requested my time and a small bit of effort. They wanted me to phone other MoveOn members in a distant state and ask them kindly, first of all to vote, secondly to vote for their candidate and thirdly to donate their time at their offices to get out the vote on behalf of their candidate.

Being the jaded skeptic I am, I exhibited disinterest on the part of reluctance. But my wife was so persuasive, and so nurturing of my need for sycophantic behavior that I finally acquiesced. I followed the bouncing ball (actually it was a web link, but I digress) to sign up as a volunteer.

I was surprised at how easy it was. But I harbored this nagging feeling of reluctance and it centered around the following. I had no desire, in fact I had an express aversion, to digging up people’s specifics and calling them. But this was covered.

It seems all I had to do was press the button to start the calling and that would bring me to a page which included an individual’s name, his or her phone number and a more or less personalized script for that person.

Most of the time, I would say a good 75 per cent of the time, I only reached an answering service of one form or another. With this, I would run through my spiel and hang up wishing them an absolutely marvelous evening … dahling. One person hung up on me. I expected more of these. But I only got one. After the completion of a call, you select one of the options denoting the final outcome of that particular discourse. ‘Answering machine’ was one of the options. Other options included Disconnected number, Busy, Will Vote, Won’t Vote, Won’t volunteer, Can’t volunteer, Never wants to hear from our miserable selves no more (I sort of embellished that one a bit), and so on.

The remaining 25 per cent or so of the remaining calls found me actually speaking to quasi normal real live humanoids. They were playing on the same team so convincing them to vote for our boy was pretty much a foregone conclusion. My job was not just to secure a vote, my job was to arm twist these guys into rolling their respective carcasses on down the line to their local friendly MoveOn headquarters where they would, ostensibly, do the same thing I was doing from the comfort of the recliner usually reserved for my wife in order that she might web surf in comfort. No recliner for these guys. No sir. This would probably be a tethered phone while reposed in a cheap folding chair behind a metal folding card table seated in a room filled with similar tables, chairs and like-minded individuals. But I actually discussed this with some good folk who were ready willing and able to go down and do their all for the Democratic Party.

I complete this after having suffered the sting of the recent Republican onslaught of the House of Representatives. Democrats sure got their teeth bashed in. Or, as Barack Obama categorized it, a shellacking.

We have our work cut out for us for the next two years. But I’m glad I was able to do my bit rather than just sit around arm chair quarter backing.

Stumping

2010-11-04T12:55:00.001-04:00

I’ve written letters and posted blogs and let my thoughts known to whomever was or was not intrigued by my views. But, and I am ashamed to admit this, I’ve never done any political stumping before. Never went to a political office offering volunteer envelope stuffing services. Lord knows, I certainly never knocked on doors to either get out the vote or argue one on one in favor of a candidate or an issue.

I learned yesterday, that it isn’t all that tough.

A while back, my wife and I joined a Democratic leaning organization called Move On. We get email from them from time to time extolling the evils of the Republican Party and righteousness of the Democratic Party and all who serve it. Normally I pay no attention to this sort of drivel. My boss and his father are Republicans and I like them just fine. We have friends who’ve been friends with us for decades and we like them just fine, too. Most of the time, I see their email and I just wind up deleting the message as a matter of course.

But the other day, my wife showed me an email that I had summarily overlooked. This one requested my time and a small bit of effort. They wanted me to phone other MoveOn members in a distant state and ask them kindly, first of all to vote, secondly to vote for their candidate and thirdly to donate their time at their offices to get out the vote on behalf of their candidate.

Being the jaded skeptic I am, I exhibited disinterest on the part of reluctance. But my wife was so persuasive, and so nurturing of my need for sycophantic behavior that I finally acquiesced. I followed the bouncing ball (actually it was a web link, but I digress) to sign up as a volunteer.

I was surprised at how easy it was. But I harbored this nagging feeling of reluctance and it centered around the following. I had no desire, in fact I had an express aversion, to digging up people’s specifics and calling them. But this was covered.

It seems all I had to do was press the button to start the calling and that would bring me to a page which included an individual’s name, his or her phone number and a more or less personalized script for that person.

Most of the time, I would say a good 75 per cent of the time, I only reached an answering service of one form or another. With this, I would run through my spiel and hang up wishing them an absolutely marvelous evening … dahling. One person hung up on me. I expected more of these. But I only got one. After the completion of a call, you select one of the options denoting the final outcome of that particular discourse. ‘Answering machine’ was one of the options. Other options included Disconnected number, Busy, Will Vote, Won’t Vote, Won’t volunteer, Can’t volunteer, Never wants to hear from our miserable selves no more (I sort of embellished that one a bit), and so on.

The remaining 25 per cent or so of the remaining calls found me actually speaking to quasi normal real live humanoids. They were playing on the same team so convincing them to vote for our boy was pretty much a foregone conclusion. My job was not just to secure a vote, my job was to arm twist these guys into rolling their respective carcasses on down the line to their local friendly MoveOn headquarters where they would, ostensibly, do the same thing I was doing from the comfort of the recliner usually reserved for my wife in order that she might web surf in comfort. No recliner for these guys. No sir. This would probably be a tethered phone while reposed in a cheap folding chair behind a metal folding card table seated in a room filled with similar tables, chairs and like-minded individuals. But I actually discussed this with some good folk who were ready willing and able to go down and do their all for the Democratic Party.

I complete this after having suffered the sting of the recent Republican onslaught of the House of Representatives. Democrats sure got their teeth bashed in. Or, as Barack Obama categorized it, a shellacking.

We have our work cut out for us for the next two years. I’m glad I was able to do my bit rather than just sit around arm chair quarter backing.

Being Played

2010-10-15T10:13:00.001-04:00

So explain to me this. Lefty liberal pinko types Joy Behar and Whoopi Goldberg get their proverbial knickers in the proverbial twist and walk off the set of their chicks only tv show when Bill O’Reilly decides to act like himself and behave like the obnoxious fuck he is.

The ladies walked off the set. They allowed themselves to cool off and then came back to the set only to shoot arrows out their eyes to O’Reilly afterwards. Like he cares.

Oh, thank goodness for Bahbah Wahwah. This is what we’re supposed to model as the ‘cooler head’ prevailing. She gave Billy Boy a bit of grandmotherly what-foring and after her shaking an index finger, he allowed himself to roll his eyes and extend a half assed apology for being, and behaving like the dick he is.

So I’m listening to Bill Press on my lefty liberal pinko radio and he’s up there waving his pom poms and jumping around like a flaming faggot, all but shouting, “Yeah honey! You go girl!” and this caller calls in, another sisterly lefty liberal pinko commie type who said, in essence that, yeah. Bill O’Reilly is a dick.

Everyone knows Bill O’Reilly is a dick. But because of that you is gots to know what you’re in for. At one point O’Reilly built himself a righteous head of dick steam and told the women to be quiet and “you may learn something.”

Well. And a huff huff later, and a few choice but beeped epithets were tossed around and Joy and Whoopi pranced and flounced their fat middle aged asses off the set. The caller emphasized that what these two should have done is to set there, and upon receiving O’Reilly’s unique load of bile should have immediately and loudly shoved it up his ass in three part harmony … with feeling. The fact is, this is fuel for the right because all the media and viral videoing depicts the walk off, not the causes for the walk off. Us lefty pinkos are not just going to look like a punch of lefty pinkos, we’re also going to look like a punch of limp wristed candy assed bunch of faggots that can dish it but can’t take it.

“No No!” Says Mr. Press cavorting in his pink tutu. “Those ladies showed that big bad O’Reilly a good what for. Go get ‘em!”

Sorry Billy. You’re wrong. The pinko commie lefty caller was right. The fact is, people couldn’t give a tinker’s damn less about facts and causes and deeper issues. All they care about is the headline. People will see that Whoopi and Joy had themselves a that-time-of-the-month temper tantrum hissy fit and stormed off crying and sniveling in their hankies. Great theater.

The name of the game is ratings. When someone from the other side decides to step in the lion’s den, they do so knowing that they’ll be shouted down and that the prospect of a ‘win’ is simply not part of the game. What one looks for in committing themselves to this type of public self flagellation is the hope that if enough feathers are sufficiently ruffled there will be a series of aftershocks that will get him or her in the media even more. Will it get sympathy? Will it get scorn? Who cares?

The topic creating such ire was ‘that mosque’. But the subject du jour is immaterial. If O’Reilly found that this topic was not generating the sufficient heat, there are plenty of other topics to bait those sitting in the bulls eye.

He could have talked about Sarah Palin, or health care, or bailouts, or Afghanistan, or jobs, or economy, or immigration, or tea partiers, or education. Go ahead. Take one side or another and just move that needle so it points to ‘Obnoxious’, making absolutely certain that you talk over the other person, interrupting as often as is humanly possible and just being generally obnoxious.

It’s all a game.

Do you really think for half a second that O’Reilly’s appearance and discussion topics were off the cuff? Do you really think that a swaggled hip, nose in the air walk off was spontaneous?

Hardly. The show and the performers are professional. Everyone there knows the score and how to deliver. The show’s producers schedule this and scripted this. Is O’Reilly a dick? Of course. Are the Whoopi’s and Joy’s of the world predictable and transparent knee jerk liberals? Of course. So why put these together? To get consensus or reconciliation? Hardly. They’re mixing bleach and ammonia to get a text book explosion. Explosions get ratings.

I can see it now. They’re all there before the show in the green room, sipping coffee in styrofoam cups and chatting about the weather. The producer walks in.
“Ok. Bill, at one point you bring up the subject of the mosque.”

“Aw hell, Larry. I’m sick of that, can’t we talk about the new production of La Boheme?”

“This is how it’s going to be, Bill. You rail on and on about Muslims, and you girls will widen your eyes, and act shocked at Bill’s hopeless lack of sensitivity.”
“No problem there, Larry.” Says Whoopi. Everyone laughs.

Joy looks concerned, “So what do we do, Larry? Do we just stay there and bitch back or do we just silently sit back and watch Bill make an ass of himself?”

“No. No. Even better. Get yourself worked up and storm off stage. Think about it!”

Silence. Then a light bulb goes off over Barbara Walters. “You’re right. This is beautiful. I can see it now. It’ll be on all the news shows and John Stewart and bloggers will get to it and the rating will just go through the roof. Vewy clevah.”

Everybody in the green room shakes their head in agreement. O’Reilly furrows a brow and then immediately lights up. “Right. Even I’ll get something out of this. Everybody wins!”

“Right. Ok everybody. We all clear? Now get out there and think ratings!”

Larry leaves and Whoopi comments. “Doesn’t happen often. But when he’s right, he’s right.”

O’Reilly didn’t win. Bahbah Wahwah didn’t win. The View won.

Baptists in Court

2010-10-06T15:00:00.002-04:00

So there you are. You’re sitting outside at a gravesite service together with your family members and friends. You’re there because your son was recently returned in a box while he was serving in the military from Afghanistan.

Right behind you, a bunch of rowdy boisterous types carrying placards start causing a ruckus. You are too wrapped in your grief to hear what’s being said. You don’t even know about the placards being carried until you turn around to find out what’s causing all this noise.

Behind you are a group of people from what appears to be some sort of church organization. Turns out, these people are shouting at you. They hate you and they hate your recently deceased son. You suddenly realize what’s being directed at you. They’re screaming at you, saying that God hates you. They’re glad your son is dead. They hate the fact your son died protecting American freedoms.

I certainly can’t speak for you. I can only speak for myself. But if you are even remotely like me, it would take an awful lot of wild horses to prevent me from single handedly attacking any member of that group yelling like that and punching a hole through any number of faces.

I do not believe that Mr. Albert Snyder of York, Pa. behaved quite as impulsively as I would have. But I am certain he got immense satisfaction of receiving the $5 million verdict suing the Reverend Fred Phelps and his Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas.

It seems that the right Reverend Fred Phelps has convinced his congregation that U.S. deaths in Afghanistan and Iraq are the Lord’s punishment for America’s immorality. We’re talking homosexuality, gay marriage, abortion, and other such direct affronts to the sanctity of the almighty. So in order to make this singular point, the members of the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas have been convinced by the right Reverend Fred Phelps that the God-like thing to do would be to carry signs such as “God Hates You”, and throw loud insulting voices disparaging recently departed soldiers at their funerals.

Mr. Snyder won his court case against Phelps and his flock. The appeal is now in front of the United States Supreme Court.

Phelps and his like are, of course, insisting on First Amendment rights. They insist they can say whatever their pure little hearts are so desirous, regardless of how it is received. Also they are poised to flip the court the proverbial bird in the event the decision does not go their way.

"No American should ever be required to apologize for following his or her conscience," said Margie Phelps, a daughter of Fred Phelps and the lawyer who is arguing the case for the church.

Originally Snyder won an $11 million verdict against the church for intentional infliction of emotional distress, among other claims. A judge reduced the award to $5 million before the federal appeals court in Richmond, Va., threw out the verdict altogether, citing the church's First Amendment rights.

For Snyder, the case is not about free speech but harassment. "I had one chance to bury my son and it was taken from me," Snyder said.

Forty-eight states, 42 U.S. senators and veterans groups have sided with Snyder, asking the court to shield funerals from the Phelpses' "psychological terrorism."

Ironically certain media organizations, including The Associated Press, have called on the court to side with the Phelpses because of concerns that a victory for Snyder could erode speech rights.

Personally, I do not see a debatable issue. I do not see a freedom of speech issue.

As you are all painfully aware, the freedom of speech is not absolute. You’ve all heard about that ‘screaming ‘FIRE’ in a crowded movie theater’ argument. That is not protected speech. In fact, there are nine areas of non protected speech: obscenity, fighting words, defamation, child pornography, perjury, blackmail, incitement to imminent lawless action, true threats and solicitation to commit crimes. Clearly, these were, at least, fighting words and incitements to imminent lawless action. Unless, of course, you don’t consider face punchings lawless actions.

It seems to me that if this type of Phelps like conduct could incite a peace loving casper milktoast type of guy like me to willfully perforate perpetrators, others of a like mind would definitely fall within the same category.

By siding with Snyder, the court would in no manner be diluting any aspect of the freedom of speech amendment.

The court would, however, be giving license to guys like you and me to legally blow some fuses.

Normal Thursday Morning

2010-08-18T16:17:00.002-04:00

And so Assemblyman Roland Freemanschtauffer was driven to his office by his trusty chauffeur Reginald Lauschitt that Thursday morning promptly at 10:30 am on the nose as was done every Thursday morning.

Freemanschtauffer’s secretary, the lovely and perky breasted Nannette Hughesless, anticipating his arrival, stood out in the rain, umbrella in hand ready to open the door of the Family’s stretch Lincoln Town Car.

“Morning Nan.” Roland obligatorily mumbled taking his time to thoroughly eyeball Nannette’s cleavage as he passed underneath the umbrella extended for him by her.

“Good Morning Mr. Assemblyman” giggled Nannette who considered Roland’s interminable ogling humorous. Roland walked towards the house that served as his office as the extended umbrella moved overhead with him. When they reached the door he stood waiting as Nannette opened the door for him so he could enter first.

Roland entered through the opened door making certain, as usual, to rub his right arm across Nannette’s breasts. “Damn, this place is cold.” Roland exclaimed as his left hand reached for his groin in order to attack both the awaiting itch and growing tumescence. “Nan … Where the hell is my coffee? You know I can’t get started at this crazy hour in the morning without my pick me up! Jesus Christ!”

“Oh, it’s right here, Mr. Assemblyman.” Chirped the irrepressibly cheerful Nannette. She reached behind in order to reach the freshly brewed French Roast in the china cup and saucer set waiting on the 18th century Spanish settee. “About damn time” grumbled Roland as he pinched the coffee cup off the matching saucer making sure its family crest faced towards him. Roland strode stoop shouldered slowly towards the office with Nannette walking behind him saucer in hand.

The fireplace was ready, Roland’s huge antique walnut desk was cleared of all paper as was the matching credenza. His tufted leather executive wing back chair awaited his posterior while his intern, Joey LackyLoosah stood beside the credenza.

“Joey Joey Joey” muttered Roland as he extracting groaning noises from the chair as he dumped himself into it with a sigh and an outward breath as though he had just accomplished a full day’s agenda. “Joey Joey Joey. What’s the news I should know about today?”

Joey was even shorter than Roland. Joey was more rotund that Roland and Joey had less hair than Roland. But Joey was a good thirty years younger than Roland. Joey was no Harvard graduate. He was able to finish part time at Montclair State majoring in English after having received his AA from the County College of Morris. Joey’s father played golf with Roland’s dentist and through this delicate connection, Joey was able to secure a position as Roland’s executive secretary.

Joey’s job was to extract the news of the morning and yesterday evening and write a daily briefing paper telling Roland what he was supposed to say or do in order to keep Roland in good graces with his party’s line of thinking.

“Nan would ya put that saucer down here, for God’s sake! I don’t have any place to put the cup!” Nannette placed the bone china on the ancient desk and Roland clinked the cup into it. Roland shooed Nannette away with his free left hand. After he slurped another gulp of coffee, Roland turned to Joey.

“Well?! Sometime today Joey. Ok?!”

“Yes sir, Mr. Assemblyman.” Joey’s voice quivered. “It looks as though those Muslims still want to build next to ground zero and …”

“Goddam bastards. They should rot in hell. Well I guess that’s a no brainer. We’re against that, right? Terrorism and all that?”

“Well sir, I don’t know. There are already at least two Islamic mosques in the area as well as a couple strip joints and tattoo parlors.”

“Agh. Screw that. Goddam terrorist bastards. We don’t need to molly coddle those Muslim bunch ‘o hooligans. Write me up something to tell everyone how upset I am.”

“Right away, sir. There’s also that business about that Proposition 8.”

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s a California law outlawing same sex marriage.”

“So? What’s the problem?”

“Well, the problem is, sir that a Federal Judge ruled that the law was unconstitutional?”

“What? Probably some California wing nut faggot Judge who enjoys catching as much as pitching.”

“Not really, sir. Judge Walker was nominated by Reagan and approved by George H. W. Bush and Judge Walker was instrumental in stopping the gay Olympics.”

“Oh. Well what does Johnny Boehner say about all this?”

“He hates Judge Walker’s ruling.”

“Good old Johnny. Whatever Johnny says, I’m right behind him. Well not literally, but you get the idea. Write something up for me for this afternoon’s broadcast where I tell the people what an ass this Walker guy is and I can talk about the sanctity of marriage and all that crap.”

Joey turned to walk towards his desk in the hall. “Yes sir. Is there anything else?”

Roland eyed Joey as he walked away. “Nah. That’ll do for a while. Hey how about another sauna like last week?”

Joey kept walking without responding.

Fourteenth and Zero

2010-08-11T15:12:00.000-04:00

The following is a follow up to the mud slinging I so thoroughly enjoyed instigating last week. As some of you may recall, I waved my repudiating finger at Senator Kyl, the minority whip, for the misinformation he’s been spreading in making his case for the repeal of the Fourteenth Amendment of the Constitution.

Briefly, he’s turning apoplectic and blue because he’s attempting to sell this agenda on the basis of denying citizenship to the offspring of illegal aliens. What he’s really trying to slip under the carpet is the fifth section of that amendment granting the federal government the authority to enforce the provision of the preceding four sections of the amendment.

You can read the whole shebang in last week’s installment. This week he’s jumping up and down on another issue but in a complete reversal of the position he stood in last week.

For those of you not living in the New York City region, I’ll sum up.

Ground Zero is the remnants in lower Manhattan where the twin towers once majestically stood. A variety of logistical, political and economic issues have sprung up delaying the rebuilding, but that’s a different subject. Apparently, there’s a large ground swell to both a) build an Islamic mosque relatively close to ground zero and b) prevent a mosque from being built relatively close to ground zero.

Whether you are pro or con as to this issue, and I’m sure there are valid points on both sides of this matter, it is hardly the point of today’s discussion.

Senator Kyl, no sooner having waxed hysterical against Federal intervention into Arizona’s immigration turf wars, has decided that it is now up to the Federal government to intervene and to declare the building of an Islamic Mosque in New York City a dead issue.

Now, does this strike you as a bit two faced? Or at least inconsistent? Yes. I know that it has been said that consistency is the bugaboo of small minds. But hypocrisy is the product of a contemptuous and disingenuous mind.

The good Senator Kyle hints at Federal intervention by declaring,
“… it’s not clear who is financing the project and what connection, if any, the donors have with groups abroad that seek to do harm to the United States and our allies. I would like to see those responsible for the approving the project ask those questions, but so far they have not.”

Regardless as to who is financing this project, the statement is clear enough. Although acknowledging earlier in his statement that it is ultimately up to the city and state to determine the appropriate utilization of land choice and its respective development, Kyl is invoking the sympathy of the United States government in a cloud of patriotism, nationalism and security in calling for the voice of the Feds to TSA themselves into this particular party.

Again, I am amazed and appalled at the ability of slick Willy Kyl to ingratiate himself in front of the camera sufficiently to mindlessly blather about the evils of immigration and terrorism and while seeming to cavalierly interchange the two of them as though he were selling both as synonymous.

What even more bewildering, is the obvious. That is, on the one hand he wants good old fashioned States rights and the Federal government should just back off while in the same breath berating the Federal government for not embedding itself sufficiently into a city’s matter.

Again, I suppose the message doesn’t really matter. What’s important is the coverage.

Fourteenth Amendment

2010-08-04T07:45:00.001-04:00

The Dred Scott decision of 1857 held that black people living within the United States of America could not be citizens of the United States.

After the American Civil War and as a partial reaction to this, the Fourteenth Amendment of the Constitution was ratified in 1868. Still considered to be post civil war reconstructionist in nature, the 14th Amendment of the Constitution is comprised of five sections.

Section 1 advises that all persons born or naturalized within the United States are subject to the jurisdiction of the United States. In other words regardless of circumstance, if you’re born here, you’re a citizen. Section 1 goes on to say that no law will abridge this privilege without due process.

Section 2 apportions the House of Representatives based upon the adult population of citizens within that state.

Section 3 forbids representative status to those who have engaged in insurrection against the United States.

Section 4 discusses the validity of public debt except to those who have aided in insurrection against the United States.

Section 5 states that Congress can enforce all of this.

Today, it seems, there has been wind of a call for the repeal of the 14th Amendment. Why? Primarily because of the first section contained within the amendment. Despite the fact that we have an inscription on the Statue of Liberty that is quite specific in its intent, there is a movement within the Republican party that wants to deprive citizenship to those born in the United States to those who have arrived here illegally. Actually, that’s just the superficial hook. The real meat is in the desire to lose Section 5, but we’ll discuss that later.

There’s this Senator, see? His name is John Kyl. He’s the second highest ranking Republican. He’s red hot about this immigration issue, and you’ll never guess what state he’s supposed to represent. Yes class? Now let’s not see the same hands. Why yes. You’re right. He’s from Arizona. How clever of you.

Arizona has been the focal point of immigration issues because the Arizona Governor, one Ms. Jan Brewer, got her toes righteously stepped upon by U.S. District Court Judge Susan Bolton who told her in no uncertain terms that the hairiest parts of the Governor’s immigration law were unconstitutional. This was recently brought to San Francisco housing the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals who refused to hear the case, thereby letting Judge Bolton’s ruling stand.

This was Arizona’s SB1070 which, in essence, gave local police the authority to mandate demonstration of citizenship to passersby of their choosing. This selection would be based pretty much entirely upon nothing more than skin color and clothing. Rather than get humiliated in front of the Supreme Court, Governor Brewer is giving serious consideration to redrafting this juicy little bill.

Back to Senator Kyl, always ripe for a headline. Rather than cave in to Judge Bolton, Kyl wants ensure that kids of illegals are denied citizenship. Never mind the fact that what he really should do is attempt to institute legislation updating the 14th Amendment rather than tossing the whole thing out. It seems that here is yet another over-reactionary measure to over-reactionary symptoms. No consideration is overtly taken with respect to the other sections of the Amendment. Only that first section.

But again, what I am seeing here is not something that is presented as an intelligent and thought through presentation. What I’m seeing here is yet another attempt at rabble rousing. The implication of ‘Repealing the 14th Amendment’ has nothing to do with securing America’s borders or tightening up the processes surrounding immigration.

Upon first learning and researching the story I found myself angered at the usual Joe McCarthy type of bile being spewed in order to stir the pot. But after having time to reflect upon this, I find myself saddened by the fact that it is so easy to paint a mile wide bull’s eye, use that as a rallying point and pound one’s fist on the table insisting that the eradication of this one thing will cure all our ills. Every single time this has been attempted, it has resulted in untold and unmitigated disaster.

But the real story lies in that pesky little Section 5 authorizing Congress the power to enforce the Amendment. A side note here. This was the first time this language was ever used in a Constitutional Amendment. It has been used ever since. But not once prior. Regardless. What’s really going on here is not quite so much the element of the denial of a child’s citizenship (but, of course, this will certainly assist in getting the issue front and center) as it is the intent to deprive the Federal government to enforce Federal laws within a state. If I would be allowed the luxury of a minor analogy here. In our elementary classes, we were told that the American Civil War was based upon the right or the lack thereof to own slaves. As anyone who has even remotely or casually sauntered by a true analysis of the Civil War, the real issue was less about slavery or even agricultural export than about the right of the Federal Government to insist upon the enforcement of its laws, superseding those of the State within which the law was to be proscribed. And thus it is with the Fourteenth Amendment hooey.

We are headed back to rebel yell of States’ rights. Right or wrong.

While I certainly cannot condone politicians for resorting to this lowest common denominator type of tactic, I also and equally certainly cannot blame them for evoking this. It gets their name in the paper. Their message raises blood pressures. What saddens me, more than infuriates me, is the fact that the media recognizes that these types of proclamations and events catch the eye but they fail to dig deeper and fail to portray the ridiculous and churlish nature of the substance of their reporting. Sadder still is the fact that the public, in general, takes this stuff at face value and allows mantra to be born.

It’s not the substance, it’s the sound bite.

Tax Shock and Toilet Paper

2010-07-28T08:43:00.001-04:00

I am certain that this does not only happen in America. But it is with a certain amount of amusement and a larger level of consternation that we have collectively learned that the powers that be within the city of Newark, New Jersey have axed toilet paper from the city budget.

According to virtually every news source available, “Budget Cuts in Newark, NJ are drastic from Mayor Cory Booker as even toilet paper has been cut from the city budget. As hygiene is tossed, certainly city pools can be closed as well and any kind of decorations can also be shelved. All have been axed from a city budget deep in the hole.

A report from CNN reveals the mayor is dealing with a budget that is bloated by $70 million and he is looking to make drastic cuts including reducing the work week and workers' salaries by 20 percent. "Every single contract that does not go to the core function of our city in providing safe streets, providing fire protection, or other things to keep our city afloat will now be cut," Mayor Cory Booker said during an emergency press conference last week.

Workers area also being shifted to a four day work week, essentially a 20% pay cut.

Booker said he is making the severe cutbacks "to avoid a tax shock to our city."”

Tax shock. Yes. It is quite true that the acquisition of such commodities such as [ahem] bathroom tissue does not, in fact, “… go to the core function …” of Newark. Having said that, there are certain, shall we say, realities of the life of a city office worker that needs to be taken into a certain level of consideration. Among these included within the solution set of realities is the fact that, it is true, office workers are not machines. And while said office workers can indeed handily survive without their fair city supplying with such things as internet (in many cases), water coolers, pencils, pens, printer paper, business cards and such, requiring these same workers to spend their hard earned money to buy sanitary supplies for the confines of the work environment relegates the work environment to something considerably less than a professional milieu.

Having said all this, I am certain that the vehicle of the toilet paper might be overstated. Perhaps after having viewed the totality of the city’s financial challenges, the issue of the toilet paper may be re-considered and viewed as an essential element of the city providing those within its payroll an environment that is both safe and healthy. Certainly this is the very very least that any employer needs to provide one’s staff.

No. I believe that the issue here goes beyond what does or does not appear in municipal water closets. The issue is much larger in scope than this otherwise amusing anecdote might beg.

There is, obviously, talk of cutting supplies as a means of reducing budgetary constraints. There has been talk of cutting the wages of those workers who would otherwise have to resort to primitive measure of sanitary conventions. These measures will certainly go towards addressing the city’s financial woes. I have no concerns whatsoever where it comes to any governmental offices facing its financial obligations and its fiscal responsibilities.

But somehow, in researching the underlying foundations instrumental in the causation of these circumstance and in further researching the actual means by which this crisis might be averted, some disturbing gaps seem to be hidden as rapidly as others surface.

The good mayor could not get the Council to approve of the submitted budget and concession from the respective Police and Fire Departments could not be exacted. So these departments will suffer the wrath of the Mayor’s office and cuts will soon to follow.

In Booker’s defense, he cut his own $130,000 salary twice since taking office in what has been reported as 8% increments, bringing his salary down to about $110,000. But I have seen no indication of similar overtures offered by members of the council, nor by other senior members of other departments.

The theme is consistent. Those in power protect their own. Let the little ones use their left hand.