Here are a few more tid-bits to round out VMs for the week.
I'm Having A Mack Attack...
My Congressman, Connie Mack, finally announced his Plan to reduce the federal deficit.
Mack wants to eliminate the Davis-Bacon Act, cut all funding for National Public Radio, do away with the National Endowment for the Arts, and finally, de-fund Obama Care.
I have a suggestion ...
Let's ask Connie Mack to take a trip up to the Northeast for a few weeks. Most states north of the Mason-Dixon Line have spent every nickle they had set aside for snow removal, so all of Connie's hot air would be pretty handy in melting all the snow and ice up there.
Connie makes me yearn for the Good Old Days of the Warren G. Harding Administration.
Another Shoot-Out in Tampa ...
A mother of two teenagers is in police custody after shooting and killing her two kids with a .38 Special.
Seems she wanted to get back at them for sassing her, not keeping their rooms clean, and otherwise showing disrespect.
The police spokesman told reporters that the kids -- a 16-year old high schooler and her 13-year old brother -- "never saw it coming." Sadly, the father, an Army colonel, was in Qatar at the time.
What a mess!
Perhaps this latest shooting incident will compel the FL Legislature to revisit the "Open Carry" bill being touted by the NRA and other Conservatives. I know, I know: guns don't kill. Deranged people do.
But when a .38 Special gets into the hands of the deranged, what would you expect?
Cosmology & Carol
My wife downloaded a beautiful photo from the Hubble Telescope mid-week depicting numerous stars, galaxies and neublae in Deep Space.
Seems a group of professional star-gazers wanted to take a peek at a rarely-visited part of the sky, between New Zealand and Antarctica, just to see what's out there.
The science community has been trying to account for all matter in the known Universe -- for some reason, what they think they know about the Mass of all of the stars and galaxies doesn't add up in their Great Equation.
So they scour the sky with their telescopes, especially peering in places they termed "The Intergalactic Void" in order to see new things, if they exist:
They got their opportunity on New Year's Day, a time when demand for Hubble Time is extremely low.
What they saw is absolutely astounding: millions of stars -- many in early stages of formation, gaseous clouds, and out in the farthest region, galaxies almot too numerous to count. The Dopplar Shift in the starlight indicated that the scientists were seeing things Eight Billion Light Years away from our Earth.
(Note to the religious sensitives: I know, I know. The Bible tells you that the World is 6,000 years old. Get Over It!)
As I shared some of my opinions and observations about this photo with Carol, she asked me an extremely interesting question.
"If one is standing at the South Poll, is one standing upside-down?"
Answer: "Depends on one's perspective."
Peace & Love & Go Steelers & Packers!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Pass Me The Envelope, Please....
The awards season for the Motion Picture industry is beginning to heat up.
Most have made their preferences known.
"Black Swan," (about a fading ballerina) runs neck-and-neck with "The King's Speech" (about a monarch with a lisp) for Best Everything. You sense that this contest is close, because an Un-Named Flack for an Un-Named Studio leaked it out to the entertainment media that "King" contains a character with Nazi sympathies. That ought to sway the judges! -- proof, yet again, some of these smarmy, snarky Hollywood weasels have no shame.
(Disclosure notice: I am not a Nazi. And I'm going to hold off seeing both of these films until they get released on DVD.)
Each year at this time, I reflect on a few of the Great Movies I have seen. Then, usually when I can't sleep, I mess around with how I would rank them.
My criteria: movies have to pass a "Five S" Test to make my short list.
I bought into a principle espoused years ago by my Sainted Mother. In her simple manner, she said one should expect three things from a movie: "Get a Good Laugh. Get a Good Cry. Get Something Good To Talk About."
So, My Fellow Americans, let's review my Five Top Films -- presented to you in Vivid Color and by the decades in which they were released.
1960s: Doctor Zhivago (1965)
Robert Bolt's adaption of Boris Paskernak's novel and David Lean's direction of Omar Sharif, Alec Guinness, Rod Steiger et. al. left me breathless when I first saw the film. It continues to thrill and inspire me to the present day. Zhivago is, at its essence, a story of unrequieted love set against the emotional pain and real violence suffered by millions during the Russian Revolution. Maurice Jarre's original musical score was just a cherry on this sundae.
Money scene: Julie Cristie plugging Rod Steiger at the New Year's Eve gala in Moscow.
(Factoid: Zhivago was filmed in the Canadian Rockies -- certainly looked like the Urals.)
In 25 words or less, Yuri Zhivago wagered his heart in a game he failed to understand. What happened to him happens to such men who lose.
1970s: Chinatown (1974)
Robert Towne's mangnificent screenplay circulated around Tinseltown for years until Roman Polanski figured out how to turn it into a film. Jack Nicholson, Faye Dunaway and the great one, John Huston took me through a riddle that became a conundrum that turned into an inigma -- in a stark examination of political and human corruption and greed. Jerry Goldsmith's haunting, sparse score added just enough pathos to tip this film from being simply great to becoming legendary/iconic.
Money scene: Polanski cleaning Nicholson's snot-locker by the reservior fence.
In 25 words or less: Jake Geddes and Noah Cross learn that death of those you love just might be the consequence of corruption and greed.
1980s: Gandhi (1982)
Ben Kingsley's depiction of Mohandas Gandhi blew my mind. Talking about getting into character! But let's give credit where credit is due: Kingsley had John Briley's brilliant script as a guide, plus the incredible vision and directing talent of Richard Attinborough, as his resources.This is a film shot on-location in India with a cast of thousands, employed to add depth and emphasis to the life and times of one enderly man who had the courage, and the integrity, to stand up for the freedom of his people. At its most basic element, Gandhi is a pure love story: the love of a man and a woman; the love of a man for his countrymen; the love of a man for his country's dignity and freedom.
This film I can say, without reservation, is a Feast for the Eyes. Attinborough captures the essence of India, a mystical land filled with mystical people. And Ravi Shankar's riveting and moving score places a wonderful exclamation point onto this production.
Money scene: Kingsley telling a Hindu fanatic how to escape the pain of Hell.
In 15 words or less: Freedom begins when one man with courage and integrity takes his first step down the road.
(Factoid: Larry Collins, co-author of the definitive history with Dominique LaPrierre about Gandhi's role in India's Independence, lived in West Hartford, CT. I had the honor of meeting him once.)
1990: Dances With Wolves (1990)
Kevin Costner was the driving force behind this masterpiece. At the time, Hollywood westerns were deader-than-dead. No Box Office, or so said the Marketers. But Costner transformed Michael Blake's screenplay, about a soldier stationed at the end of the American frontier, into a film that captures the beauty of the Prairie and the nobility of the Sioux Nation framed against the hubrus and racism of an expanding White nation.
At its essence, Dances With Wolves is another kind of a love story: it's about John Dunbar's transformation from ignorance to understanding, about his love for the land, a special group of people, and for the love of a woman.
Costner pulled out all the stops in capturing scenes of the Prairie as one might have seen them back in the 1860s -- up to and including a magical, five-minute buffalo hunt sequence.
John Barry's symphonic score adds profound depth to virtually every scene of this magnificent film -- in fact, it now stands alone on its own merit as a piece known as "The Prairie Suite."
Money scenes: The Buffalo hunt and Costner playing tag with his pal, Two Socks.
In 15 words or less: Man can discover love and respect in places and among people he fears most.
(Factoid: Michael Blake wrote Dances With Wolves as a novel years before Costner hunted him down to offer Blake $1 million for the rights to the book. You see, Mike Blake was down-and-out and washing dishes at a diner at the time...)
2000s: Million Dollar Baby (2004)
Paul Haggis based his wonderful screenplay on the Hope Burns stories by F.X. Toole. Clint Eastwood grabbed it up and took to playing the lead character, Frank Dunn, an old pug of a boxing gym owner, like a duck takes to water.
Magnificent performances are delivered by Hillary Swank, who just wants a fighting chance to live her dream as a pro boxer, and by the incomparable Morgan Freeman, who plays the role of a down-and-out corner man.
This is not a coming-of-age story: it is a tale about man who has not only lost his only daughter's love, he's also one step from losing his soul.
Unlike the other films on my list, Million Dollar Baby is Spartan-stark. If you try hard enough, you can smell the sweat and taste the blood in Frank Dunn's place. (In this aspect, Eastwood could have filmed his classic in black-and-white.) This is a story about moral choices, and the one posed to Frank Dunn is this: what's the price one pays when one kills the one he loves best?
I have never seen a movie with this kind of theme before, and it's doubtful I ever will.
Eastwood composed the score -- its haunting beauty adds tremendous dignity to the story.
Money scene: Swank wades to camera front-and-center and then proceeds to KO her unseen opponent with one punch.
This film is too complex-compound-complex to be reduced to 25 words or less. Let's just say that Dunn gives a young woman a fighting chance to live her dream -- with all the risks her journey may impose.
So there they are: my list of five great films.
If I had to choose from all the films ever made which one I would take with me to the Desert Island -- and if I could take just one -- it would be ....
"Don Juan Di Marco."
Most have made their preferences known.
"Black Swan," (about a fading ballerina) runs neck-and-neck with "The King's Speech" (about a monarch with a lisp) for Best Everything. You sense that this contest is close, because an Un-Named Flack for an Un-Named Studio leaked it out to the entertainment media that "King" contains a character with Nazi sympathies. That ought to sway the judges! -- proof, yet again, some of these smarmy, snarky Hollywood weasels have no shame.
(Disclosure notice: I am not a Nazi. And I'm going to hold off seeing both of these films until they get released on DVD.)
Each year at this time, I reflect on a few of the Great Movies I have seen. Then, usually when I can't sleep, I mess around with how I would rank them.
My criteria: movies have to pass a "Five S" Test to make my short list.
- They have to be exceptionally-written, and filmed, Screen plays.
- The Stars have to deliver exceptional performances.
- The musical Score must be sweeping in composition.
- The film has to make me See the world through different eyes.
- And, finally, a movie must be Significant with respect to how we understand our fellow humans.
I bought into a principle espoused years ago by my Sainted Mother. In her simple manner, she said one should expect three things from a movie: "Get a Good Laugh. Get a Good Cry. Get Something Good To Talk About."
So, My Fellow Americans, let's review my Five Top Films -- presented to you in Vivid Color and by the decades in which they were released.
1960s: Doctor Zhivago (1965)
Robert Bolt's adaption of Boris Paskernak's novel and David Lean's direction of Omar Sharif, Alec Guinness, Rod Steiger et. al. left me breathless when I first saw the film. It continues to thrill and inspire me to the present day. Zhivago is, at its essence, a story of unrequieted love set against the emotional pain and real violence suffered by millions during the Russian Revolution. Maurice Jarre's original musical score was just a cherry on this sundae.
Money scene: Julie Cristie plugging Rod Steiger at the New Year's Eve gala in Moscow.
(Factoid: Zhivago was filmed in the Canadian Rockies -- certainly looked like the Urals.)
In 25 words or less, Yuri Zhivago wagered his heart in a game he failed to understand. What happened to him happens to such men who lose.
1970s: Chinatown (1974)
Robert Towne's mangnificent screenplay circulated around Tinseltown for years until Roman Polanski figured out how to turn it into a film. Jack Nicholson, Faye Dunaway and the great one, John Huston took me through a riddle that became a conundrum that turned into an inigma -- in a stark examination of political and human corruption and greed. Jerry Goldsmith's haunting, sparse score added just enough pathos to tip this film from being simply great to becoming legendary/iconic.
Money scene: Polanski cleaning Nicholson's snot-locker by the reservior fence.
In 25 words or less: Jake Geddes and Noah Cross learn that death of those you love just might be the consequence of corruption and greed.
1980s: Gandhi (1982)
Ben Kingsley's depiction of Mohandas Gandhi blew my mind. Talking about getting into character! But let's give credit where credit is due: Kingsley had John Briley's brilliant script as a guide, plus the incredible vision and directing talent of Richard Attinborough, as his resources.This is a film shot on-location in India with a cast of thousands, employed to add depth and emphasis to the life and times of one enderly man who had the courage, and the integrity, to stand up for the freedom of his people. At its most basic element, Gandhi is a pure love story: the love of a man and a woman; the love of a man for his countrymen; the love of a man for his country's dignity and freedom.
This film I can say, without reservation, is a Feast for the Eyes. Attinborough captures the essence of India, a mystical land filled with mystical people. And Ravi Shankar's riveting and moving score places a wonderful exclamation point onto this production.
Money scene: Kingsley telling a Hindu fanatic how to escape the pain of Hell.
In 15 words or less: Freedom begins when one man with courage and integrity takes his first step down the road.
(Factoid: Larry Collins, co-author of the definitive history with Dominique LaPrierre about Gandhi's role in India's Independence, lived in West Hartford, CT. I had the honor of meeting him once.)
1990: Dances With Wolves (1990)
Kevin Costner was the driving force behind this masterpiece. At the time, Hollywood westerns were deader-than-dead. No Box Office, or so said the Marketers. But Costner transformed Michael Blake's screenplay, about a soldier stationed at the end of the American frontier, into a film that captures the beauty of the Prairie and the nobility of the Sioux Nation framed against the hubrus and racism of an expanding White nation.
At its essence, Dances With Wolves is another kind of a love story: it's about John Dunbar's transformation from ignorance to understanding, about his love for the land, a special group of people, and for the love of a woman.
Costner pulled out all the stops in capturing scenes of the Prairie as one might have seen them back in the 1860s -- up to and including a magical, five-minute buffalo hunt sequence.
John Barry's symphonic score adds profound depth to virtually every scene of this magnificent film -- in fact, it now stands alone on its own merit as a piece known as "The Prairie Suite."
Money scenes: The Buffalo hunt and Costner playing tag with his pal, Two Socks.
In 15 words or less: Man can discover love and respect in places and among people he fears most.
(Factoid: Michael Blake wrote Dances With Wolves as a novel years before Costner hunted him down to offer Blake $1 million for the rights to the book. You see, Mike Blake was down-and-out and washing dishes at a diner at the time...)
2000s: Million Dollar Baby (2004)
Paul Haggis based his wonderful screenplay on the Hope Burns stories by F.X. Toole. Clint Eastwood grabbed it up and took to playing the lead character, Frank Dunn, an old pug of a boxing gym owner, like a duck takes to water.
Magnificent performances are delivered by Hillary Swank, who just wants a fighting chance to live her dream as a pro boxer, and by the incomparable Morgan Freeman, who plays the role of a down-and-out corner man.
This is not a coming-of-age story: it is a tale about man who has not only lost his only daughter's love, he's also one step from losing his soul.
Unlike the other films on my list, Million Dollar Baby is Spartan-stark. If you try hard enough, you can smell the sweat and taste the blood in Frank Dunn's place. (In this aspect, Eastwood could have filmed his classic in black-and-white.) This is a story about moral choices, and the one posed to Frank Dunn is this: what's the price one pays when one kills the one he loves best?
I have never seen a movie with this kind of theme before, and it's doubtful I ever will.
Eastwood composed the score -- its haunting beauty adds tremendous dignity to the story.
Money scene: Swank wades to camera front-and-center and then proceeds to KO her unseen opponent with one punch.
This film is too complex-compound-complex to be reduced to 25 words or less. Let's just say that Dunn gives a young woman a fighting chance to live her dream -- with all the risks her journey may impose.
So there they are: my list of five great films.
If I had to choose from all the films ever made which one I would take with me to the Desert Island -- and if I could take just one -- it would be ....
"Don Juan Di Marco."
Thursday, January 27, 2011
The Truth About Cats
I stumbled over another one of those incredible Internet facts just the other day.
Seems as though a group of researchers at the Iowa State University College of Veterinary Medicine have been able to unravel the genome of "felinus domesticus," otherwise known as the Domestic House Cat.
Right there, embedded within helix 88 in the DNA, they came across a trait that we non-scientists have suspected was really there all along; the felinus domesticus Con Artist Gene.
Cats are, by their nature, inveterate grifters. Everyone who has ever owned a cat knows this. The same can also be said about dogs -- only cats are far more sophisticated in their ability to sucker their owners.
As I attempt to write this, I am also trying to enjoy a Tuna Fish Sandwich (Big Mistake!) "Tank,", "Bart," and "Quinn" have thus far been successful in getting me to allot the juice from the can into exactly equal proportions while "Huck" invoked her ability to lay the Guilt Trip on me for the tuna flecks that were inextractable from the tin.
I can now hear "Bart" and "Tank" and "Huck" wrestling in the TV Room -- which is a sure tip-off that, if I go in there to break it up, the rest of the felinus domestici who I share space with will form a Catalonian Pyramid and climb up onto the desk to launch the Great Sandwich Raid, one of their standard diversionary tactics they have perfected worthy of Sun Tzu.
This has happened many, times before. Today, I'm not going to fall for the ploy.
But let's get back to the ISU Vet School.
The reseachers claim the Con Artist Gene showed up in cats' DNA about 70,000 years ago. Cave Kitties apparently began to impress Cave Men with their abilities to catch mice, rats, snakes and Big Bugs that tended to crawl around all over the place. I imagine Cave Kitties also amused their masters by chasing their tails, licking their you-know-whats, and rolling around in the dirt.
Folks back then were easily-amused.
For whatever reason, Cave Kitties got to become members of the Clan -- I, furthermore, am guessing that Cave Women injected most of the input into that decision. As a point of interest via indirect reference, cats preceded dogs into the world of Human Pet-Dom by about 25,000 years. Seems that it took that long for the mutts to get it, but 'twas ever thus.
I won't tell you for HIPPA reasons how many cats Carol & I have, but let's just say it's "a few." Except for "Toby," a jet-black Bombay who we "acquired for Five Hundred Bucks from a breeder, all the others are rescues.
We must have a big Neon Sign on the roof that only abandoned cats can see that reads: "Suckers Live Here -- Just Knock."
Ah, yes. The Con Artist Gene. Would I have it any other way?
Seems as though a group of researchers at the Iowa State University College of Veterinary Medicine have been able to unravel the genome of "felinus domesticus," otherwise known as the Domestic House Cat.
Right there, embedded within helix 88 in the DNA, they came across a trait that we non-scientists have suspected was really there all along; the felinus domesticus Con Artist Gene.
Cats are, by their nature, inveterate grifters. Everyone who has ever owned a cat knows this. The same can also be said about dogs -- only cats are far more sophisticated in their ability to sucker their owners.
As I attempt to write this, I am also trying to enjoy a Tuna Fish Sandwich (Big Mistake!) "Tank,", "Bart," and "Quinn" have thus far been successful in getting me to allot the juice from the can into exactly equal proportions while "Huck" invoked her ability to lay the Guilt Trip on me for the tuna flecks that were inextractable from the tin.
I can now hear "Bart" and "Tank" and "Huck" wrestling in the TV Room -- which is a sure tip-off that, if I go in there to break it up, the rest of the felinus domestici who I share space with will form a Catalonian Pyramid and climb up onto the desk to launch the Great Sandwich Raid, one of their standard diversionary tactics they have perfected worthy of Sun Tzu.
This has happened many, times before. Today, I'm not going to fall for the ploy.
But let's get back to the ISU Vet School.
The reseachers claim the Con Artist Gene showed up in cats' DNA about 70,000 years ago. Cave Kitties apparently began to impress Cave Men with their abilities to catch mice, rats, snakes and Big Bugs that tended to crawl around all over the place. I imagine Cave Kitties also amused their masters by chasing their tails, licking their you-know-whats, and rolling around in the dirt.
Folks back then were easily-amused.
For whatever reason, Cave Kitties got to become members of the Clan -- I, furthermore, am guessing that Cave Women injected most of the input into that decision. As a point of interest via indirect reference, cats preceded dogs into the world of Human Pet-Dom by about 25,000 years. Seems that it took that long for the mutts to get it, but 'twas ever thus.
I won't tell you for HIPPA reasons how many cats Carol & I have, but let's just say it's "a few." Except for "Toby," a jet-black Bombay who we "acquired for Five Hundred Bucks from a breeder, all the others are rescues.
We must have a big Neon Sign on the roof that only abandoned cats can see that reads: "Suckers Live Here -- Just Knock."
Ah, yes. The Con Artist Gene. Would I have it any other way?
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
SICKO Rides Again
I have six words for Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, Laura Ingraham, Marc LeVigne and Glen Beck.
Actually, I have two words that I'll use three times each: "Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!"
I can't thank you all enough for making Michael Moore a Household Name. Had it not been for your incessant, persistent and bile-spewing rants against Moore for making his "shock-u-mentary" SICKO when it came out a couple of years ago, Moore's classic documentary about the failures in America's health care system would have been seen by maybe 100 film aficionados in the art houses in Manhattan and LA/Hollywood.
So, once again, thank you Sean and Rush et, al. for bringing SICKO to the attention of millions of people. Thank you for everything you did to help Michael Moore win his Oscar.
Enough of that.
In 20 words or less, SICKO awakened America to its collective failure to guarantee adequate health care coverage for all of its people.
In 35 words or less, SICKO infuriated Big Insurance so much that it did everything it could to discredit Moore -- "Big I" even enlisted the Bush people in the State Department to lie about the film's release in Cuba.
(You can get the whole Bird's Eye Low-Down, directly from the horse's mouth via Huffington, by reading one of my previous commentaries on this topic.)
You undoubtedly have seen SICKO so I won't wear you out about it -- if, for some reason, you have not, get it, and watch it Tonight!
I bring this matter to today's table because, up in the little town of Enfield, CT, the mayor and members of the town council recently instructed the town's librarian to cancel a showing of the movie. Seems that a Tea Bagger voiced a complaint about the film being shown at the library.
The citizen told the town council (and I am not making this up) that he didn't want his "tax dollars spent" on any exhibition of Moore's masterpiece, or on subsequent public discussion of the film's content on town property.
So Hizzonor and the Melon Heads on the council ordered the librarian to cancel SICKO, and if the librarian didn't knuckle under, the librarian faced some form of cryptic "disclipinary action" and the predictable threat that his budget would be cut.
For his part, Hizzonor claimed the film was too controversial to be shown in town-owned real estate. Asked what film he might consider more appropriate for public discussion, he said (and, again, I am not making this up) the mayor answered: "Finding Nemo."
Please understand that the town of Enfield is located about 15 miles north of Hartford, the Insurance Capital Of The World. With a few of the nation's biggest Players In The Insurance Industry home-based there, Hartford is the nation's strongest fortress in opposing Health Insurance Reform. It would come as no surprise if we eventually learn that the Tea Bagger who complained to the Town Council is employed at Aetna or one of the other "Big I" Giants.
But I digress...
Hizzonor and the Melon Heads in Enfield were no more and no less than useful Stooges to the dictates of "Big I" in suppressing meaningful public discourse on the importance of Health Care Reform. This indictment can also be handed down charging Hannity et. al. with the same crime.
Put aside the First Amendment arguments for a few minutes and ponder what is really happening here. "Big I", in collusion with Conservative Talk Radio, has poisoned the well vis a vis constructive discussion regarding Health Care Reform.
Now, thanks to one Tea Bagger, a municipal government gets dragged into the mire after taking many, many sips of the Cool-Aid served up daily by Conservative Talk Radio.
There is "stupid" and then, again, there is "dangerous." When stupid meets dangerous meets conservative talk show airwaves, we're all in trouble.
With the Republicans in the US House voting to repeal "Obama-Care," such discourse is more important than ever -- and thankfully, the repeal measure will go nowhere in the Senate.
So, and finally: thanks again fellas!
You have done a fantastic job of making SICKO more relevant than ever.
(NOTE: Mega-Tip of The Hat to Andy Thibault at cooljustice.com and the rest of the Facebook crew for generating mega heat on this issue.)
Actually, I have two words that I'll use three times each: "Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!"
I can't thank you all enough for making Michael Moore a Household Name. Had it not been for your incessant, persistent and bile-spewing rants against Moore for making his "shock-u-mentary" SICKO when it came out a couple of years ago, Moore's classic documentary about the failures in America's health care system would have been seen by maybe 100 film aficionados in the art houses in Manhattan and LA/Hollywood.
So, once again, thank you Sean and Rush et, al. for bringing SICKO to the attention of millions of people. Thank you for everything you did to help Michael Moore win his Oscar.
Enough of that.
In 20 words or less, SICKO awakened America to its collective failure to guarantee adequate health care coverage for all of its people.
In 35 words or less, SICKO infuriated Big Insurance so much that it did everything it could to discredit Moore -- "Big I" even enlisted the Bush people in the State Department to lie about the film's release in Cuba.
(You can get the whole Bird's Eye Low-Down, directly from the horse's mouth via Huffington, by reading one of my previous commentaries on this topic.)
You undoubtedly have seen SICKO so I won't wear you out about it -- if, for some reason, you have not, get it, and watch it Tonight!
I bring this matter to today's table because, up in the little town of Enfield, CT, the mayor and members of the town council recently instructed the town's librarian to cancel a showing of the movie. Seems that a Tea Bagger voiced a complaint about the film being shown at the library.
The citizen told the town council (and I am not making this up) that he didn't want his "tax dollars spent" on any exhibition of Moore's masterpiece, or on subsequent public discussion of the film's content on town property.
So Hizzonor and the Melon Heads on the council ordered the librarian to cancel SICKO, and if the librarian didn't knuckle under, the librarian faced some form of cryptic "disclipinary action" and the predictable threat that his budget would be cut.
For his part, Hizzonor claimed the film was too controversial to be shown in town-owned real estate. Asked what film he might consider more appropriate for public discussion, he said (and, again, I am not making this up) the mayor answered: "Finding Nemo."
Please understand that the town of Enfield is located about 15 miles north of Hartford, the Insurance Capital Of The World. With a few of the nation's biggest Players In The Insurance Industry home-based there, Hartford is the nation's strongest fortress in opposing Health Insurance Reform. It would come as no surprise if we eventually learn that the Tea Bagger who complained to the Town Council is employed at Aetna or one of the other "Big I" Giants.
But I digress...
Hizzonor and the Melon Heads in Enfield were no more and no less than useful Stooges to the dictates of "Big I" in suppressing meaningful public discourse on the importance of Health Care Reform. This indictment can also be handed down charging Hannity et. al. with the same crime.
Put aside the First Amendment arguments for a few minutes and ponder what is really happening here. "Big I", in collusion with Conservative Talk Radio, has poisoned the well vis a vis constructive discussion regarding Health Care Reform.
Now, thanks to one Tea Bagger, a municipal government gets dragged into the mire after taking many, many sips of the Cool-Aid served up daily by Conservative Talk Radio.
There is "stupid" and then, again, there is "dangerous." When stupid meets dangerous meets conservative talk show airwaves, we're all in trouble.
With the Republicans in the US House voting to repeal "Obama-Care," such discourse is more important than ever -- and thankfully, the repeal measure will go nowhere in the Senate.
So, and finally: thanks again fellas!
You have done a fantastic job of making SICKO more relevant than ever.
(NOTE: Mega-Tip of The Hat to Andy Thibault at cooljustice.com and the rest of the Facebook crew for generating mega heat on this issue.)
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
More Truth From Michael Moore
NOTE FROM YOUR HUMBLE SCRIBE:
Michael Moore's documentary "SICKO" about the miserable condition of access to affordable health care in America is making news in a small Connecticut town.
Seems the mayor and the town council think it's not fit to be shown at their local library.You know the drill: Too political, too one-sided, yada, yada, yada.
As a public service, here's a reprint Michael Moore's column from The Huffington Post. Within, Mike addresses a certain State Department campaign meant to discredit his film.
Enjoy!
Yesterday WikiLeaks did an amazing thing and released a classified State Department cable that dealt, in part, with me and my film, 'Sicko.'
It is a stunning look at the Orwellian nature of how bureaucrats for the State spin their lies and try to recreate reality (I assume to placate their bosses and tell them what they want to hear).
The date is January 31, 2008. It is just days after 'Sicko' has been nominated for an Oscar as Best Documentary. This must have sent someone reeling in Bush's State Department (his Treasury Department had already notified me they were investigating what laws I might have broken in taking three 9/11 first responders to Cuba to get them the health care they had been denied in the United States).
Former health insurance executive Wendell Potter recently revealed that the insurance industry -- which had decided to spend millions to go after me and, if necessary, "push Michael Moore off a cliff" -- had begun working with anti-Castro Cubans in Miami in order to have them speak out and smear my film.
So, on January 31, 2008, a State Department official stationed in Havana took a made up story and sent it back to his HQ in Washington. Here's what they concocted:
But the secret cable said Cubans were banned from seeing my movie. Hmmm.
We also know from another secret U.S. document that "the disenchantment of the masses [in Cuba] has spread through all the provinces," and that "all of Oriente Province is seething with hate" for the Castro regime. There's a huge active underground rebellion, and "workers there readily give all the support they can," with everyone involved in "subtle sabotage" against the government. Morale is terrible throughout all the branches of the armed forces, and in the event of war the army "will not fight." Wow -- this cable is hot!
Of course, this secret U.S. cable is from March 31, 1961, three weeks before Cuba kicked our asses at the Bay of Pigs.
The U.S. government has been passing around these "secret" documents to itself for the past fifty years, explaining in painstaking detail how horrible things are in Cuba and how Cubans are quietly aching for us to come back and take over. I don't know why we write these cables, I guess it just makes us feel better about ourselves. (Anyone curious can find an entire museum of U.S. wish fulfillment cables on the website of the National Security Archive.)
So what do you do with about a false "secret" cable, especially one that involves you and your movie? Well, you wait for a responsible newspaper to investigate and shout what it discovers from the rooftops.
But yesterday WikiLeaks gave the 'Sicko' Cuba cable to the media -- and what did they do with it? They ran it as if it were true! Here's the headline in the Guardian:
OK, so we know the media is lazy and sucks most of the time. But the bigger issue here is how our government seemed to be colluding with the health insurance industry to destroy a film that might have a hand in bringing about what the Cubans already have in their poverty-ridden third world country: free, universal health care. And because they have it and we don't, Cuba has a better infant mortality rate than we do, their life expectancy is just 7 months shorter than ours, and, according to the WHO, they rank just two places behind the richest country on earth in terms of the quality of their health care.
That's the story, mainstream media and right-wing haters.
Now that you've been presented with the facts, what are you going to do about it? Are you gonna attack me for having my movie played on Cuban state television? Or are you gonna attack me for not having my movie played on Cuban state television?
You have to choose one, it can't be both.
And since the facts show that the movie played on state TV and in theaters, I think you're better off attacking me for having my films played in Cuba.
¡Viva WikiLeaks!
Michael Moore's documentary "SICKO" about the miserable condition of access to affordable health care in America is making news in a small Connecticut town.
Seems the mayor and the town council think it's not fit to be shown at their local library.You know the drill: Too political, too one-sided, yada, yada, yada.
As a public service, here's a reprint Michael Moore's column from The Huffington Post. Within, Mike addresses a certain State Department campaign meant to discredit his film.
Enjoy!
__________________
Yesterday WikiLeaks did an amazing thing and released a classified State Department cable that dealt, in part, with me and my film, 'Sicko.'
It is a stunning look at the Orwellian nature of how bureaucrats for the State spin their lies and try to recreate reality (I assume to placate their bosses and tell them what they want to hear).
The date is January 31, 2008. It is just days after 'Sicko' has been nominated for an Oscar as Best Documentary. This must have sent someone reeling in Bush's State Department (his Treasury Department had already notified me they were investigating what laws I might have broken in taking three 9/11 first responders to Cuba to get them the health care they had been denied in the United States).
Former health insurance executive Wendell Potter recently revealed that the insurance industry -- which had decided to spend millions to go after me and, if necessary, "push Michael Moore off a cliff" -- had begun working with anti-Castro Cubans in Miami in order to have them speak out and smear my film.
So, on January 31, 2008, a State Department official stationed in Havana took a made up story and sent it back to his HQ in Washington. Here's what they concocted:
XXXXXXXXXXXX stated that Cuban authorities have banned Michael Moore's documentary, "Sicko," as being subversive. Although the film's intent is to discredit the U.S. healthcare system by highlighting the excellence of the Cuban system, he said the regime knows the film is a myth and does not want to risk a popular backlash by showing to Cubans facilities that are clearly not available to the vast majority of them.Sounds convincing, eh?! There's only one problem -- 'Sicko' had just been playing in Cuban theaters. Then the entire nation of Cuba was shown the film on national television on April 25, 2008! The Cubans embraced the film so much so it became one of those rare American movies that received a theatrical distribution in Cuba. I personally ensured that a 35mm print got to the Film Institute in Havana. Screenings of 'Sicko' were set up in towns all across the country.
But the secret cable said Cubans were banned from seeing my movie. Hmmm.
We also know from another secret U.S. document that "the disenchantment of the masses [in Cuba] has spread through all the provinces," and that "all of Oriente Province is seething with hate" for the Castro regime. There's a huge active underground rebellion, and "workers there readily give all the support they can," with everyone involved in "subtle sabotage" against the government. Morale is terrible throughout all the branches of the armed forces, and in the event of war the army "will not fight." Wow -- this cable is hot!
Of course, this secret U.S. cable is from March 31, 1961, three weeks before Cuba kicked our asses at the Bay of Pigs.
The U.S. government has been passing around these "secret" documents to itself for the past fifty years, explaining in painstaking detail how horrible things are in Cuba and how Cubans are quietly aching for us to come back and take over. I don't know why we write these cables, I guess it just makes us feel better about ourselves. (Anyone curious can find an entire museum of U.S. wish fulfillment cables on the website of the National Security Archive.)
So what do you do with about a false "secret" cable, especially one that involves you and your movie? Well, you wait for a responsible newspaper to investigate and shout what it discovers from the rooftops.
But yesterday WikiLeaks gave the 'Sicko' Cuba cable to the media -- and what did they do with it? They ran it as if it were true! Here's the headline in the Guardian:
WikiLeaks: Cuba banned Sicko for depicting 'mythical' healthcare systemAnd not one scintilla of digging to see if Cuba had actually banned the movie! In fact, just the opposite. The right wing press started to have a field day reporting a lie (Andy Levy of Fox -- twice -- Reason Magazine, Spectator and Hot Air, plus a slew of blogs). Sadly, even BoingBoing and my friends at the Nation wrote about it without skepticism. So here you have WikiLeaks, who have put themselves on the line to find and release these cables to the press -- and traditional journalists are once again just too lazy to lift a finger, point and click their mouse to log into Nexis or search via Google, and look to see if Cuba really did "ban the film." Had just ONE reporter done that, here's they would have found:
Authorities feared footage of gleaming hospital in Michael Moore's Oscar-nominated film would provoke a popular backlash
June 16, 2007 Saturday 1:41 AM GMT [that's 7 months before the false cable]Or, how 'bout this little April 25, 2008 notice from CubaSi.Cu (translation by Google):
HEADLINE: Cuban health minister says Moore's 'Sicko' shows 'human values' of communist system
BYLINE: By ANDREA RODRIGUEZ, Associated Press Writer
DATELINE: HAVANA
Cuba's health minister Jose Ramon Balaguer said Friday that American filmmaker Michael Moore's documentary 'Sicko' highlights the human values of the island's communist-run government... "There can be no doubt this documentary by a personality like Mr. Michael Moore helps promote the profoundly human principles of Cuban society."
Sicko premiere in Cuba 25/04/2008Then there's this from Juventudrebelde.cu (translation by Google). Or this Cuban editorial (translation by Google). There's even a long clip of the Cuba section of 'Sicko' on the homepage of Media Roundtable on the CubaSi.cu website!
The documentary Sicko, the U.S. filmmaker Michael Moore, which deals about the deplorable state of American health care system will be released today at 5:50 pm, for the space Cubavision Roundtable and the Education Channel.
OK, so we know the media is lazy and sucks most of the time. But the bigger issue here is how our government seemed to be colluding with the health insurance industry to destroy a film that might have a hand in bringing about what the Cubans already have in their poverty-ridden third world country: free, universal health care. And because they have it and we don't, Cuba has a better infant mortality rate than we do, their life expectancy is just 7 months shorter than ours, and, according to the WHO, they rank just two places behind the richest country on earth in terms of the quality of their health care.
That's the story, mainstream media and right-wing haters.
Now that you've been presented with the facts, what are you going to do about it? Are you gonna attack me for having my movie played on Cuban state television? Or are you gonna attack me for not having my movie played on Cuban state television?
You have to choose one, it can't be both.
And since the facts show that the movie played on state TV and in theaters, I think you're better off attacking me for having my films played in Cuba.
¡Viva WikiLeaks!
The New Face Of Kiwanis
I've been a member of our local Kiwanis Club going on 10 years now.
Back in those days, we were a mostly male group, to put it kindly, that was "aging out." Most members were long-time Kiwanians in their early-to-mid 80s, retired of course and mostly veterans of WW II, who spent a good portion of the meeting time talking about their bowel movements, or lack thereof.
The current Club President is a packet of dynamite named Sam, who just turned 30. So far, since Oct. 1, our Club has added more than 34 new members, all of them men and women in their 20s and 30s who gravitate to him as though he has the Key To Perpetual Happiness -- which he does, in a way.
Sam puts them to work volunteering for one or more of our many service projects. He knows the secret: ignite youthful passion, idealism and energy, then allow them to make something Very Meaningful happen.
I'll tell you about just one project, which takes place each Thursday and Friday.
On Thursdays, Sam & Co. buy non-perishable food in bulk from the Harry Chapin Food Bank which then gets repackaged and inserted into the back packs in enough quantities to feed a family of four for three days.
On Fridays, Sam and the gang distribute 500 back packs to school-age kids whose families can't afford to feed them adequately.
Sam & Co. got some ink in the local newspaper a few weeks back, which triggered a miracle: several retired doctors showed up and threw their combined weight (and philanthropic spirit) into helping the kids buy and then sort the food.
The intergenerational chemistry between the kids and the docs was, and still is, beautiful to behold!
Sam then got a "heads-up" from another of our younger members, Hannah, about an orphanage in Haiti that was just about to enter Dire Straits. Seems as though a cholera epidemic was set to overrun the place.
Sam & Co. redirected their energy into procuring more than 300 pounds of over-the-counter medicines for the Haitian kids and also got their hands on 1,000 doses of Cipro, a tablet manufactured by Pfizer that works wonders in stanching cholera and other life-threatening diseases.
They flew to Haiti in early January to hand-delivered the meds, and while there, they witnessed a mother in the act of abandoning her infant daughter right at the orphanage's main gate.
In less time than you can say "Kiwanis," Sam & Hannah got the orphanage to accept the infant by agreeing to financially subsidize the little girl for as long as she receives care there. Our Kiwanis Club is now the proud collective parent of little "Sarah" and, believe me, she will be treasured as she grows from a shattered infancy to healthy, safe and secure adulthood.
Sam and Hannah are the New Face of Kiwanis. So are Billy, Mike, Peter, Ned, Neal, Nick and the rest of the new Kiwanis crew.
Speaking for the Old Timers, we couldn't be more proud!
For a newspaper's account of Sam and Hannah in Haiti, click here:
Back in those days, we were a mostly male group, to put it kindly, that was "aging out." Most members were long-time Kiwanians in their early-to-mid 80s, retired of course and mostly veterans of WW II, who spent a good portion of the meeting time talking about their bowel movements, or lack thereof.
The current Club President is a packet of dynamite named Sam, who just turned 30. So far, since Oct. 1, our Club has added more than 34 new members, all of them men and women in their 20s and 30s who gravitate to him as though he has the Key To Perpetual Happiness -- which he does, in a way.
Sam puts them to work volunteering for one or more of our many service projects. He knows the secret: ignite youthful passion, idealism and energy, then allow them to make something Very Meaningful happen.
I'll tell you about just one project, which takes place each Thursday and Friday.
On Thursdays, Sam & Co. buy non-perishable food in bulk from the Harry Chapin Food Bank which then gets repackaged and inserted into the back packs in enough quantities to feed a family of four for three days.
On Fridays, Sam and the gang distribute 500 back packs to school-age kids whose families can't afford to feed them adequately.
Sam & Co. got some ink in the local newspaper a few weeks back, which triggered a miracle: several retired doctors showed up and threw their combined weight (and philanthropic spirit) into helping the kids buy and then sort the food.
The intergenerational chemistry between the kids and the docs was, and still is, beautiful to behold!
Sam then got a "heads-up" from another of our younger members, Hannah, about an orphanage in Haiti that was just about to enter Dire Straits. Seems as though a cholera epidemic was set to overrun the place.
Sam & Co. redirected their energy into procuring more than 300 pounds of over-the-counter medicines for the Haitian kids and also got their hands on 1,000 doses of Cipro, a tablet manufactured by Pfizer that works wonders in stanching cholera and other life-threatening diseases.
They flew to Haiti in early January to hand-delivered the meds, and while there, they witnessed a mother in the act of abandoning her infant daughter right at the orphanage's main gate.
In less time than you can say "Kiwanis," Sam & Hannah got the orphanage to accept the infant by agreeing to financially subsidize the little girl for as long as she receives care there. Our Kiwanis Club is now the proud collective parent of little "Sarah" and, believe me, she will be treasured as she grows from a shattered infancy to healthy, safe and secure adulthood.
Sam and Hannah are the New Face of Kiwanis. So are Billy, Mike, Peter, Ned, Neal, Nick and the rest of the new Kiwanis crew.
Speaking for the Old Timers, we couldn't be more proud!
For a newspaper's account of Sam and Hannah in Haiti, click here:
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Saturday Smorgasbord
Here are some odds-and-ends to end the week...
Seems Congress restored the Bush-GOP Era Tax Cuts, not the Obama-Dem Tax Cut Package. The rates were higher in the Bush/GOP package, meaning everyone on the lower end of the pay scale had more money taken out of their first check of the year.
Guess what? If you earn more than $100gs, you actually got more money in net pay! Try explaining that one to your administrative assistant.
Says it's un-American, will kill businesses, yada-yada-yada. Wants to go back to the Good Old Days of Yesteryear when the Insurance companies would drop you if you came down with an illness that actually costs money to treat.
Problem is: more than 50 % of his constituents either don't have health insurance, or else they don't have adequate coverage.
I learned all about this because he mailed everyone in the district two flyers, using his Franking Privilege -- that's when a Congressman or Senator can send you mail without postage by just applying a signature to the envelope.
Problem is: sending a district-wide double mailing has cost we taxpayers in excess of $1.5 million.
I think that kind of money would be better-spent on quality health care.
Nice to know that one of Earth's most-prestigious institutions of high learning has taken a hard look at how states can cope during a down economy.
So: what does Yale recommend?
(Again, for the record, this is third-hand info -- but it's worth sharing, anyway.)
Change federal law to allow those states which cannot balance their budgets to declare bankruptcy.
By declaring insolvency, states can then get out from under their pension fund obligations!
If federal law permits states to declare bankruptcy, then the states can then change their own laws and permit cities and towns swimming in debt to follow suit.
Did you spend you career working for state government? Did you retire from a police force, or a fire department? Did you inspire students as a public school teacher? Do you get a state, or municipal pension?
If you do, or if you are planning on getting one in the future, I'd be very, very afraid.
"Sam The Cat" will get out of his civic duty because the owner checked off an excuse box that claims he doesn't speak, nor does he understand, the English Language.
Hey, on second thought, neither do mine!
- Anyone else notice that their paychecks were a bit "lighter" on the net income side?
Seems Congress restored the Bush-GOP Era Tax Cuts, not the Obama-Dem Tax Cut Package. The rates were higher in the Bush/GOP package, meaning everyone on the lower end of the pay scale had more money taken out of their first check of the year.
Guess what? If you earn more than $100gs, you actually got more money in net pay! Try explaining that one to your administrative assistant.
- My man in Congress is sponsoring a bill to kill Obama Care.
Says it's un-American, will kill businesses, yada-yada-yada. Wants to go back to the Good Old Days of Yesteryear when the Insurance companies would drop you if you came down with an illness that actually costs money to treat.
Problem is: more than 50 % of his constituents either don't have health insurance, or else they don't have adequate coverage.
I learned all about this because he mailed everyone in the district two flyers, using his Franking Privilege -- that's when a Congressman or Senator can send you mail without postage by just applying a signature to the envelope.
Problem is: sending a district-wide double mailing has cost we taxpayers in excess of $1.5 million.
I think that kind of money would be better-spent on quality health care.
- I heard off-hand that a Yale study recommends ways for states to get out of their Red-Ink Zones.
Nice to know that one of Earth's most-prestigious institutions of high learning has taken a hard look at how states can cope during a down economy.
So: what does Yale recommend?
(Again, for the record, this is third-hand info -- but it's worth sharing, anyway.)
Change federal law to allow those states which cannot balance their budgets to declare bankruptcy.
By declaring insolvency, states can then get out from under their pension fund obligations!
If federal law permits states to declare bankruptcy, then the states can then change their own laws and permit cities and towns swimming in debt to follow suit.
Did you spend you career working for state government? Did you retire from a police force, or a fire department? Did you inspire students as a public school teacher? Do you get a state, or municipal pension?
If you do, or if you are planning on getting one in the future, I'd be very, very afraid.
- Finally, how about that cat up in the Boston area that received a summons for jury duty?
"Sam The Cat" will get out of his civic duty because the owner checked off an excuse box that claims he doesn't speak, nor does he understand, the English Language.
Hey, on second thought, neither do mine!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Shoot-Out At The Strip Club
A couple of guys who couldn't get past the bouncers at an Exotic Dance Club the other night down in Florida, at a place called "Lookers", took out their anger on two other guys walking through the parking lot.
They shot them dead.
News account contained this statement (and I'll paraphrase it) from the establishment's owner: as a matter of business practice, and when gunshots are squeezed off inside or nearby, Lookers locks down the customers until the cops arrive. (Note to HR and Work Place Safety pros: talk about this quaint little policy practice at your next seminar.)
There have been several shoot-outs at Lookers' property over the years, some resulting in death and some not. When you add guns, a titty bar, booze and hyperactive testosterone together, crap like this can and does happen.
Here's the point: a state senator from Sanford, FL has intro'd legislation in the Florida State House that would allow anyone with a weapons permit to openly carry a firearm in any public facility.
One particularly onerous aspect of this bill -- which the governor said he'd sign if it passes -- is that any doctor who even attempts to discuss the matter of firearms ownership with patients would be subject to five years' imprisonment and a $5 million fine.
This bill, of course, has the complete support of the National Rifle Association (NRA).
You know the drill: law-abiding citizens have a 2nd Amendment Right to carry firearms etc. etc. etc. The provision would deter criminal acts etc. etc. etc.
Here's another way to look at this bill: by law, any establishment that sells alcoholic beverages must have a state-issued license to do so -- making that establishment, by definition, a "public facility" through accommodation. If this bill gets signed into law, anyone with a pistol permit would be guaranteed entry to any bar or restaurant in Florida.
Virtually all businesses must have a government-issued permit or certificate to operate -- making them, by definition "public facilities." If you owned a business and tried to keep a costumer away from your door if he was "packing a sidearm", guess who would get busted if this matter becomes law.
I could even make a case that "packing" would be legally unstoppable even if an establishment doesn't have a government-issued permit to conduct operations, such as a Church, or it has a special operating permit, such as a Hospital.
Both are, by tradition, function and customary utilization, places of "public accommodation."
Then, and finally, there are the theme parks up in the Orlando area -- facilities open to the public through accommodation if there ever were any.
Can you just imagine the annual NRA Convention being held at Disney World? At least Micky, Minnie, Goofy and Donald could feel right-at-home with their "concealed" weapons.
But let's go back to Lookers.
If the bill becomes law, look for the pole dancers to thrill the boys with nice, little, pearl-handled .32 calibre numbers holstered high on the thigh.
They shot them dead.
News account contained this statement (and I'll paraphrase it) from the establishment's owner: as a matter of business practice, and when gunshots are squeezed off inside or nearby, Lookers locks down the customers until the cops arrive. (Note to HR and Work Place Safety pros: talk about this quaint little policy practice at your next seminar.)
There have been several shoot-outs at Lookers' property over the years, some resulting in death and some not. When you add guns, a titty bar, booze and hyperactive testosterone together, crap like this can and does happen.
Here's the point: a state senator from Sanford, FL has intro'd legislation in the Florida State House that would allow anyone with a weapons permit to openly carry a firearm in any public facility.
One particularly onerous aspect of this bill -- which the governor said he'd sign if it passes -- is that any doctor who even attempts to discuss the matter of firearms ownership with patients would be subject to five years' imprisonment and a $5 million fine.
This bill, of course, has the complete support of the National Rifle Association (NRA).
You know the drill: law-abiding citizens have a 2nd Amendment Right to carry firearms etc. etc. etc. The provision would deter criminal acts etc. etc. etc.
Here's another way to look at this bill: by law, any establishment that sells alcoholic beverages must have a state-issued license to do so -- making that establishment, by definition, a "public facility" through accommodation. If this bill gets signed into law, anyone with a pistol permit would be guaranteed entry to any bar or restaurant in Florida.
Virtually all businesses must have a government-issued permit or certificate to operate -- making them, by definition "public facilities." If you owned a business and tried to keep a costumer away from your door if he was "packing a sidearm", guess who would get busted if this matter becomes law.
I could even make a case that "packing" would be legally unstoppable even if an establishment doesn't have a government-issued permit to conduct operations, such as a Church, or it has a special operating permit, such as a Hospital.
Both are, by tradition, function and customary utilization, places of "public accommodation."
Then, and finally, there are the theme parks up in the Orlando area -- facilities open to the public through accommodation if there ever were any.
Can you just imagine the annual NRA Convention being held at Disney World? At least Micky, Minnie, Goofy and Donald could feel right-at-home with their "concealed" weapons.
But let's go back to Lookers.
If the bill becomes law, look for the pole dancers to thrill the boys with nice, little, pearl-handled .32 calibre numbers holstered high on the thigh.
Of Penguins, Ducks & Sarah Palin
I mentioned in a previous post that I'd take a stab at knitting Sarah Palin, penguins and ducks together into a "Shaggy Dog", which is an Art Form of Humor celebrating the corny joke.
I came up with this one last night after a couple of plates of Pasta Bolognaise and a few Ship Yard brewskis.
Here 'tis...
A duck and a penguin were waddling through the Alaskan tundra, and as they got close to a bay on the Arctic Coastline, they heard all hell breaking out.
So they hurried it up to check out what was going on. To their utter amazement, they came across huge grizzly bear wrestling out on a sand bar with Sarah Palin.
The match was a deadlock! Every time the grizzly seemed to have gotten the upper hand, Sarah would execute an escape. Evert time Sarah got the grizzly into a Head Lock, the bear would execute a Slip Move.
The combatants were rolling around in the sand when, in a flash, Palin pulled off an amazing Spin Reversal. This move got her right behind the grizzly, enabling her to apply a Full Nelson on the bear.
From this point of advantage, Palin hoisted the bear over her head and slammed him down right across her knee in a classic Back Breaker, stunning the grizzly. Finally, Palin finished him off with a Pile Driver, leaving the great bear stretched flat on the sand bar, out-cold with his tongue dangling from his mouth by a foot-and-a-half.
After raising both arms sky-high in triumph, Palin dusted herself off, strolled over to her canoe, grabbed her paddle, and headed out across the bay.
So the duck and the penguin swam to the sand bar, and just as they got there, the grizzly came to.
"You ought to be ashamed at yourself!," the penguin taunted.
The duck chimed in: " I never would have expected that you, of all animals, would take a Smack Down like that!"
The bear sat up and shook his head to clear away the cob webs.
"I guess it's just the way I was brought up," he struggled to explain.
"I always have a tough time with the women-folk because I don't know how or where to grab them. Besides which, she was wearing eyeglasses."
Exeunt...
I know, I know: penguins live down by the South Pole.
But that's fodder for another Shaggy Dog...
I came up with this one last night after a couple of plates of Pasta Bolognaise and a few Ship Yard brewskis.
Here 'tis...
A duck and a penguin were waddling through the Alaskan tundra, and as they got close to a bay on the Arctic Coastline, they heard all hell breaking out.
So they hurried it up to check out what was going on. To their utter amazement, they came across huge grizzly bear wrestling out on a sand bar with Sarah Palin.
The match was a deadlock! Every time the grizzly seemed to have gotten the upper hand, Sarah would execute an escape. Evert time Sarah got the grizzly into a Head Lock, the bear would execute a Slip Move.
The combatants were rolling around in the sand when, in a flash, Palin pulled off an amazing Spin Reversal. This move got her right behind the grizzly, enabling her to apply a Full Nelson on the bear.
From this point of advantage, Palin hoisted the bear over her head and slammed him down right across her knee in a classic Back Breaker, stunning the grizzly. Finally, Palin finished him off with a Pile Driver, leaving the great bear stretched flat on the sand bar, out-cold with his tongue dangling from his mouth by a foot-and-a-half.
After raising both arms sky-high in triumph, Palin dusted herself off, strolled over to her canoe, grabbed her paddle, and headed out across the bay.
So the duck and the penguin swam to the sand bar, and just as they got there, the grizzly came to.
"You ought to be ashamed at yourself!," the penguin taunted.
The duck chimed in: " I never would have expected that you, of all animals, would take a Smack Down like that!"
The bear sat up and shook his head to clear away the cob webs.
"I guess it's just the way I was brought up," he struggled to explain.
"I always have a tough time with the women-folk because I don't know how or where to grab them. Besides which, she was wearing eyeglasses."
Exeunt...
I know, I know: penguins live down by the South Pole.
But that's fodder for another Shaggy Dog...
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The US's Most Dysfunctional State
Ah, Florida. Alas, I must weep for you.
California is a proverbial Plato's Republic by comparison.
Consider some facts:
Florida ranks 48th of the 50 states regarding the amount of tax dollars spent on public education. Most of the county-run public school systems have gutted their arts curricula; physical education has suffered the same fate. School district administrators have even gone so far as to cut back dollar that used to be spent on history, geography and other elements of social studies.
Math scores are slightly up -- but the test results, when compared against math and science learning in other states (except Alabama and Mississippi), lag far behind.
Student competence in the English language? Forget about it.
Quiz time.
Who would you guess the politicians blame for this mess?
Why, of course, they blame the teachers! While you digest that one, keep in-mind that science teachers in Florida, under state law, must give equal weight to Creationism when they introduce the Theory of Evolution to their students in the classroom.
Let's move on...
You may want to book your next mid-winter vacation somewhere else next year if a bill, presently before the Florida State Legislature, passes both chambers -- and the governor has pledged to sign it.
The bill would allow anyone in Florida with a weapons permit to openly display their weapons in any public forum and it would also provide for the imprisonment and/.or fining of doctors up to $5,000,000.00 for even discussing the issue of handgun ownership and possession with their patients!
If I've reckoned this one correctly, and if the bill becomes state law, you'd better think twice about contesting somebody for a parking space at a Florida beach, especially when visiting the Red Neck Riviera. Better make that one a double if the person packing a weapon has just left his shrink's office.
This bill, of course, bears the imprimateur of the National Rifle Association. Its sponsor, a state senator from the town of Sanford (the home of Stetson University -- how ironic) claims it will actually cut down on crimes of violence.
You know the drill: "packing" will deter criminals, etc. etc. and besides, a handgun never hurt anybody in and of itself.
Well, now.
I know about 50 women who "openly display" gaudy, bangled earrings when they venture out in public. But let me reassure you that those bangles have absolutely no capacity -- even at an overcrowded beach -- to cause serious injury or death to anyone.
Finally, there's a matter in one Florida city where the Mayor wants to display the Ten Commandments in a municipal building. He envisions a taxpayer-funded, marble sculpture of the Commandments as a form of welcome to anyone entering City Hall.
Here are his pair of reasons for posting them publicly: We have turned into a God-less Society; and posting the Laws of God in City Hall would encourage businesses to relocate in his town.
Where does one even attempt to start in ripping this one apart?
Well, how about here: deposit the money being set aside for the Ten Commandments Sculpture into the School District Account and resurrect some Civics/History Classes.
Otherwise, situate the Ten Commandments block of marble inside the City Council Chambers so that government critics will have something to hide behind when the shooting starts.
California is a proverbial Plato's Republic by comparison.
Consider some facts:
Florida ranks 48th of the 50 states regarding the amount of tax dollars spent on public education. Most of the county-run public school systems have gutted their arts curricula; physical education has suffered the same fate. School district administrators have even gone so far as to cut back dollar that used to be spent on history, geography and other elements of social studies.
Math scores are slightly up -- but the test results, when compared against math and science learning in other states (except Alabama and Mississippi), lag far behind.
Student competence in the English language? Forget about it.
Quiz time.
Who would you guess the politicians blame for this mess?
Why, of course, they blame the teachers! While you digest that one, keep in-mind that science teachers in Florida, under state law, must give equal weight to Creationism when they introduce the Theory of Evolution to their students in the classroom.
Let's move on...
You may want to book your next mid-winter vacation somewhere else next year if a bill, presently before the Florida State Legislature, passes both chambers -- and the governor has pledged to sign it.
The bill would allow anyone in Florida with a weapons permit to openly display their weapons in any public forum and it would also provide for the imprisonment and/.or fining of doctors up to $5,000,000.00 for even discussing the issue of handgun ownership and possession with their patients!
If I've reckoned this one correctly, and if the bill becomes state law, you'd better think twice about contesting somebody for a parking space at a Florida beach, especially when visiting the Red Neck Riviera. Better make that one a double if the person packing a weapon has just left his shrink's office.
This bill, of course, bears the imprimateur of the National Rifle Association. Its sponsor, a state senator from the town of Sanford (the home of Stetson University -- how ironic) claims it will actually cut down on crimes of violence.
You know the drill: "packing" will deter criminals, etc. etc. and besides, a handgun never hurt anybody in and of itself.
Well, now.
I know about 50 women who "openly display" gaudy, bangled earrings when they venture out in public. But let me reassure you that those bangles have absolutely no capacity -- even at an overcrowded beach -- to cause serious injury or death to anyone.
Finally, there's a matter in one Florida city where the Mayor wants to display the Ten Commandments in a municipal building. He envisions a taxpayer-funded, marble sculpture of the Commandments as a form of welcome to anyone entering City Hall.
Here are his pair of reasons for posting them publicly: We have turned into a God-less Society; and posting the Laws of God in City Hall would encourage businesses to relocate in his town.
Where does one even attempt to start in ripping this one apart?
Well, how about here: deposit the money being set aside for the Ten Commandments Sculpture into the School District Account and resurrect some Civics/History Classes.
Otherwise, situate the Ten Commandments block of marble inside the City Council Chambers so that government critics will have something to hide behind when the shooting starts.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Gentile In A Hebrew National World
We drove over to the local grocery the other day and my wife found packages of Hebrew National hot dogs on sale -- buy one, get one free.
The weekend TV schedule featured wall-to-wall football, so we figured hot dogs would be a nice treat while we watched the games on the Tube, accompanied by the usual suspects: beans, potato salad, cole slaw and pickles.
I'm not sure whether or not we violated Kosher Tradition by mixing the hotties with all of the other goodies, but it doesn't matter because we're not Jewish. We're just into it for the taste.
I enjoy Hebrew National hotties for this reason: Rabbis keep watch over the production process. They have to answer to a Higher Authority than the USDA. Although they're a bit saltier to my tastes than, say, Boar's Head hotties, I just feel more reassured when a rabbi gives his blessing.
(Note to the Religious Sensitives: if Hindu sacred scripture prescribed methods of preparation for hot dogs -- or for any other form of food for that matter -- I'd be cool with the oversite of a Hindu swami.)
Another reason I like Hebrew National hot dogs is that the purchase can be reduced to simple mathematics. A package contains exactly eight hot dogs, an integer that matches the number of rolls you can buy in one package. Other brand names package five dogs (Johnsonville) or ten (Ball Park Franks), numbers that never even out with the eight-roll purchase.
Maybe there ought to be a law...
Anyway, an hour before the Green Bay-Atlanta game on Saturday night, the time had arrived to cook 'em. Problem was, the dogs came vacuum-sealed in a plastic substance that, I think, the Navy may use on nuclear subs to deaden sonar pings.
The package had a pull tab printed up there in the top left corner that read "E-Z Open" but, you'll have to trust me on this, it was sealed tighter than a sea clam's sphincter. So I fought to open it for a few minutes until I gave up, walked out into the garage, and employed my trusty X-acto knife to finish the job.
Not being Jewish, I have to ask Hebrew National a couple of questions:
POSTSCRIPT: Everything tasted great!
The weekend TV schedule featured wall-to-wall football, so we figured hot dogs would be a nice treat while we watched the games on the Tube, accompanied by the usual suspects: beans, potato salad, cole slaw and pickles.
I'm not sure whether or not we violated Kosher Tradition by mixing the hotties with all of the other goodies, but it doesn't matter because we're not Jewish. We're just into it for the taste.
I enjoy Hebrew National hotties for this reason: Rabbis keep watch over the production process. They have to answer to a Higher Authority than the USDA. Although they're a bit saltier to my tastes than, say, Boar's Head hotties, I just feel more reassured when a rabbi gives his blessing.
(Note to the Religious Sensitives: if Hindu sacred scripture prescribed methods of preparation for hot dogs -- or for any other form of food for that matter -- I'd be cool with the oversite of a Hindu swami.)
Another reason I like Hebrew National hot dogs is that the purchase can be reduced to simple mathematics. A package contains exactly eight hot dogs, an integer that matches the number of rolls you can buy in one package. Other brand names package five dogs (Johnsonville) or ten (Ball Park Franks), numbers that never even out with the eight-roll purchase.
Maybe there ought to be a law...
Anyway, an hour before the Green Bay-Atlanta game on Saturday night, the time had arrived to cook 'em. Problem was, the dogs came vacuum-sealed in a plastic substance that, I think, the Navy may use on nuclear subs to deaden sonar pings.
The package had a pull tab printed up there in the top left corner that read "E-Z Open" but, you'll have to trust me on this, it was sealed tighter than a sea clam's sphincter. So I fought to open it for a few minutes until I gave up, walked out into the garage, and employed my trusty X-acto knife to finish the job.
Not being Jewish, I have to ask Hebrew National a couple of questions:
- Do I have to learn a prayer, or other form of "secret handshake," or something else in order to get the packet open?
- Do I have to convert?
Maybe rabbis should oversee the packaging process...
POSTSCRIPT: Everything tasted great!
Friday, January 14, 2011
In Praise of Fine Beer
While surfing the Internet recently, I discovered some info that made my heart thump with joy.
In five simple, one-syllable words, here's the gist of it:
Beer Is Good For You!
I suspected as much all along, mainly because I enjoy drinking beer. It's been that way since high school, through college, after-hours socializing, and after I finish up with lawn chores on a hot day.
My wife, who happens to be an inveterate wine sipper, enjoys a nice, cold one after a few hours of weeding through the flower beds. Even my oncologist, Dr. Mike, grudgingly agrees that drinking beer -- as he likes to put it "in moderation" -- has some medicinal benefit although he is partial to Merlot and Shiraz (what else would you expect from a guy who tools around town in a high-end Porche.)
Back in time, and I'm talking about the late 1960s here, choices were pretty much limited to national brands like Budweiser, Miller High Life, Schlitz, and Pabst Blue Ribbon. We also threw down a few cases of Narraganset Lager Beer, a regional favorite brewed in Cranston, RI and which was poured at Red Sox games in Fenway Park.
If we were really, really desperate (read: nearly-broke) we resorted to drinking Ballantine Ale, Rhinegold, Genesee Cream Ale, Blatz, or Carling Black Label, a coven of truly skunky brews that sold for about a buck a six-pack below the national brands.
Finally, there was (and still is) Iron City Beer. It's no wonder everyone I know that hails from Pittsburgh is so tough. You had to be tough to drink that stuff.
Fast-forwarding to present times, I find myself in Beer Drinker's Heaven. I think the Genesis can be traced to a few years ago when InBev, the Belgian/Brazilian conglomerate, bought Anheuser-Busch. the makers of Bud. InBev began introducing a whole new range of beer/ale products such as Shock-Top and a slew of new tastes from Michelob, to the American market.
To remain competitive, Coors brought out their excellent Blue Moon line of beer and dropped the price per six-pack on another fine brew, Killian's Irish Red.
The new and refreshing concept of "different tastes for different folks" ignited a profound interest in micro-brews such as Shipyard Lager (from Portland, Maine) and a handful of regional treasures like Long Trail Ale, Otter Creek ale and Magic Hat IPA (from Vermont) and Anchor Steam (from San Francisco). Sam Adams' line is also very tasty even though they brew most of it in Pennsylvania.
One certainly pays a bit more for these brands, but the added cost is well worth the high-quality and fine taste these beers deliver. Besides which, supporting microbrews and regional beers sustains several local economies, plus it supports companies that pay their brewing folks family-supporting wages.
Put simply, old -fashioned competition between the brewmeisters has presented me with a delightful dilemma as I wind my way down the cooler aisle in the grocers'.
Will it be Long Trail, Sam Adams, Magic Hat, or Shipyard?
For the time being, I'll hang in there with Shipyard. Next month, maybe Long Trail.
Yes, indeed, beer is good!
In five simple, one-syllable words, here's the gist of it:
Beer Is Good For You!
I suspected as much all along, mainly because I enjoy drinking beer. It's been that way since high school, through college, after-hours socializing, and after I finish up with lawn chores on a hot day.
My wife, who happens to be an inveterate wine sipper, enjoys a nice, cold one after a few hours of weeding through the flower beds. Even my oncologist, Dr. Mike, grudgingly agrees that drinking beer -- as he likes to put it "in moderation" -- has some medicinal benefit although he is partial to Merlot and Shiraz (what else would you expect from a guy who tools around town in a high-end Porche.)
Back in time, and I'm talking about the late 1960s here, choices were pretty much limited to national brands like Budweiser, Miller High Life, Schlitz, and Pabst Blue Ribbon. We also threw down a few cases of Narraganset Lager Beer, a regional favorite brewed in Cranston, RI and which was poured at Red Sox games in Fenway Park.
If we were really, really desperate (read: nearly-broke) we resorted to drinking Ballantine Ale, Rhinegold, Genesee Cream Ale, Blatz, or Carling Black Label, a coven of truly skunky brews that sold for about a buck a six-pack below the national brands.
Finally, there was (and still is) Iron City Beer. It's no wonder everyone I know that hails from Pittsburgh is so tough. You had to be tough to drink that stuff.
Fast-forwarding to present times, I find myself in Beer Drinker's Heaven. I think the Genesis can be traced to a few years ago when InBev, the Belgian/Brazilian conglomerate, bought Anheuser-Busch. the makers of Bud. InBev began introducing a whole new range of beer/ale products such as Shock-Top and a slew of new tastes from Michelob, to the American market.
To remain competitive, Coors brought out their excellent Blue Moon line of beer and dropped the price per six-pack on another fine brew, Killian's Irish Red.
The new and refreshing concept of "different tastes for different folks" ignited a profound interest in micro-brews such as Shipyard Lager (from Portland, Maine) and a handful of regional treasures like Long Trail Ale, Otter Creek ale and Magic Hat IPA (from Vermont) and Anchor Steam (from San Francisco). Sam Adams' line is also very tasty even though they brew most of it in Pennsylvania.
One certainly pays a bit more for these brands, but the added cost is well worth the high-quality and fine taste these beers deliver. Besides which, supporting microbrews and regional beers sustains several local economies, plus it supports companies that pay their brewing folks family-supporting wages.
Put simply, old -fashioned competition between the brewmeisters has presented me with a delightful dilemma as I wind my way down the cooler aisle in the grocers'.
Will it be Long Trail, Sam Adams, Magic Hat, or Shipyard?
For the time being, I'll hang in there with Shipyard. Next month, maybe Long Trail.
Yes, indeed, beer is good!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Notes From The Cancer Wars
Whoever crafted the phrase "Time Means Money" ought to be horse-whipped in public -- metaphorically speaking, of course.
I was thinking about how B-S that phrase is the other day while I sat in my oncologist's office awaiting the latest update on my battle with non-hotchkins lymphoma.
I like to schedule myself first in line to see Dr. Mike when he conducts office hours because I know, from experience, that he likes to spend alot of time with his patients. It's not unusual for him to sit with a very sick, terrified soul for over an hour, as his medical skill and bed-side manners might require.
Believe me, he sees alot of them in the course of a week.
Book a mid-afternoon appointment with him and, good luck if you get to leave his office before 6 PM.
Anyway, on the occasion of this 8 AM visit, my time with Dr. Mike lasted a little under thirty minutes. Yes, he explained, the short-term and intermediate prognoses look good. Yes, he agreed, the first rounds of chemo flattened my blood counts and they might have compromised my endocrinology.
He insisted, that I maintain a diet consisting of tons of high in Iron veggies such as Brussels sprouts and broccoli in order to improve my blood counts -- despite the fact that my platelets, white cells and red cell counts have been trending flat for months now.
Patience, he preached: beating NHL takes time.
Chronic fatigue is a common side-effect when most people undergo chemotherapy. Yes, he granted, it will take me much longer to whip common cold symptoms; and if at all possible, avoid getting cuts -- even when shaving -- as they will take much longer to clot.
Take naps when you feel the need. Get rid of as much stress as you can in your life.
Try to exercise more. Try some home-made chicken soup.
Medicine knows how to keep it under control so long as the patient doesn't quit on the protocols.
Even though progress is slow, the good news, he said, is that I can continue to brag about having the cleanest colon in town.
So we spent a few more minutes chatting while he updated my chart on his laptop computer. He recommends one more round of treatment with Rituxan -- a concoction of titrated and synthesized rat spleen, and I do not make this up -- to keep the NHL in check.
According to Dr. Mike, here's how Rituxan works: it "marks" cancerous lymphatic cells floating around in the lymph system and in bone marrow and then targets them for destruction by the body's natural immunity mechanisms.
"It's a bit like spray-painting a handful of terrorists, mingled among thousands of commuters in Grand Central Station, with day-glo orange so that the cops can take them out," Dr. Mike said.
Yes, indeed.
I'll let Dr. Mike and his wonderful nurses drip Rituxan into my veins for as long as it takes to help me stay alive.
I like money. But time has ceased to be a "commodity" carrying a price tag.
I was thinking about how B-S that phrase is the other day while I sat in my oncologist's office awaiting the latest update on my battle with non-hotchkins lymphoma.
I like to schedule myself first in line to see Dr. Mike when he conducts office hours because I know, from experience, that he likes to spend alot of time with his patients. It's not unusual for him to sit with a very sick, terrified soul for over an hour, as his medical skill and bed-side manners might require.
Believe me, he sees alot of them in the course of a week.
Book a mid-afternoon appointment with him and, good luck if you get to leave his office before 6 PM.
Anyway, on the occasion of this 8 AM visit, my time with Dr. Mike lasted a little under thirty minutes. Yes, he explained, the short-term and intermediate prognoses look good. Yes, he agreed, the first rounds of chemo flattened my blood counts and they might have compromised my endocrinology.
He insisted, that I maintain a diet consisting of tons of high in Iron veggies such as Brussels sprouts and broccoli in order to improve my blood counts -- despite the fact that my platelets, white cells and red cell counts have been trending flat for months now.
Patience, he preached: beating NHL takes time.
Chronic fatigue is a common side-effect when most people undergo chemotherapy. Yes, he granted, it will take me much longer to whip common cold symptoms; and if at all possible, avoid getting cuts -- even when shaving -- as they will take much longer to clot.
Take naps when you feel the need. Get rid of as much stress as you can in your life.
Try to exercise more. Try some home-made chicken soup.
Medicine knows how to keep it under control so long as the patient doesn't quit on the protocols.
Even though progress is slow, the good news, he said, is that I can continue to brag about having the cleanest colon in town.
So we spent a few more minutes chatting while he updated my chart on his laptop computer. He recommends one more round of treatment with Rituxan -- a concoction of titrated and synthesized rat spleen, and I do not make this up -- to keep the NHL in check.
According to Dr. Mike, here's how Rituxan works: it "marks" cancerous lymphatic cells floating around in the lymph system and in bone marrow and then targets them for destruction by the body's natural immunity mechanisms.
"It's a bit like spray-painting a handful of terrorists, mingled among thousands of commuters in Grand Central Station, with day-glo orange so that the cops can take them out," Dr. Mike said.
Yes, indeed.
I'll let Dr. Mike and his wonderful nurses drip Rituxan into my veins for as long as it takes to help me stay alive.
I like money. But time has ceased to be a "commodity" carrying a price tag.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Gun Slinging Savage of Arizona
Before we all saddle up, form an opinion posse, and ride off blaming Rush Limbaugh, Sarah Palin, and Hannity et.al. for provoking the senseless shooting last Saturday of a United States Congresswoman, a United States Magistrate, a nine-year old girl, and 15 others near the front door of a Safe Way grocery market in Tuscon, let's stroll over to the saloon, throw down a couple of belts of Rot Gut, and cipher this one out.
This much appears to be reckoned: the shooter is a sociopath, certifiable wacko. He dropped out of high school and has been ranting and raging about his being a victim of every imaginable kind of authority ever since.
Did he have any friends? Apparently, he had just one -- and they sat around watching conspiracy theory movies together.
Did he have a girl friend? Nope.
I feel some empathy for the father and the mother, but from what I'm reading and hearing vis a vis the news, the parents were permissive molly-coddlers who enabled all of his tantrums and whims.
I don't know which photo you may have seen of him in your newspaper, but the one I saw in my paper depicted a very conflicted and extremely angry young man.
His eyes give him away.
A pattern seems to be emerging here, one that places Mr. Loughner in company with the likes of the Texas Tower Sniper, the Beltway Murderers, and the Virginia Tech Shooter -- and many other psychopaths who, over the years, have resorted to a firearm in order to satisfy their inner demon.
That a Congresswoman was one of his victims may be completely accidental to his act of rage. For all I know, he would have started blasting away at parents trying to register their kids for Little League.
We'll all get to know more and more about Jared Loughner in the coming days. I, for one, won't be too terribly surprised to learn that he likes Metal Head Music, the dark side of Hip Hop, Mayhem Movies, and that he gravitated to neo-Nazi web sites before his senseless act of savagery last Saturday.
Can there ever be a better case to be made, to include mental health care in national health care reform?
Just one more point, if I may: did anyone else notice that most of his victims were women?
This much appears to be reckoned: the shooter is a sociopath, certifiable wacko. He dropped out of high school and has been ranting and raging about his being a victim of every imaginable kind of authority ever since.
Did he have any friends? Apparently, he had just one -- and they sat around watching conspiracy theory movies together.
Did he have a girl friend? Nope.
I feel some empathy for the father and the mother, but from what I'm reading and hearing vis a vis the news, the parents were permissive molly-coddlers who enabled all of his tantrums and whims.
I don't know which photo you may have seen of him in your newspaper, but the one I saw in my paper depicted a very conflicted and extremely angry young man.
His eyes give him away.
A pattern seems to be emerging here, one that places Mr. Loughner in company with the likes of the Texas Tower Sniper, the Beltway Murderers, and the Virginia Tech Shooter -- and many other psychopaths who, over the years, have resorted to a firearm in order to satisfy their inner demon.
That a Congresswoman was one of his victims may be completely accidental to his act of rage. For all I know, he would have started blasting away at parents trying to register their kids for Little League.
We'll all get to know more and more about Jared Loughner in the coming days. I, for one, won't be too terribly surprised to learn that he likes Metal Head Music, the dark side of Hip Hop, Mayhem Movies, and that he gravitated to neo-Nazi web sites before his senseless act of savagery last Saturday.
Can there ever be a better case to be made, to include mental health care in national health care reform?
Just one more point, if I may: did anyone else notice that most of his victims were women?
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Health Care Debate Redux
I'm proud to say that I'm a Bobby Kennedy Democrat: socially Progressive; semi-Fiscally Conservative.
By that, I mean I'm all for investing the US Treasury in programs that improve the lives of people so long as we have the long-term capacity to support them.
Notice, please, that I choose to use the word "capacity" here instead of the word "ability." And therein lay the fuel for arguments between me and my Conservative friends (believe it or not I have several of them) concerning whether or not it is the proper role of government to get involved with matters such as health care reform.
Here are a few points regarding health care reform that we agree upon:
Regarding Point-Of-Contention (POC#1), most economists -- including those who work for the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office -- calculate that health care reform legislation, once it kicks in fully in 2014, will actually reduce the national debt by over $200 billion over 10 years.
Concerning POC#2, there are no such things as "Death Panels" established by health care reform. The term is a pure invention of lobbyists working with the insurance industry, one designed to scare the beejeezus out of us. The matter at-hand concerns a provision in health care reform that sets up a process whereby a patient can, at his or her option, issue an advance directive stipulating exactly what measures, and how much, may be employed by doctors and hospitals to keep a person alive. Most of us have an advance directive, so what's the Big Deal?
On POC#3, 'twas ever thus. The battle between the medical community and the legal profession regarding damage awards granted by the courts for medical malpractice have been raging for 30 years. I agree that any doctor who employs the full range of his or her competent, medical skill in order to make a patient well should not have to worry about being sued. Problem is, this debate, over medical malpractice, has been lumped into the much-wider debate over so-called "Tort Reform."
By the way, I can't find any fault with an attorney who uses all of his or her arts and skills in the courtroom to secure a hefty award on behalf of his injured client.
I don't mind that the Republicans now in control of the House of Representatives will want to re-visit health care reform sometime next week. Bring It On!
The debate ought to give President Obama and the Democrats the capacity to tell America just how important these reforms are, and how they will improve the lives of Americans over time.
By that, I mean I'm all for investing the US Treasury in programs that improve the lives of people so long as we have the long-term capacity to support them.
Notice, please, that I choose to use the word "capacity" here instead of the word "ability." And therein lay the fuel for arguments between me and my Conservative friends (believe it or not I have several of them) concerning whether or not it is the proper role of government to get involved with matters such as health care reform.
Here are a few points regarding health care reform that we agree upon:
- Medical care should be available to every American regardless of socio-economic status.
- Pre-existing conditions should be covered by insurance.
- There should never be monetary caps imposed by insurers on costs for treatment.
- We all like the fact that kids can now stay on their parents' policies until they turn 26.
- "Obama Care" will bankrupt the country.
- "Death Panels" will determine the ultimate fate of people with serious illness.
- Trial lawyers are ones responsible for skyrocketing health costs.
Regarding Point-Of-Contention (POC#1), most economists -- including those who work for the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office -- calculate that health care reform legislation, once it kicks in fully in 2014, will actually reduce the national debt by over $200 billion over 10 years.
Concerning POC#2, there are no such things as "Death Panels" established by health care reform. The term is a pure invention of lobbyists working with the insurance industry, one designed to scare the beejeezus out of us. The matter at-hand concerns a provision in health care reform that sets up a process whereby a patient can, at his or her option, issue an advance directive stipulating exactly what measures, and how much, may be employed by doctors and hospitals to keep a person alive. Most of us have an advance directive, so what's the Big Deal?
On POC#3, 'twas ever thus. The battle between the medical community and the legal profession regarding damage awards granted by the courts for medical malpractice have been raging for 30 years. I agree that any doctor who employs the full range of his or her competent, medical skill in order to make a patient well should not have to worry about being sued. Problem is, this debate, over medical malpractice, has been lumped into the much-wider debate over so-called "Tort Reform."
By the way, I can't find any fault with an attorney who uses all of his or her arts and skills in the courtroom to secure a hefty award on behalf of his injured client.
I don't mind that the Republicans now in control of the House of Representatives will want to re-visit health care reform sometime next week. Bring It On!
The debate ought to give President Obama and the Democrats the capacity to tell America just how important these reforms are, and how they will improve the lives of Americans over time.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Of Brass Monkeys & Shaggy Dogs
My friend Wally is heading up to Minneapolis for a few days -- good luck with the nine-degree weather, Wally.
Wally speaks with an endearing Norwegian clip to his voice, like the dialect you hear in the movie Fargo. He travels to Minnesota in the dead-of-winter for reasons fathomed by him and him only.
Perhaps he has an insatiable craving for lutefisk.
Anyway, Wally promises to deliver an up to the minute status report on the Brass Monkeys down there in the park by the Mississippi River.
His "report" is actually a long-standing joke that plays upon the ignorance of good folks who don't know anything about Brass Monkeys. These folks are thinking "chimps" while a few of us -- especially ex-Navy types -- know better.
Anyway, Wally'll let us all know when he gets back in-town whether or not the Brass Monkeys are still glued together.
While you're contemplating whether or not there is any relevant meaning to any of this, let me digress to the meat-and-potatoes of an old Shaggy Dog.
It's probably the first joke I ever learned...
This guy goes into the taxidermist with a suit case containing three dead pet chimpanzees.
He asks the taxidermist, "Can you stuff these for me?"
The taxidermist says, "Sure! We do it all the time. How would you like them mounted?"
To which the guy says, "Oh, please don't do that! Just set 'em up sitting side-by-side."
Yeah. Sure. Ya Betcha!
Wally speaks with an endearing Norwegian clip to his voice, like the dialect you hear in the movie Fargo. He travels to Minnesota in the dead-of-winter for reasons fathomed by him and him only.
Perhaps he has an insatiable craving for lutefisk.
Anyway, Wally promises to deliver an up to the minute status report on the Brass Monkeys down there in the park by the Mississippi River.
His "report" is actually a long-standing joke that plays upon the ignorance of good folks who don't know anything about Brass Monkeys. These folks are thinking "chimps" while a few of us -- especially ex-Navy types -- know better.
Anyway, Wally'll let us all know when he gets back in-town whether or not the Brass Monkeys are still glued together.
While you're contemplating whether or not there is any relevant meaning to any of this, let me digress to the meat-and-potatoes of an old Shaggy Dog.
It's probably the first joke I ever learned...
This guy goes into the taxidermist with a suit case containing three dead pet chimpanzees.
He asks the taxidermist, "Can you stuff these for me?"
The taxidermist says, "Sure! We do it all the time. How would you like them mounted?"
To which the guy says, "Oh, please don't do that! Just set 'em up sitting side-by-side."
Yeah. Sure. Ya Betcha!
The Big Real Estate Smack Down
You really don't have to know anything about the real estate industry to understand a painful reality: the great American Dream of Home Ownership has turned into the Great American Nightmare.
Just about everyone I know -- from millionaires to borderline paupers -- has been beaten like a Himalayan Gong during the current real estate market Smack Down. Borderline paupers have been particularly stung by the tremendous decrease in the value of their property. That's because they believed that the equity they accumulated over the term of ownership would tide them over in retirement. So Long, Equity!
The wonks and the talking heads would have you believe there are numerous and complicated reasons why the Great American Dream has gone "pfft." But when you really get down to it, there is one -- and one only -- cause: the ages-old business relationship between the seller and the buyer has been usurped by the courts.
I "get it" about foreclosures. I understand why lenders go the the courtroom to enforce consequences against people why can't pay.
What I don't understand is this: I don't get the court-ordered appraisal process whereby a "disinterested third party" or the appraiser, establishes artificially low values on the properties undergoing foreclosure.
A little side track: appraisers employ one of three methods to establish the value of real estate. First, there is the comparable value method, in which the appraiser researches all properties sold within a certain area, and then comes up with a price tag based on the average selling price.
The second method is known as the income approach -- but this doesn't really apply to most residential properties where the owner is the occupant.
The third way to establish value is through the replacement cost method, whereby the appraiser calculates how much a home is worth if it was built on a lot from scratch. In most parts of the country, a minimum replacement cost for a typical residence would be in the $100 to $125 per square foot range.
By relying upon the comparable value method as the benchmark, courts set the equity factor built into every home in the community into a persistent, downward spiral. Consequently, the courts become overly-reliant on the worst-possible method of establishing value, the low-ball method. There are just too many foreclosure fire sales going on for the comparable value method to work.
Low-ball appraisals are not only unfair to the lender, they are lethal to folks who are not behind on their obligations. The sad fact is, low-balling is happening all over the country. People living in Nevada, Florida and California in particular are being hit by such practices.
Here's an example of how low-balling works: Appraisers inspect the properties in foreclosure and report to the courts that foreclosed "Property X" which sold for $350,000 five years ago is worth only $125,000 in today's market. This becomes the floor sale price, at auction, the bottom line number that would be acceptable to the court.
What happened to that $225,000 differential between the sales price six years ago and what the court will accept at auction?
Pfft!
But hold on there, chief. The courthouse auction price has a tremendous negative effect on the value of comparable homes not in foreclosure. People who are current with their obligations, in one word, get screwed by this process.
What the appraiser forgot to tell the courts is this: the house was gutted of duct work; appliances were removed or they do not work; plumbing and electric fixtures were ripped out; the AC unit went missing; and, the roof leaked.
For all intents and purposes, the foreclosed property sold at auction by the court is uninhabitable. It will not qualify for a certificate of occupancy unless extensive repairs are made to it. Put another way, the new owner will have to spent a crap-load of cash in order to bring the place up to livable standards.
By the time the new owner is finished, and gets his or her CO on the property, its value will be back up to the $120 per square foot range, where it should be.
Another way to look at it, the property's value would be back up in the $300,000 range because the replacement method would trump the low ball method.
When replacement cost trumps comparable value, homeowners who are current with their mortgages will be able to maintain equity in their property.
Before the courts place any foreclosed property up for auction, judges should ask one fundamental question: does the property qualify for a certificate of occupancy? If it doesn't -- and in a vast majority of cases, it won't -- then the property can be sold at auction for its raw land value.
Just about everyone I know -- from millionaires to borderline paupers -- has been beaten like a Himalayan Gong during the current real estate market Smack Down. Borderline paupers have been particularly stung by the tremendous decrease in the value of their property. That's because they believed that the equity they accumulated over the term of ownership would tide them over in retirement. So Long, Equity!
The wonks and the talking heads would have you believe there are numerous and complicated reasons why the Great American Dream has gone "pfft." But when you really get down to it, there is one -- and one only -- cause: the ages-old business relationship between the seller and the buyer has been usurped by the courts.
I "get it" about foreclosures. I understand why lenders go the the courtroom to enforce consequences against people why can't pay.
What I don't understand is this: I don't get the court-ordered appraisal process whereby a "disinterested third party" or the appraiser, establishes artificially low values on the properties undergoing foreclosure.
A little side track: appraisers employ one of three methods to establish the value of real estate. First, there is the comparable value method, in which the appraiser researches all properties sold within a certain area, and then comes up with a price tag based on the average selling price.
The second method is known as the income approach -- but this doesn't really apply to most residential properties where the owner is the occupant.
The third way to establish value is through the replacement cost method, whereby the appraiser calculates how much a home is worth if it was built on a lot from scratch. In most parts of the country, a minimum replacement cost for a typical residence would be in the $100 to $125 per square foot range.
By relying upon the comparable value method as the benchmark, courts set the equity factor built into every home in the community into a persistent, downward spiral. Consequently, the courts become overly-reliant on the worst-possible method of establishing value, the low-ball method. There are just too many foreclosure fire sales going on for the comparable value method to work.
Low-ball appraisals are not only unfair to the lender, they are lethal to folks who are not behind on their obligations. The sad fact is, low-balling is happening all over the country. People living in Nevada, Florida and California in particular are being hit by such practices.
Here's an example of how low-balling works: Appraisers inspect the properties in foreclosure and report to the courts that foreclosed "Property X" which sold for $350,000 five years ago is worth only $125,000 in today's market. This becomes the floor sale price, at auction, the bottom line number that would be acceptable to the court.
What happened to that $225,000 differential between the sales price six years ago and what the court will accept at auction?
Pfft!
But hold on there, chief. The courthouse auction price has a tremendous negative effect on the value of comparable homes not in foreclosure. People who are current with their obligations, in one word, get screwed by this process.
What the appraiser forgot to tell the courts is this: the house was gutted of duct work; appliances were removed or they do not work; plumbing and electric fixtures were ripped out; the AC unit went missing; and, the roof leaked.
For all intents and purposes, the foreclosed property sold at auction by the court is uninhabitable. It will not qualify for a certificate of occupancy unless extensive repairs are made to it. Put another way, the new owner will have to spent a crap-load of cash in order to bring the place up to livable standards.
By the time the new owner is finished, and gets his or her CO on the property, its value will be back up to the $120 per square foot range, where it should be.
Another way to look at it, the property's value would be back up in the $300,000 range because the replacement method would trump the low ball method.
When replacement cost trumps comparable value, homeowners who are current with their mortgages will be able to maintain equity in their property.
Before the courts place any foreclosed property up for auction, judges should ask one fundamental question: does the property qualify for a certificate of occupancy? If it doesn't -- and in a vast majority of cases, it won't -- then the property can be sold at auction for its raw land value.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Institutional Suicide? You Decide ...
I listened to an interesting discussion aired on NPR recently. The topic examined: the impending, long, slow death of the American newspaper.
Commentators kicked the can around explaining why readership is down. Advertising is way off. Production costs are out of control. Forget about paying attention to distribution.
NPR's panelists offered a solution.
Newspaper publishers ought to move all content to the Internet. One commentator actually asserted the owners of The New York Times are considering such possibilities.
Well, excuse me. I don't think they should do so.
Instead of hand-wringing about the pre-Net days, anybody who truly cares about newspapers and journalism ought to engage in serious soul-searching and ponder the real causes of why a vast number of people have turned to the Internet for their news -- and their backs to the print media.
My take on these matters is pretty simple, almost linear.
First off, daily newspapers have themselves turned their backs on their readership by sacrificing their commission to gather local news -- by local news, "read" city and town council meetings, schools, hospitals, churches and synagogues and mosques, police reports, fires, accidents, births, obits, weddings, entertainment & more.
News reporting about all that takes place within a community gives a place a sense of immediacy, uniqueness and relevancy. Covering all that happens, so that the community can measure its achievements -- and its shortfalls -- in black-and-white-and-full-color, conveys the concept that the community is, indeed, important.
When newspapers ignore and/or outright refuse to report local happenings, people will react predictably: they'll deem the newspaper to be arrogant and stop reading it.
I don't have to tell you that there is virtually no such thing as the locally-owned newspaper today.
Conglomerates, such as Gannet, have eaten up most of them. Publishers, today, are more likely than not men and women who lack knowledge and attachments to the communities to which they are posted by their corporate overseers. Publishers, like cub reporters, receive "assignments." A five-year run for a corporately-owned newspaper publisher in one community is rare.
The same goes for a corporately-owned senior editors and reporters, all out-of-towners who bide their time and wish for employment with larger, chain-owned rags.
This is the ilk that refers to their newspapers as "products." This is the ilk that gives you a new "Friday Entertainment Section" that actually ignores local entertainment. This is the ilk that cuts back on page counts, narrows the column widths, and jacks up the ad rates. This is the ilk that charges a fee for publishing obituaries!
This is the ilk that's concerned with one thing and one thing only: profit margins reported back to their chains.
Don Oat, Harry Noyes, Dean Avery, the Crosbies, the Harts and and host of other owners of "family-owned newspapers" would have none of any of the above.
Something must be done to protect the few remaining family-owned dailies that are in publication today.
Tax laws should and must be changed, to project publishing families from forced sales to chains. The law, regulation and our economy should protect and defend people who actually were born and who continue to live by publishing dailies within their communities, people who actually care about the content and quality of news and advertising they deliver to their subscribers. After all, they run into folks in their community every day, at Rotary, church, or out on the street.
They place value on the content, a value, in retrospect, that far exceeded the coins they pocket from each edition. Community newspapers are the glue that keep a community together. No one can ever place a monetary value on that.
The Internet was and is precisely the reason why today's newspapers suffer loss of readership and loss of ad revenues. Anyone can post just about anything on the Net, news included, making the posts and news items relevant, to say nothing about immediate.
It's simplistic for me to write this, but the Internet is nonsensitive (read: no ink on your fingertips), instant and antiseptic. Furthermore, the Net can be unreliable as far as some news is concerned because there are no editors (gate-keepers of factual truth) to vet the information.
Besides, you can't grasp Net news content in your hands and fold it to work on a crossword puzzle. You get the vacuous equivalent of the Mickie-Dee Buck Special: without even paying a nickle.
Quick aside: I love to spend most of my Novembers in a small town in the Great State of Vermont. One of my joys when I'm there is to scoot down to the Valley Market at sunrise, before everyone else at the house is awake, to get copies of The Rutland Herald, a community-owned paper, and The New York Times -- both of them Pulitzer Prize-winning newspapers.
The Herald is always on the rack, loaded with local political and government news, police/fire reports, obits, weddings, gossip, local sports, great editorials, and even better, folksier letters from readers.
The New York Times, alas, is another story. Whether it arrives at the Valley Market in central Vermont regularly is of no apparent concern to the Times circulation honcho in Manhattan. Sad to say, the Old Grey Lady even bagged me on a Sunday!
If there is a penumbra of hope for the American Daily Newspaper, it must be back lit in a belief that members of a community will insist that their news outlet be locally owned, that the coverage emphasize local events, that tax laws will be changed where applicable, and that willing investors within a community will support the enterprise.
Commentators kicked the can around explaining why readership is down. Advertising is way off. Production costs are out of control. Forget about paying attention to distribution.
NPR's panelists offered a solution.
Newspaper publishers ought to move all content to the Internet. One commentator actually asserted the owners of The New York Times are considering such possibilities.
Well, excuse me. I don't think they should do so.
Instead of hand-wringing about the pre-Net days, anybody who truly cares about newspapers and journalism ought to engage in serious soul-searching and ponder the real causes of why a vast number of people have turned to the Internet for their news -- and their backs to the print media.
My take on these matters is pretty simple, almost linear.
First off, daily newspapers have themselves turned their backs on their readership by sacrificing their commission to gather local news -- by local news, "read" city and town council meetings, schools, hospitals, churches and synagogues and mosques, police reports, fires, accidents, births, obits, weddings, entertainment & more.
News reporting about all that takes place within a community gives a place a sense of immediacy, uniqueness and relevancy. Covering all that happens, so that the community can measure its achievements -- and its shortfalls -- in black-and-white-and-full-color, conveys the concept that the community is, indeed, important.
When newspapers ignore and/or outright refuse to report local happenings, people will react predictably: they'll deem the newspaper to be arrogant and stop reading it.
I don't have to tell you that there is virtually no such thing as the locally-owned newspaper today.
Conglomerates, such as Gannet, have eaten up most of them. Publishers, today, are more likely than not men and women who lack knowledge and attachments to the communities to which they are posted by their corporate overseers. Publishers, like cub reporters, receive "assignments." A five-year run for a corporately-owned newspaper publisher in one community is rare.
The same goes for a corporately-owned senior editors and reporters, all out-of-towners who bide their time and wish for employment with larger, chain-owned rags.
This is the ilk that refers to their newspapers as "products." This is the ilk that gives you a new "Friday Entertainment Section" that actually ignores local entertainment. This is the ilk that cuts back on page counts, narrows the column widths, and jacks up the ad rates. This is the ilk that charges a fee for publishing obituaries!
This is the ilk that's concerned with one thing and one thing only: profit margins reported back to their chains.
Don Oat, Harry Noyes, Dean Avery, the Crosbies, the Harts and and host of other owners of "family-owned newspapers" would have none of any of the above.
Something must be done to protect the few remaining family-owned dailies that are in publication today.
Tax laws should and must be changed, to project publishing families from forced sales to chains. The law, regulation and our economy should protect and defend people who actually were born and who continue to live by publishing dailies within their communities, people who actually care about the content and quality of news and advertising they deliver to their subscribers. After all, they run into folks in their community every day, at Rotary, church, or out on the street.
They place value on the content, a value, in retrospect, that far exceeded the coins they pocket from each edition. Community newspapers are the glue that keep a community together. No one can ever place a monetary value on that.
The Internet was and is precisely the reason why today's newspapers suffer loss of readership and loss of ad revenues. Anyone can post just about anything on the Net, news included, making the posts and news items relevant, to say nothing about immediate.
It's simplistic for me to write this, but the Internet is nonsensitive (read: no ink on your fingertips), instant and antiseptic. Furthermore, the Net can be unreliable as far as some news is concerned because there are no editors (gate-keepers of factual truth) to vet the information.
Besides, you can't grasp Net news content in your hands and fold it to work on a crossword puzzle. You get the vacuous equivalent of the Mickie-Dee Buck Special: without even paying a nickle.
Quick aside: I love to spend most of my Novembers in a small town in the Great State of Vermont. One of my joys when I'm there is to scoot down to the Valley Market at sunrise, before everyone else at the house is awake, to get copies of The Rutland Herald, a community-owned paper, and The New York Times -- both of them Pulitzer Prize-winning newspapers.
The Herald is always on the rack, loaded with local political and government news, police/fire reports, obits, weddings, gossip, local sports, great editorials, and even better, folksier letters from readers.
The New York Times, alas, is another story. Whether it arrives at the Valley Market in central Vermont regularly is of no apparent concern to the Times circulation honcho in Manhattan. Sad to say, the Old Grey Lady even bagged me on a Sunday!
If there is a penumbra of hope for the American Daily Newspaper, it must be back lit in a belief that members of a community will insist that their news outlet be locally owned, that the coverage emphasize local events, that tax laws will be changed where applicable, and that willing investors within a community will support the enterprise.
ALOHA, WELCOME & HELLO!!
I've been thinking about writing this blog for several months but, for one reason or another, I never got it started -- until recently.
I guess I needed a little inspiration and a nudge from an old friend, Dave Shippee, who bit the bullet recently and started his own blog which you can find at shippeesays.com. Ditto to Andy Thibault, who continues to pen his frequent, inciteful and insightful column "cool justice."
Check them out!
I chose the name Various Matters because I loved reading a column by that name appearing in the Norwich Bulletin, a daily newspaper up in Connecticut where I enjoyed a brief career progressing from reporter, to copy editor, to city editor, to state house correspondent, to Sunday columnist to, finally, managing editor after a pit-stop in DC where I served on Lowell Weicker's staff.
We called the column VMs back then, and it was a melange of club announcements, pithy news blurbs, personals and one-line classified. Various Matters was the best-read column of the newspaper -- and I hope that I can continue the VM tradition in some electronic fashion.
You can expect to read about politics here (of course) and also encounter some information about coping with certain health issues that I face on a daily basis. I'll also use VM as a platform for some thinking about the state of our country and its future. You can also expect to read an occasional blurb about provocative men and women who have made, and will continue to make, life interesting.
I guess I needed a little inspiration and a nudge from an old friend, Dave Shippee, who bit the bullet recently and started his own blog which you can find at shippeesays.com. Ditto to Andy Thibault, who continues to pen his frequent, inciteful and insightful column "cool justice."
Check them out!
I chose the name Various Matters because I loved reading a column by that name appearing in the Norwich Bulletin, a daily newspaper up in Connecticut where I enjoyed a brief career progressing from reporter, to copy editor, to city editor, to state house correspondent, to Sunday columnist to, finally, managing editor after a pit-stop in DC where I served on Lowell Weicker's staff.
We called the column VMs back then, and it was a melange of club announcements, pithy news blurbs, personals and one-line classified. Various Matters was the best-read column of the newspaper -- and I hope that I can continue the VM tradition in some electronic fashion.
You can expect to read about politics here (of course) and also encounter some information about coping with certain health issues that I face on a daily basis. I'll also use VM as a platform for some thinking about the state of our country and its future. You can also expect to read an occasional blurb about provocative men and women who have made, and will continue to make, life interesting.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Pigskin Prognostications
I love the game of football.
I played the game in college, wore a flag on my hip in my late 20s attempting to recapture my Glory Years, and probably spent several thousand hours watching games on TV in the decades that followed.
I went on to procure the "best seat in the house" about ten years ago by deciding to become a football official at the high school Friday Night Lights level. That experience also afforded me the opportunity and privilege of refereeing Pop Warner games on Saturday mornings and afternoons.
I especially enjoy officiating Pop Warner ball at the Bobble Head level, where kids in the 7-9 year old bracket begin to learn the fundamentals of the game and the meaning of sportsmanship.
Quick aside ....
A couple of years back, I served as the referee (the White Hat) during a Pop Warner Mighty-Mites game between the Sharks and the Tarpons. A Tarpon player, Number 68 -- all of 7 years old, all 78 pounds and all 4'2" of him -- was playing on the offensive line.
I noticed he stopped blocking right after the snap. He was whirling around in circles, stomping his feet, and crying his eyes out.
I immediately ascertained the kid wasn't injured -- how could he be hurt when all of the action was taking place 20 yards away from him? -- so I allowed play to continue on for several seconds. Then I whistled the play dead just after a gang of Sharks dragged the Tarpons' ball carrier to the turf.
I walked over to Number 68, who was now crying louder than ever as he crawled around on his knees scooping his fingers through the chewed-up sod. I asked him if he was hurt. Sobbing and frantically digging his fingers through the mud on a mission, he screamed: "I lost my front tooth!"
I grabbed Number 68 by his pads and helped him regain his feet. I then peeked through the kid's face mask attached to his helmet and, indeed, there was a crimson gap in his uppers -- the companion incisor was also missing.
Game rules require that all players wear -- and use -- teeth protectors, which are pieces of white or clear plastic/composite that kids can bite into in order to protect their teeth during normal game contact. Teeth protectors dangle from face masks at the Pop Warner level, snapped into place by a piece of moulded plastic.
"My daddy said I could put my front tooth under my pillow and the Tooth Fairy would visit and give me five bucks," whimpered Number 68.
The kid's tooth protector provided the definitive clue. It glistened with a faint trace of blood mixed with some dirty saliva. What appeared to be a roan pearl was clearly embedded within the plastic.
Naturally, the kid did not and could not see what I had seen. Being the referee, that is, the person in complete charge of play, I decided to blow my whistle to stop the clock so that I could play a little game-within-a-game of my own.
"Let's take a look and see if we can find it," I said.
We pawed the turf together for a second or two. And then, I said: "Hey! Check out your tooth protector!"
In less than a femto-second, Number 68's mood shifted from near-complete dispair to near-complete elation. I think you can tell this is happening by looking into a kid's eyes.
Pop Warner Football rules also prescribe that players who have blood on their uniforms or their equipment must be sent to their side lines for care.
So I ordered Number 68 off of the field.
"Don't forget to put your tooth in a place for safe-keeping. And good luck with the Tooth Fairy," I told him.
There is football.
Then, again, there is football.
I played the game in college, wore a flag on my hip in my late 20s attempting to recapture my Glory Years, and probably spent several thousand hours watching games on TV in the decades that followed.
I went on to procure the "best seat in the house" about ten years ago by deciding to become a football official at the high school Friday Night Lights level. That experience also afforded me the opportunity and privilege of refereeing Pop Warner games on Saturday mornings and afternoons.
I especially enjoy officiating Pop Warner ball at the Bobble Head level, where kids in the 7-9 year old bracket begin to learn the fundamentals of the game and the meaning of sportsmanship.
Quick aside ....
A couple of years back, I served as the referee (the White Hat) during a Pop Warner Mighty-Mites game between the Sharks and the Tarpons. A Tarpon player, Number 68 -- all of 7 years old, all 78 pounds and all 4'2" of him -- was playing on the offensive line.
I noticed he stopped blocking right after the snap. He was whirling around in circles, stomping his feet, and crying his eyes out.
I immediately ascertained the kid wasn't injured -- how could he be hurt when all of the action was taking place 20 yards away from him? -- so I allowed play to continue on for several seconds. Then I whistled the play dead just after a gang of Sharks dragged the Tarpons' ball carrier to the turf.
I walked over to Number 68, who was now crying louder than ever as he crawled around on his knees scooping his fingers through the chewed-up sod. I asked him if he was hurt. Sobbing and frantically digging his fingers through the mud on a mission, he screamed: "I lost my front tooth!"
I grabbed Number 68 by his pads and helped him regain his feet. I then peeked through the kid's face mask attached to his helmet and, indeed, there was a crimson gap in his uppers -- the companion incisor was also missing.
Game rules require that all players wear -- and use -- teeth protectors, which are pieces of white or clear plastic/composite that kids can bite into in order to protect their teeth during normal game contact. Teeth protectors dangle from face masks at the Pop Warner level, snapped into place by a piece of moulded plastic.
"My daddy said I could put my front tooth under my pillow and the Tooth Fairy would visit and give me five bucks," whimpered Number 68.
The kid's tooth protector provided the definitive clue. It glistened with a faint trace of blood mixed with some dirty saliva. What appeared to be a roan pearl was clearly embedded within the plastic.
Naturally, the kid did not and could not see what I had seen. Being the referee, that is, the person in complete charge of play, I decided to blow my whistle to stop the clock so that I could play a little game-within-a-game of my own.
"Let's take a look and see if we can find it," I said.
We pawed the turf together for a second or two. And then, I said: "Hey! Check out your tooth protector!"
In less than a femto-second, Number 68's mood shifted from near-complete dispair to near-complete elation. I think you can tell this is happening by looking into a kid's eyes.
Pop Warner Football rules also prescribe that players who have blood on their uniforms or their equipment must be sent to their side lines for care.
So I ordered Number 68 off of the field.
"Don't forget to put your tooth in a place for safe-keeping. And good luck with the Tooth Fairy," I told him.
There is football.
Then, again, there is football.
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