Galveston is, as previously noted, a beach resort overrun with sandwich shops and open air bars replete with old men sucking on longnecks (beer bottles for my uninitiated sophisticate readership) and gazing lazily toward Cuba. I occupy one of those solitary stools on occasion, and as Pogo might say “I have seen the enemy and it is I.”
#####
Texas tykes have begun another school year, and local news informs that the Texas legislature (the “Lege” made infamous by Molly Ivans and others) has passed a law making it illegal for students to offer teachers gifts in exchange for grades, a practice that was apparently in wide use by youngsters scrambling to avoid being “left behind.” This follows by several years a law mandating that students must have passing grades in at least some of their current courses in order to be eligible for sports (i.e. football).
I have been told that some of the largest sports books outside of Vegas exist for high school football in Pennsylvania and Texas. Lest that seem improbable, I can attest to the absolute chaos that reigned one Friday evening in a Keystone Commonwealth tavern when the cable channel showing a local high school football rivalry suddenly went blank. A car was dispatched (I swear) to the local cable company office half a mile away, and the picture re-appeared some 8 minutes later, likely avoiding miscellaneous bloodletting and sundry carnage.
#####
Update from the age discrimination front: The company that was all over me to manage a major project for them, has, since learning of my high school and college graduation dates, been struck mute. No surprise. CNN and MSNBC cannot mention the name McCain without noting his age. So convoluted has the rhetoric become, that CNN has glommed onto the phrase “oldest non-incumbent to be nominated.” Of course his political affiliation may have also been a factor. In less than 30 minutes of CNN entertainment last evening, the talking head referred to Michele Obama 3 times as “First Lady,” before being reminded that the appellation is premature.
#####
Locals refer to this area simply as Galveston, but with Gustav bearing down on the Gulf, I notice the parlance is shifting to “the island.” With only two paths of egress, the tail end of I-45 across a causeway that intersects the strip, and a ferry to the Bolivar Peninsula on the eastern tip, the term “evacuation” takes on new meaning. A bartender told me that twin sisters Katrina and Rita were responsible for silencing much of the “it won’t run me out, I’m planning a hurricane party” bravado. Gustav has not yet entered the Gulf, but I see lots of 4x8 plywood sheets being whisked about in the beds of F-150s and Silverados.
#####
The plan as of yesterday was to depart “the island” tomorrow on the 3am ferry for the Bolivar peninsula, meander the coast a bit, then catch I-10 for New Orleans and a planned rendezvous with an acquaintance laboring away to erase the lingering remnants of Katrina. Gustav and Hanna may have something to say about that, and at the moment I am drawn to where this all began. If Mother Nature so directs, I will head to Hattiesburg, MS and its strategic (some might say unfortunate) location 75 miles NE of New Orleans, and 75 miles directly north of the Mississippi Gulf Coast where the Girl Scout Hilton awaits, a pavilion behind the Hattiesburg Red Cross building where a ragged collection of volunteers spent 3 weeks sleeping on cots after Katrina.
And so, the next time we meet I will definitely be somewhere else.
The adventure continues…..
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
TEXAS 001
I’m 17’ above sea level, and I know this because the sea is less than 100 yards from my door and there is a 17’ seawall between it and me. At the moment it is raining, pelting actually, and the noise from the roof drowns out the TV. Makes one wonder what a Cat 1 hurricane would sound and feel like.
#####
As a younger man I would typically seek out challenges the more arduous the better, perhaps in an effort to prove myself worthy of some cosmic trial. But now I confess to being drawn to less demanding pursuits, and while watching the Olympics yesterday I may have glommed onto something. While viewing the rowing competition, described as one of the Games most demanding, I noticed the chap in the back with a little megaphone exhorting the actual rowers to ever greater effort. Now I gather the responsibility includes determining and communicating the proper cadence, but I couldn’t help fanaticizing the acquisition of Olympic Gold for aerobic screaming. Something to look into.
#####
My accommodation here in Galveston is a recently converted garage, clean, quiet, funky, dry, with all modern amenities, fully furnished and parking at the door. I walked to the water’s edge and squinting I could almost make out tropical storm Fay gathering steam in the Central Atlantic. During all my previous experience along the Gulf I was under contract to companies that promised “swift and early” evacuation, although this was never necessary. This time I’m on my own, and separated from the mainland by a causeway, which causes me to think ahead, hence perhaps the name.
#####
Pedagogical gurus fret over the likelihood that youngsters using calculators will eventually lose the ability to perform manual calculations, a result that may or may not hasten the downfall of civilization. In a similar vein I fear that if deprived of my vehicle GPS, I might enter a spiral of perpetual geographic confusion, and fall victim to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.
My fancy, expensive Garmin (which became much less expensive the very week after I bought it) sped me breezily around a Dallas rush hour accident that completely closed I-45, and led me through some convoluted and poorly marked spaghetti in Houston. I am indebted to the lady in the box, who instead of admonishing me when I accidently or purposely ignore an instruction (no “make an immediate U-turn” scolding), simply and pleasantly says “recalculating.” Would that those around me were as understanding of my deficiencies.
#####
I’ve been warned about Texans by a close acquaintance charged with serving the needs of vacationing Lone Star residents, but so far no great evil has befallen me. They’re not very good spellers (I actually passed the “Cavalry” Baptist Church) and they do have some odd road signs, including one appearing every few miles that warns “State law requires that all warning signs be obeyed.” Glad they clarified that for me. And I have noticed a tendency for some (I assume out-of-staters) to add an extra “s” to the State name, likely a political commentary on the populace.
#####
Most folks I’ve met along the planet’s byways are rather inarticulate in describing their political proclivities. Liberals talk in generalities about justice for all of humanity and saving the earth, to which conservatives respond “tree huggers and bleeding hearts.” The right professes to promote individual responsibility and personal freedom, which the left dismisses as the “haves” screwing the “have-nots”.
My own conservative leanings were molded on the belief that however well-intentioned, government has a well developed knack for bollixing things more than the forces of nature originally designed. My own decade as a federal bureaucrat solidified these feelings, and as time passes I am greeted with a continuum of examples that confirm these inclinations.
Government efforts to stamp out discrimination of every stripe provide a wealth of illustrations. Efforts to eliminate age discrimination are a relatively new phenomenon, and arrived on the scene just in time for me, as before entering my 7th decade I always seemed to have more opportunities than the time to execute them, but afterward I was left in a wasteland of “don’t call us, we’ll call you” responses.
In recent times I encountered two instances of age discrimination so egregious and well documented I felt they were slam-dunks, at least until George Tenant forever trashed that sobriquet. I pursued neither, preserving a life-long track record of neither bringing suit nor being successfully sued (though several have tried).
Besides the federal government, every state and most local jurisdictions of reasonable size proudly sport an EEOC, while most NGOs and many companies feature the equivalent. In the “age” arena they boast of federal and state statues forbidding (on pain of severe punishment) employers from asking applicants their date of birth.
But I am now engaged in a mating ritual with a company that claims to have great interest in my services, and the last hurdle they require of me is to specify the exact month and year of my graduation from high school and college. Now it has occurred to me that they may have actuarial talent on staff that could invoke some complex algorithm to elucidate what my government has taken great pains to protect me from divulging. All perfectly legal.
I’m told that Asian cultures revere age as much as western society distains it. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.
#####
Were I to seek a Masters in Sports Medicine, my thesis would be titled: "Comparison of jogging in 60 degree weather at 10,500’ and at sea level in 90+ heat and 100% humidity". Research would be concise and conclusion as to preference terse: “Neither.”
#####
Mother Nature often seems intent on pursuing an equal opportunity posture, and is at the moment steering Fay through Florida and away from Texas where Dolly and Eduard made landfall. But some are now calling for the lady to enter the Atlantic, gain strength, then turn left and rumble through the panhandle and possibly the Texas Gulf coast. Film at 11.
…the adventure continues
#####
As a younger man I would typically seek out challenges the more arduous the better, perhaps in an effort to prove myself worthy of some cosmic trial. But now I confess to being drawn to less demanding pursuits, and while watching the Olympics yesterday I may have glommed onto something. While viewing the rowing competition, described as one of the Games most demanding, I noticed the chap in the back with a little megaphone exhorting the actual rowers to ever greater effort. Now I gather the responsibility includes determining and communicating the proper cadence, but I couldn’t help fanaticizing the acquisition of Olympic Gold for aerobic screaming. Something to look into.
#####
My accommodation here in Galveston is a recently converted garage, clean, quiet, funky, dry, with all modern amenities, fully furnished and parking at the door. I walked to the water’s edge and squinting I could almost make out tropical storm Fay gathering steam in the Central Atlantic. During all my previous experience along the Gulf I was under contract to companies that promised “swift and early” evacuation, although this was never necessary. This time I’m on my own, and separated from the mainland by a causeway, which causes me to think ahead, hence perhaps the name.
#####
Pedagogical gurus fret over the likelihood that youngsters using calculators will eventually lose the ability to perform manual calculations, a result that may or may not hasten the downfall of civilization. In a similar vein I fear that if deprived of my vehicle GPS, I might enter a spiral of perpetual geographic confusion, and fall victim to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.
My fancy, expensive Garmin (which became much less expensive the very week after I bought it) sped me breezily around a Dallas rush hour accident that completely closed I-45, and led me through some convoluted and poorly marked spaghetti in Houston. I am indebted to the lady in the box, who instead of admonishing me when I accidently or purposely ignore an instruction (no “make an immediate U-turn” scolding), simply and pleasantly says “recalculating.” Would that those around me were as understanding of my deficiencies.
#####
I’ve been warned about Texans by a close acquaintance charged with serving the needs of vacationing Lone Star residents, but so far no great evil has befallen me. They’re not very good spellers (I actually passed the “Cavalry” Baptist Church) and they do have some odd road signs, including one appearing every few miles that warns “State law requires that all warning signs be obeyed.” Glad they clarified that for me. And I have noticed a tendency for some (I assume out-of-staters) to add an extra “s” to the State name, likely a political commentary on the populace.
#####
Most folks I’ve met along the planet’s byways are rather inarticulate in describing their political proclivities. Liberals talk in generalities about justice for all of humanity and saving the earth, to which conservatives respond “tree huggers and bleeding hearts.” The right professes to promote individual responsibility and personal freedom, which the left dismisses as the “haves” screwing the “have-nots”.
My own conservative leanings were molded on the belief that however well-intentioned, government has a well developed knack for bollixing things more than the forces of nature originally designed. My own decade as a federal bureaucrat solidified these feelings, and as time passes I am greeted with a continuum of examples that confirm these inclinations.
Government efforts to stamp out discrimination of every stripe provide a wealth of illustrations. Efforts to eliminate age discrimination are a relatively new phenomenon, and arrived on the scene just in time for me, as before entering my 7th decade I always seemed to have more opportunities than the time to execute them, but afterward I was left in a wasteland of “don’t call us, we’ll call you” responses.
In recent times I encountered two instances of age discrimination so egregious and well documented I felt they were slam-dunks, at least until George Tenant forever trashed that sobriquet. I pursued neither, preserving a life-long track record of neither bringing suit nor being successfully sued (though several have tried).
Besides the federal government, every state and most local jurisdictions of reasonable size proudly sport an EEOC, while most NGOs and many companies feature the equivalent. In the “age” arena they boast of federal and state statues forbidding (on pain of severe punishment) employers from asking applicants their date of birth.
But I am now engaged in a mating ritual with a company that claims to have great interest in my services, and the last hurdle they require of me is to specify the exact month and year of my graduation from high school and college. Now it has occurred to me that they may have actuarial talent on staff that could invoke some complex algorithm to elucidate what my government has taken great pains to protect me from divulging. All perfectly legal.
I’m told that Asian cultures revere age as much as western society distains it. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.
#####
Were I to seek a Masters in Sports Medicine, my thesis would be titled: "Comparison of jogging in 60 degree weather at 10,500’ and at sea level in 90+ heat and 100% humidity". Research would be concise and conclusion as to preference terse: “Neither.”
#####
Mother Nature often seems intent on pursuing an equal opportunity posture, and is at the moment steering Fay through Florida and away from Texas where Dolly and Eduard made landfall. But some are now calling for the lady to enter the Atlantic, gain strength, then turn left and rumble through the panhandle and possibly the Texas Gulf coast. Film at 11.
…the adventure continues
Saturday, August 9, 2008
COLORADO 002
High intrigue on the free local bus. A (very) ragged person taking his good time ambling aboard was admonished by the driver to expedite the process. Words were exchanged, and as the bus was departing the station, driver slammed on his breaks and demanded VRP’s immediate exodus.
VRP refused, and in fact suggested, rather politely, that if driver could not treat his passengers civilly, it was he who should exit the vehicle. Driver then radioed his supervisor to summon the authorities, and departed the bus, leaving motor running.
Then things got interesting. VRP, sensing an opening, leapt up and slipped into the driver’s seat, emitting a maniacal cackle. Several brave souls (female) determined this should not pass, and cleverly created a diversion by shrieking at the perp (now no longer a passenger) the Spanish equivalent “Oh my god, he’s going to kill us all.” Distracted perp jumps up and makes a very unwise move. Instead of bolting the scene he heads for the driver with fists clenched and obscenities sputtering.
Willy Sutton would have been jealous. Three local police cars and 2 sheriff’s vehicles descend on the scene, and it soon appears that this is not just one of your typical “$750,000 fine and 16-years in jail” capers. It seems that his brief stint in the driver’s seat has escalated the offence to busjacking (notwithstanding the absence of vehicle movement). Virtually ignoring the perp, who by now is beginning to twig that his outburst is being taken far more seriously than he thought possible, the assembled constabulary pull out rule books and begin a heated debate on what charges to levy.
Then I see perp, who had been standing with hands behind his back virtually begging to be manacled, looking furtively at his backpack lying on the ground near the group. He edges closer, but alas, just before he executes a snatch and split, one of the keen-eyed cops spots the feint and orders him to the ground. Uncharacteristically, I found myself rooting for the perp, to no avail.
I suspect that in Summit County a bank robbery warrants calling out the National Guard.
#####
High intrigue, Part Deux. Some weeks ago, the Denver Water Commission, which controls a monster dam in Summit County, closed the well-traveled Dam Road one midnight without advance warning to citizenry or local officials. The road is all of 3 miles long, and I-70 runs parallel with convenient exits at either end. But locals rose in high dudgeon, and everyone from the Governor to the Girl Scouts weighed in. Unspecified “security concerns” were cited for the closure. Fever pitch was reached when the local Fire Chief tried having the Water Commission Director jailed for “blocking an essential emergency route.”
I am happy to report the road has now re-opened from 6am to 10pm (perhaps on the theory that terrorists prefer darkness, 911 notwithstanding). Police, at $42/hour overtime, according to the local paper, stand at each end watching traffic whiz by, stopping the occasional truck for a peak inside. But erring on the side of caution, 18-wheelers over 13,000 pounds GVW are banned.
Water rights in the west are serious business. Historical footnote: When the dam was constructed in the late 1940’s it displaced the entire existing town of Dillon, which re-emerged several miles away, with many of the original structures jacked-up and hauled to their new location.
#####
I suspect a lack of scientific validation, but on the theory that hurricanes, like lightning, tend not to strike twice in the same place, I have elected to follow Edouard to Galveston, TX., the island south of Houston directly on the Gulf. My digs will be less than 100 yards (100 meters, give or take, for my International readers) from the beach, yet behind a 17 ft. seawall designed to keep the waters in their place. The move will put me closer to likely carnage, now that it is fairly obvious that the Midwest has decided it can recover from spring flooding without my help.
#####
In the midst of my physical and mental preparation for the descent to sea level, the John Edwards “sex scandal” broke. Although it does seem these days, at last among politicians, those NOT accused of infidelity are the exception. The only aspect I find odd is the stampede among liberal Democrats to condemn the indiscretion. It may be the early Alzheimer’s, but for the life of me I can’t recall similar liberal outrage over the Clinton peccadilloes. One expects the opposition to gloat and posture, but the Democrat Party faithful were tripping over themselves to voice their outrage. Perhaps it’s the embarrassment over the timing, with the Convention near upon us. Or sympathy for his cancer-stricken wife and small children. Or could it be that morality is taking hold inside the Beltway? Naaah.
I’m off, down the mountain, across the plains, and toward the sea. The next time we meet I will be somewhere else.
The adventure continues…
VRP refused, and in fact suggested, rather politely, that if driver could not treat his passengers civilly, it was he who should exit the vehicle. Driver then radioed his supervisor to summon the authorities, and departed the bus, leaving motor running.
Then things got interesting. VRP, sensing an opening, leapt up and slipped into the driver’s seat, emitting a maniacal cackle. Several brave souls (female) determined this should not pass, and cleverly created a diversion by shrieking at the perp (now no longer a passenger) the Spanish equivalent “Oh my god, he’s going to kill us all.” Distracted perp jumps up and makes a very unwise move. Instead of bolting the scene he heads for the driver with fists clenched and obscenities sputtering.
Willy Sutton would have been jealous. Three local police cars and 2 sheriff’s vehicles descend on the scene, and it soon appears that this is not just one of your typical “$750,000 fine and 16-years in jail” capers. It seems that his brief stint in the driver’s seat has escalated the offence to busjacking (notwithstanding the absence of vehicle movement). Virtually ignoring the perp, who by now is beginning to twig that his outburst is being taken far more seriously than he thought possible, the assembled constabulary pull out rule books and begin a heated debate on what charges to levy.
Then I see perp, who had been standing with hands behind his back virtually begging to be manacled, looking furtively at his backpack lying on the ground near the group. He edges closer, but alas, just before he executes a snatch and split, one of the keen-eyed cops spots the feint and orders him to the ground. Uncharacteristically, I found myself rooting for the perp, to no avail.
I suspect that in Summit County a bank robbery warrants calling out the National Guard.
#####
High intrigue, Part Deux. Some weeks ago, the Denver Water Commission, which controls a monster dam in Summit County, closed the well-traveled Dam Road one midnight without advance warning to citizenry or local officials. The road is all of 3 miles long, and I-70 runs parallel with convenient exits at either end. But locals rose in high dudgeon, and everyone from the Governor to the Girl Scouts weighed in. Unspecified “security concerns” were cited for the closure. Fever pitch was reached when the local Fire Chief tried having the Water Commission Director jailed for “blocking an essential emergency route.”
I am happy to report the road has now re-opened from 6am to 10pm (perhaps on the theory that terrorists prefer darkness, 911 notwithstanding). Police, at $42/hour overtime, according to the local paper, stand at each end watching traffic whiz by, stopping the occasional truck for a peak inside. But erring on the side of caution, 18-wheelers over 13,000 pounds GVW are banned.
Water rights in the west are serious business. Historical footnote: When the dam was constructed in the late 1940’s it displaced the entire existing town of Dillon, which re-emerged several miles away, with many of the original structures jacked-up and hauled to their new location.
#####
I suspect a lack of scientific validation, but on the theory that hurricanes, like lightning, tend not to strike twice in the same place, I have elected to follow Edouard to Galveston, TX., the island south of Houston directly on the Gulf. My digs will be less than 100 yards (100 meters, give or take, for my International readers) from the beach, yet behind a 17 ft. seawall designed to keep the waters in their place. The move will put me closer to likely carnage, now that it is fairly obvious that the Midwest has decided it can recover from spring flooding without my help.
#####
In the midst of my physical and mental preparation for the descent to sea level, the John Edwards “sex scandal” broke. Although it does seem these days, at last among politicians, those NOT accused of infidelity are the exception. The only aspect I find odd is the stampede among liberal Democrats to condemn the indiscretion. It may be the early Alzheimer’s, but for the life of me I can’t recall similar liberal outrage over the Clinton peccadilloes. One expects the opposition to gloat and posture, but the Democrat Party faithful were tripping over themselves to voice their outrage. Perhaps it’s the embarrassment over the timing, with the Convention near upon us. Or sympathy for his cancer-stricken wife and small children. Or could it be that morality is taking hold inside the Beltway? Naaah.
I’m off, down the mountain, across the plains, and toward the sea. The next time we meet I will be somewhere else.
The adventure continues…
Thursday, July 24, 2008
COLORADO 001
Wildernest is a condo community occupying a mountainside just outside Silverthorne, Colorado. I am subletting one-half of a 2-bedroom condo for the month of July. The Peruvian tenant has returned home for the month, leaving behind sister Racee (roll the R hard) and husband Sergio, a delightful couple that ply me with ceviche and introduce me to the wonders of their homeland (“we have a canyon Grander than yours”). Their English is sketchy, but infinitely superior to my Spanish.
The 10,000 ft. altitude presents some interesting challenges. While on a modest 4-mile trail hike last Saturday I happened upon several aging volunteers engaged in trail maintenance. Having little to occupy my world at the moment, I returned “home,” donned work boots, gloves, and hard hat, and trekked back to the work site where I joined these “mature” nature helpers who appeared rather fragile as they hacked away at roots, dug water runoff trenches, and “revegitated” areas that errant hikers had “devegitated.”
Determined as always to do my part and then some, I failed to include altitude in the equation, and several hours later, when the group stopped for lunch (after I earlier announced that “I do not eat lunch,”) I sank meekly to mother earth and began to pray for rain.
I vowed to stay until the 3pm terminus, not least because one of the clan announced she had cold beer in a cooler at the trailhead, but when lightheadedness morphed to minor hallucinations (i.e. a root I was about to dislodge shrieked “don’t kill me,”) I tucked tail neatly between legs, mumbled something lame about meeting friends in town, and staggered back to the trailhead, where in my ultimate humiliation I grabbed the free bus back to my condo rather than walk.
#####
The free bus connects the towns of Silverthorne, Dillon, Breckenridge, and Keystone, the latter two being major ski resorts. It is a lifeline to the large immigrant population that supplies labor for the area. I am often the only English-speaking rider as we wend up and down the steep hillsides.
Typical of resort areas that post notices imploring tourists to have fun, but not too much, the busses carry the scary warning that “disturbances are punishable by up to $750,000 in fines and up to 16 years in jail.” Now in Colorado a Class II felony (including 2nd degree murder) carries an average 27.2 year sentence, and with good behavior, one rarely serves more than half that time. If I wanted to do away with someone in Summit County, I would think long and hard on how to get them to create a transit disturbance.
In fact I overheard a disheveled local (a “ragged person” in Paul Simon parlance), recount that last St. Paddie’s Day, returning from the requisite revelry and belting out his favorite Irish ditties, the bus driver ordered him, not to stifle himself, but to exit the bus. When he protested, he was directed to the posted sign outlining potential consequences. I wonder if there is anywhere else on the planet where one can get hoosgowed for 20% of his lifespan for singing off key?
#####
Though it comes as no surprise, the demise of Tony Snow received (except from Fox) only minimal mention, while the requiem for Tim Russert lasted weeks. Like Russert, Snow was considered fair and was well respected, but of course being conservative, his passing was noted curtly by the mainstream media. The outrage is that an obit circulated by the AP and comments on the LA Times and Daily Kos blogs found it appropriate to take vile parting shots at the 53 year old father of three. Even in death…
#####
Despite calls from the Midwest for increased disaster relief, my phone has until recently remained silent. I am reminded of my Red Cross Katrina deployment at a holding operation in Montgomery, AL. For 4 days Red Cross officials told our milling throng of some 500 volunteers that there were no calls for assistance in the ravaged areas, while on a wide screen TV in the corner, Governors Barbour of Mississippi and Blanco of Louisiana were close to tears in their urgent pleas for help. FEMA wasn’t the only body overwhelmed by this natural tragedy.
But continuing problems in the Midwest and Dolly’s whack at Texas have shaken the tree a bit, and at the moment 3 firms have requested I stand by. So perhaps after nearly 6 months of “ployage” I will soon be de-ployed. Be still my heart.
The 10,000 ft. altitude presents some interesting challenges. While on a modest 4-mile trail hike last Saturday I happened upon several aging volunteers engaged in trail maintenance. Having little to occupy my world at the moment, I returned “home,” donned work boots, gloves, and hard hat, and trekked back to the work site where I joined these “mature” nature helpers who appeared rather fragile as they hacked away at roots, dug water runoff trenches, and “revegitated” areas that errant hikers had “devegitated.”
Determined as always to do my part and then some, I failed to include altitude in the equation, and several hours later, when the group stopped for lunch (after I earlier announced that “I do not eat lunch,”) I sank meekly to mother earth and began to pray for rain.
I vowed to stay until the 3pm terminus, not least because one of the clan announced she had cold beer in a cooler at the trailhead, but when lightheadedness morphed to minor hallucinations (i.e. a root I was about to dislodge shrieked “don’t kill me,”) I tucked tail neatly between legs, mumbled something lame about meeting friends in town, and staggered back to the trailhead, where in my ultimate humiliation I grabbed the free bus back to my condo rather than walk.
#####
The free bus connects the towns of Silverthorne, Dillon, Breckenridge, and Keystone, the latter two being major ski resorts. It is a lifeline to the large immigrant population that supplies labor for the area. I am often the only English-speaking rider as we wend up and down the steep hillsides.
Typical of resort areas that post notices imploring tourists to have fun, but not too much, the busses carry the scary warning that “disturbances are punishable by up to $750,000 in fines and up to 16 years in jail.” Now in Colorado a Class II felony (including 2nd degree murder) carries an average 27.2 year sentence, and with good behavior, one rarely serves more than half that time. If I wanted to do away with someone in Summit County, I would think long and hard on how to get them to create a transit disturbance.
In fact I overheard a disheveled local (a “ragged person” in Paul Simon parlance), recount that last St. Paddie’s Day, returning from the requisite revelry and belting out his favorite Irish ditties, the bus driver ordered him, not to stifle himself, but to exit the bus. When he protested, he was directed to the posted sign outlining potential consequences. I wonder if there is anywhere else on the planet where one can get hoosgowed for 20% of his lifespan for singing off key?
#####
Though it comes as no surprise, the demise of Tony Snow received (except from Fox) only minimal mention, while the requiem for Tim Russert lasted weeks. Like Russert, Snow was considered fair and was well respected, but of course being conservative, his passing was noted curtly by the mainstream media. The outrage is that an obit circulated by the AP and comments on the LA Times and Daily Kos blogs found it appropriate to take vile parting shots at the 53 year old father of three. Even in death…
#####
Despite calls from the Midwest for increased disaster relief, my phone has until recently remained silent. I am reminded of my Red Cross Katrina deployment at a holding operation in Montgomery, AL. For 4 days Red Cross officials told our milling throng of some 500 volunteers that there were no calls for assistance in the ravaged areas, while on a wide screen TV in the corner, Governors Barbour of Mississippi and Blanco of Louisiana were close to tears in their urgent pleas for help. FEMA wasn’t the only body overwhelmed by this natural tragedy.
But continuing problems in the Midwest and Dolly’s whack at Texas have shaken the tree a bit, and at the moment 3 firms have requested I stand by. So perhaps after nearly 6 months of “ployage” I will soon be de-ployed. Be still my heart.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
MONTANA 005
Absolutely zilch of general interest had been occurring in my world, and while that might suggest unlimited opportunities for blogging, the reality is that without meaningful things on which to discourse, one is forced to invent cute and witty vignettes and thus become as 99% of all bloggers. I resist inflicting inanities on those so generous as to accept my ministrations. And yet I recently received several e-mails inquiring as to the next post. Flattery works.
Then Mother Nature, perhaps as a warm-up to the impending hurricane season, wreaked floods and assorted tornados on the Midwest, creating the possibility of disaster response activity. My bag is packed.
And then Tim Russert died.
I must say, within my lifetime potentates and presidents have passed with less fanfare. The 24/7 news cycle screeched to a halt as the journalistic world scrambled to honor a giant among them. While it’s clear that there was added emphasis in homage to one of their own, it is equally apparent that Russert achieved a balance rarely found in modern reportage. He was surely a Democrat leaning liberal – he worked for Senator Daniel Patrick Monaghan and Gov. Mario Cuomo before embracing journalism, but he had that rare and fading ability to be tough and fair, incisive without being derisive, penetrating but not pompous, forceful but never vicious.
Although it’s arguable that all earthly departures are “untimely,” his apparent good health, boyish appearance, and age (58), brought the life/death cycle into clear focus, if only fleetingly.
Of all the stories, vignettes, and recollections tossed about over the weekend after his death, perhaps the most illuminating was an interview with Tom Brokaw promoting his most recent book, Wisdom of our Fathers. He speaks of a childhood devoid of play dates, summer camp, automobiles as sweet-16 birthday presents, and all the privileges now felt essential to shower upon children to insure their normal progression and guaranteed acceptance by the Ivy League.
He speaks instead of being a garbage man (sanitation worker, if you will) through 4 years of college, a job his father, Big Russ held, and which Russert came to respect even as he attended (on scholarship) a Jesuit high school with the sons of doctors and lawyers. Instead of teachers who worked overtime building self esteem, he recalls the priest who slammed him into a wall after some indiscretion, and when he asked for mercy, the priest replied, “God grants mercy; I administer justice.”
His passing also focuses on longevity, and suggests that a short life well lived will trump aging in mediocrity every day of the week.
#####
My recurring theme of the age of incivility has led me, quite by accident, to The Second Civil War, by Ronald Brownstein, which summarizes in 484 small-print pages the contention in my last blog that we are in an age of hyper-nastiness in American politics.
It is a fascinating, if heavy read, with historical documentation castigating both right and left (surprising, for a Los Angeles Times columnist), interweaving the excesses of Tom DeLay and the Daily Kos, Rush Limbaugh and Al Franken. He finds ample blame in every camp, though I must confess that I am not yet at the 2000-2008 chapters, which I suspect will fairly smolder with indignation.
Brownstein was more fair than I, as I attributed the current state of decline primarily to the left, when blame can and should be spread across the political spectrum. But he reaches an unsettling conclusion, at least in my interpretation, suggesting (perhaps inadvertently) that while periods of civility – he chops 150 years into 4 discreet packages, 2 of comity and 2 of incivility -- appear to be eras of good feeling, they often ill-serve the populace, as opposing views simply accommodate each other in order to gain acceptance of their own.
I may have to read the book again (once I have gotten through it the first time), but I believe his bottom line is that during periods of mean-spirited, backbiting, scorched-earth, take no prisoners politics, voters are treated to much clearer choices, and able to avoid the droppings of vast herds of un-gored oxen, rumbling through a society where everyone gets their way and no clear ideological path is discernable. So much for my “kinder and gentler” pleas.
#####
Over time I have derived some satisfaction, even pleasure, exposing the fallacy of certain “news” items, the most recent being Ronald Reagan’s trashing of George W. Bush as a moron and worse, which made planetary rounds at the speed of light and certainly brought untold glee to legions of the left. It happens that this was one of a plethora of “urban legends” that sound plausible but in fact are totally false.
Well, I have apparently been “gotcha-ed” by my reprinted “metaphors” supposedly taken from “real high school essays.” While I found them far more humorous than the typical fare I get sent in bulk e-mails, their true value was that these were (supposedly) high school kids stretching the limits of prose.
They actually came from a Washington Post Style Invitational in 1997, and while “supposedly” from high school essays, were almost certainly the product of fertile adult minds. While researching the subject I did find that a number of “respected” academic websites (I thought they all were) had reprinted the list as genuine. And so, Dear Diary, my ultimate humiliation, that of being lumped in with (shudder) respected academics.
#####
I am occasionally asked about the pathology of fretting over the lack of disasters that might otherwise afford me work. My best response is that I doubt emergency room staff go about praying for carnage, yet without same they would be out of business. And so, while I do not burn incense imploring Mother Nature to elevate and extend her wrath, I stand ready to pick up various bent and broken pieces of our national fabric rent asunder by natural or man (and woman)-made disasters. The excesses of the mighty Mississippi may afford that opportunity. Film at eleven.
Then Mother Nature, perhaps as a warm-up to the impending hurricane season, wreaked floods and assorted tornados on the Midwest, creating the possibility of disaster response activity. My bag is packed.
And then Tim Russert died.
I must say, within my lifetime potentates and presidents have passed with less fanfare. The 24/7 news cycle screeched to a halt as the journalistic world scrambled to honor a giant among them. While it’s clear that there was added emphasis in homage to one of their own, it is equally apparent that Russert achieved a balance rarely found in modern reportage. He was surely a Democrat leaning liberal – he worked for Senator Daniel Patrick Monaghan and Gov. Mario Cuomo before embracing journalism, but he had that rare and fading ability to be tough and fair, incisive without being derisive, penetrating but not pompous, forceful but never vicious.
Although it’s arguable that all earthly departures are “untimely,” his apparent good health, boyish appearance, and age (58), brought the life/death cycle into clear focus, if only fleetingly.
Of all the stories, vignettes, and recollections tossed about over the weekend after his death, perhaps the most illuminating was an interview with Tom Brokaw promoting his most recent book, Wisdom of our Fathers. He speaks of a childhood devoid of play dates, summer camp, automobiles as sweet-16 birthday presents, and all the privileges now felt essential to shower upon children to insure their normal progression and guaranteed acceptance by the Ivy League.
He speaks instead of being a garbage man (sanitation worker, if you will) through 4 years of college, a job his father, Big Russ held, and which Russert came to respect even as he attended (on scholarship) a Jesuit high school with the sons of doctors and lawyers. Instead of teachers who worked overtime building self esteem, he recalls the priest who slammed him into a wall after some indiscretion, and when he asked for mercy, the priest replied, “God grants mercy; I administer justice.”
His passing also focuses on longevity, and suggests that a short life well lived will trump aging in mediocrity every day of the week.
#####
My recurring theme of the age of incivility has led me, quite by accident, to The Second Civil War, by Ronald Brownstein, which summarizes in 484 small-print pages the contention in my last blog that we are in an age of hyper-nastiness in American politics.
It is a fascinating, if heavy read, with historical documentation castigating both right and left (surprising, for a Los Angeles Times columnist), interweaving the excesses of Tom DeLay and the Daily Kos, Rush Limbaugh and Al Franken. He finds ample blame in every camp, though I must confess that I am not yet at the 2000-2008 chapters, which I suspect will fairly smolder with indignation.
Brownstein was more fair than I, as I attributed the current state of decline primarily to the left, when blame can and should be spread across the political spectrum. But he reaches an unsettling conclusion, at least in my interpretation, suggesting (perhaps inadvertently) that while periods of civility – he chops 150 years into 4 discreet packages, 2 of comity and 2 of incivility -- appear to be eras of good feeling, they often ill-serve the populace, as opposing views simply accommodate each other in order to gain acceptance of their own.
I may have to read the book again (once I have gotten through it the first time), but I believe his bottom line is that during periods of mean-spirited, backbiting, scorched-earth, take no prisoners politics, voters are treated to much clearer choices, and able to avoid the droppings of vast herds of un-gored oxen, rumbling through a society where everyone gets their way and no clear ideological path is discernable. So much for my “kinder and gentler” pleas.
#####
Over time I have derived some satisfaction, even pleasure, exposing the fallacy of certain “news” items, the most recent being Ronald Reagan’s trashing of George W. Bush as a moron and worse, which made planetary rounds at the speed of light and certainly brought untold glee to legions of the left. It happens that this was one of a plethora of “urban legends” that sound plausible but in fact are totally false.
Well, I have apparently been “gotcha-ed” by my reprinted “metaphors” supposedly taken from “real high school essays.” While I found them far more humorous than the typical fare I get sent in bulk e-mails, their true value was that these were (supposedly) high school kids stretching the limits of prose.
They actually came from a Washington Post Style Invitational in 1997, and while “supposedly” from high school essays, were almost certainly the product of fertile adult minds. While researching the subject I did find that a number of “respected” academic websites (I thought they all were) had reprinted the list as genuine. And so, Dear Diary, my ultimate humiliation, that of being lumped in with (shudder) respected academics.
#####
I am occasionally asked about the pathology of fretting over the lack of disasters that might otherwise afford me work. My best response is that I doubt emergency room staff go about praying for carnage, yet without same they would be out of business. And so, while I do not burn incense imploring Mother Nature to elevate and extend her wrath, I stand ready to pick up various bent and broken pieces of our national fabric rent asunder by natural or man (and woman)-made disasters. The excesses of the mighty Mississippi may afford that opportunity. Film at eleven.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
MONTANA 004
My first job ever was in management. At age 14, with no portfolio whatsoever I became day manager of a Dairy Queen, which provides a clue as to how desperate were the two brothers-in-law, belatedly realizing just 3 months after their impulsive purchase that this was not the path to untold riches foretold in the franchising brochure.
My second foray into the business world was the less inspiring delivery of telephone books. I was recruited off the playground in the closing days of fifth grade to work with Ray, a gaunt, seedy and very creepy type with pencil mustache, who projected an air that kept me sitting with legs tightly clamped together in the front seat of his 49 Chevy.
And so another circle has rounded the third quadrant and is heading for home as I, a half century later, again found myself delivering “the book”, not the Yellow Book, the Other Book. As I have grown a bit, so has the book (proportionally much greater), and there are now a plethora (consistently pointed out by recipients, “My God, not another one?”)
And while I won’t suggest the modest compensation was unappreciated, other factors, those obvious and others to become so, factored into my decision.
After paying some dues slogging through snowy trailer parks and dank college-student apartment buildings, I was treated to long drives through some of the planet’s most dazzling geography. I made it half way to Canada, crossing again and again the Yellowstone river, ending in White Sulphur Springs. Then south to the Wyoming border and Yellowstone, crossing again and again the magnificent Madison, where solitary anglers caught early spring rays looking to entice winter-starved fish. Spectacular snow-capped mountain ranges everywhere.
And along the way some delightful Americana:
The (apparently) one-room Pine Creek school, where the teacher, cute as a button (odd phrase, that) and looking all of 15-years old, replied to my question “is this really a one-room school?” with “Oh no, Sir we have two rooms and a Biology lab in the basement.” She looked as proud as the headmaster of any Charter School, and likely more accomplished at imparting basic education to her charges.
Rural libraries, sans computers and A/V rooms, where youngsters sat enthralled by the pictures in 20th century artifacts called “books.”
Small towns with one gas station, a small grocery, and 3 bars, by late afternoon packed with locals who likely sat astride the same stool since FDR’s CCC was paving their main street, and still discussing whether that bit of “progress” was, indeed so.
The all-in-one: gas station, grocery, liquor store, feed warehouse, and U. S. Post Office; although most villages now sport shiny new Postal emporiums that vastly outclass all other local real estate and are as out of place as would be a Starbucks.
The sad elderly, who, the minute I would (attempt to silently) place the book-enclosed plastic bag on the door knob, thrust open the door, act as though this “gift” was the year’s most exciting, and implore (beg) me to alight for tea. Post boxes are now at street level, avoiding unnecessary walks for Postal employees, and time-wasting encounters with our forgotten citizens. (I know a retired “letter carrier” (as they were known in pre-PC days) who was consistently admonished for being late on his route, as he insisted on stopping to exchange pleasantries with the aged, infirmed, and housebound).
…and various wonderful locals with comments like: “I don’t have a phone, but these burn well in winter”…”when my husband died they took our name of the of the book, so I won’t have one in my home any more”…”why are some pages yellow? Can’t you make them green for the environment?”…and my favorite, “my dog loves your book. He won’t go on anything else.”
#####
Amidst this excitement I threw on a tie, hopped aboard a Horizon Air prop plane painted yellow and orange by in celebration of not having flown recently into a mountain, and departed for Seattle, where I addressed the State Emergency Operations Center as an SME (subject matter expert) on a Subject whose Matter I was somewhat familiar with but not necessarily Expert. Anyway, I was asked back, the consultant’s equivalent of a standing ovation.
I reflect that such peripatetic hopping about is a recurring theme of my life, having once transmogrified in short order from the Director of U. S. Government Pavilions at international trade shows to a humble itinerant wandering aimlessly through Europe in a VW camper, taking up embroidery to fill long days. Variety for me may be the spice(s) of life, with short wiffs of curry, cumin, cinnamon, and rosemary in quick succession. Makes for interesting fare.
#####
I’m not a smoker, had my last on March 13, 1977, and I do enjoy the improved air quality in bars and restaurants from Dublin to Paris, London to Rome, and now increasingly here at home. But I wonder if we are not forgetting the lessons of Prohibition, where far more chaos was wrecked in the forbiddance than the permissiveness.
Governing bodies have struggled for centuries with bans of various stripe, and typically are no more successful here than in other areas of social conformance. There are places in America where the cultivation of a few marijuana plants can yield a stiffer sentence than for murder, especially if the violent criminal has had a difficult childhood and finds a good lawyer.
The issue is more complex than many would care to admit. Why should I care if some biker wears a helmet? Well, every time I get a hospital bill that charges me $15 for a 25-cent disposable thermometer, I care, understanding that the price is inflated by the care provided to uninsured bikers.
But soon, one way or the other, we will have universal health care, where no one need worry about such trivial issues as cost. Issues of quality may replace those concerns, but then we must pay a price for progress. I have walked the dark, dingy, halls of British hospitals, and was fed aspirin for a week by a French dentist who did not possess the skill to diagnose that I had a tooth cracked to the root, so I know something of which I speak.
#####
And more metaphors taken from actual high school student essays:
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
Even in his last years Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut
Next time I will be somewhere else...the adventure continues...
My second foray into the business world was the less inspiring delivery of telephone books. I was recruited off the playground in the closing days of fifth grade to work with Ray, a gaunt, seedy and very creepy type with pencil mustache, who projected an air that kept me sitting with legs tightly clamped together in the front seat of his 49 Chevy.
And so another circle has rounded the third quadrant and is heading for home as I, a half century later, again found myself delivering “the book”, not the Yellow Book, the Other Book. As I have grown a bit, so has the book (proportionally much greater), and there are now a plethora (consistently pointed out by recipients, “My God, not another one?”)
And while I won’t suggest the modest compensation was unappreciated, other factors, those obvious and others to become so, factored into my decision.
After paying some dues slogging through snowy trailer parks and dank college-student apartment buildings, I was treated to long drives through some of the planet’s most dazzling geography. I made it half way to Canada, crossing again and again the Yellowstone river, ending in White Sulphur Springs. Then south to the Wyoming border and Yellowstone, crossing again and again the magnificent Madison, where solitary anglers caught early spring rays looking to entice winter-starved fish. Spectacular snow-capped mountain ranges everywhere.
And along the way some delightful Americana:
The (apparently) one-room Pine Creek school, where the teacher, cute as a button (odd phrase, that) and looking all of 15-years old, replied to my question “is this really a one-room school?” with “Oh no, Sir we have two rooms and a Biology lab in the basement.” She looked as proud as the headmaster of any Charter School, and likely more accomplished at imparting basic education to her charges.
Rural libraries, sans computers and A/V rooms, where youngsters sat enthralled by the pictures in 20th century artifacts called “books.”
Small towns with one gas station, a small grocery, and 3 bars, by late afternoon packed with locals who likely sat astride the same stool since FDR’s CCC was paving their main street, and still discussing whether that bit of “progress” was, indeed so.
The all-in-one: gas station, grocery, liquor store, feed warehouse, and U. S. Post Office; although most villages now sport shiny new Postal emporiums that vastly outclass all other local real estate and are as out of place as would be a Starbucks.
The sad elderly, who, the minute I would (attempt to silently) place the book-enclosed plastic bag on the door knob, thrust open the door, act as though this “gift” was the year’s most exciting, and implore (beg) me to alight for tea. Post boxes are now at street level, avoiding unnecessary walks for Postal employees, and time-wasting encounters with our forgotten citizens. (I know a retired “letter carrier” (as they were known in pre-PC days) who was consistently admonished for being late on his route, as he insisted on stopping to exchange pleasantries with the aged, infirmed, and housebound).
…and various wonderful locals with comments like: “I don’t have a phone, but these burn well in winter”…”when my husband died they took our name of the of the book, so I won’t have one in my home any more”…”why are some pages yellow? Can’t you make them green for the environment?”…and my favorite, “my dog loves your book. He won’t go on anything else.”
#####
Amidst this excitement I threw on a tie, hopped aboard a Horizon Air prop plane painted yellow and orange by in celebration of not having flown recently into a mountain, and departed for Seattle, where I addressed the State Emergency Operations Center as an SME (subject matter expert) on a Subject whose Matter I was somewhat familiar with but not necessarily Expert. Anyway, I was asked back, the consultant’s equivalent of a standing ovation.
I reflect that such peripatetic hopping about is a recurring theme of my life, having once transmogrified in short order from the Director of U. S. Government Pavilions at international trade shows to a humble itinerant wandering aimlessly through Europe in a VW camper, taking up embroidery to fill long days. Variety for me may be the spice(s) of life, with short wiffs of curry, cumin, cinnamon, and rosemary in quick succession. Makes for interesting fare.
#####
I’m not a smoker, had my last on March 13, 1977, and I do enjoy the improved air quality in bars and restaurants from Dublin to Paris, London to Rome, and now increasingly here at home. But I wonder if we are not forgetting the lessons of Prohibition, where far more chaos was wrecked in the forbiddance than the permissiveness.
Governing bodies have struggled for centuries with bans of various stripe, and typically are no more successful here than in other areas of social conformance. There are places in America where the cultivation of a few marijuana plants can yield a stiffer sentence than for murder, especially if the violent criminal has had a difficult childhood and finds a good lawyer.
The issue is more complex than many would care to admit. Why should I care if some biker wears a helmet? Well, every time I get a hospital bill that charges me $15 for a 25-cent disposable thermometer, I care, understanding that the price is inflated by the care provided to uninsured bikers.
But soon, one way or the other, we will have universal health care, where no one need worry about such trivial issues as cost. Issues of quality may replace those concerns, but then we must pay a price for progress. I have walked the dark, dingy, halls of British hospitals, and was fed aspirin for a week by a French dentist who did not possess the skill to diagnose that I had a tooth cracked to the root, so I know something of which I speak.
#####
And more metaphors taken from actual high school student essays:
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
Even in his last years Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut
Next time I will be somewhere else...the adventure continues...
Sunday, April 20, 2008
MONTANA 003
I can’t believe I missed it. Actually, I can’t believe my liberal acquaintances allowed me to miss it. Grace of my newfound relationship with the Public Library, I recently read Garrison Keillor’s Homegrown Democrat. And I thought that after Running with Scissors, nothing new could induce the high vapors.
Published just before the 2004 presidential election, and undoubtedly intended to influence it, the book accomplishes what together Air America, Move-On.org, the Times’ of NY and LA, and Media Matters have been unable to achieve. The normally passive Minnesotan stages an attack on Republicans that words like savage, vicious, spiteful, and malicious cannot begin to accurately portray. Lest you think I exaggerate:
“The party of Lincoln and Liberty was transmogrified into the party of hairy-backed swamp developers and corporate shills, faith-based economists, fundamentalist bullies with Bibles, Christians of convenience, freelance racists, misanthropic frat boys, shrieking midgets of AM radio, tax cheats, nihilists in golf pants, brownshirts in pinstripes, sweatshop tycoons, hacks, fakirs, aggressive dorks, Lamborghini libertarians, people who believe Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk was filmed in Roswell, New Mexico, little honkers out to diminish the rest of us, Newt’s evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man suspicious of the free flow of information and of secular institutions, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk. Republicans: The No.1 reason the rest of the world thinks we’re deaf, dumb and dangerous.”
Keillor is described as an obsessive workaholic on the road some 32 weeks a year who arrives on location with Prairie Home Companion entourage on Monday, and stays locked in a hotel room subsisting on fast food and writing his Saturday script until emerging sometime Thursday for rehearsal. He rarely smiles. Little wonder. Homegrown Democrat clearly shows that this American wit has lost his grasp of humor.
Now I can visualize the smirks and a bit of giddiness out there, but look for a moment at what we have here. Keillor makes abundantly clear, consistently throughout the book that he is talking not about Bush, Gingrich, DeLay and Company, but all Republicans. He allows that there may have been a few passable ones around the time of Lincoln, but they’re long dead, and not since Teddy Roosevelt has there been a smidgen of compassion or basic humanity in the black hearts (Republicans apparently don’t have souls) of any who associate with the Grand Old Party.
Be ye liberal and excessively so, (and assuming this weapon does not already grace a prominent position on your bookshelf) you should run, not walk, to Barnes & Noble or your favorite used bookshop – the library won’t do, as you’ll surely want to read and re-read, then circulate it to all your friends, and yes, place it between the covers on cold winter nights as it will surely warm your toes as it has your psyche. Others may find the library an acceptable alternative and thus not be confronted with disposal options at its conclusion.
I recall in my lifetime when great political orators like Everitt McKinley Dirkson, James William Fulbright, Robert C. Byrd, Daniel Patrick Moynahan, Mike Mansfield, Howard Baker, and a legion of others could argue for hours with passion and conviction, and then repair to Jim Wright’s commodious House office for bourbon and branchwater, further debate, and finally, in comity, to hammer out a compromise acceptable to all and good for the Nation. And they went away proud of their accomplishments and not incensed over what they had given up.
Somewhere at some time all that changed. I trace the beginning of the end to January 3, 1995, when, after 40 solid years of Democrat legislative rule, the other guys finally got a chance. And it has been downhill from that date. It seems that the folks who ruled the playground were in no mood to share, and that has led to what we have today, a mentality (on both sides of the political aisle) where “my team is perfect and the other side is composed of naught but scum-sucking low lifes”.
I find this not promising for the Nation nor any of its individual constituencies. Screeds are not helpful to a national dialogue. We are becoming more like the Bloods and the Crips, the Jets and the Sharks. No one wins in gang warfare. Not for long, anyway.
Those wishing a more reasoned dialogue might read Daniel Patrick Moynahan’s Miles to Go. The (now departed) New York Senator was considered one of the twentieth century’s most liberal politicians, yet he was a scholar, a statesman, a great thinker and master of compromise. He was what we were; now we are Keillor. Those were the days, my friends.
#####
There was a time I found it unsettling to so enjoy the immense musical talents of Streisand and the sparkling humor of Keillor, when their personal views seemed so shaped by hatred and single-minded values. And then it came to me that in the same way that the physically challenged find compensation elsewhere – the blind with an acute sense of smell, the deaf with exceptional sight or touch, and the mentally challenged, sometimes called savants, who can multiply eight-digit numbers accurately to six decimal places -- Mother Nature (or your preferred deity) has elected to compensate for deficiencies by assigning advantages.
And so it must be that great artistic talents are penalized in other areas. This surely explains Hollywood, and allows me to freely enjoy the strains of “The Way We Were” or the Sunday humor of Prairie Home Companion.
#####
And, as promised, more metaphors chosen from actual high school essays:
“They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with a picket fence that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.”
“The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.”
…the adventure continues…
Published just before the 2004 presidential election, and undoubtedly intended to influence it, the book accomplishes what together Air America, Move-On.org, the Times’ of NY and LA, and Media Matters have been unable to achieve. The normally passive Minnesotan stages an attack on Republicans that words like savage, vicious, spiteful, and malicious cannot begin to accurately portray. Lest you think I exaggerate:
“The party of Lincoln and Liberty was transmogrified into the party of hairy-backed swamp developers and corporate shills, faith-based economists, fundamentalist bullies with Bibles, Christians of convenience, freelance racists, misanthropic frat boys, shrieking midgets of AM radio, tax cheats, nihilists in golf pants, brownshirts in pinstripes, sweatshop tycoons, hacks, fakirs, aggressive dorks, Lamborghini libertarians, people who believe Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk was filmed in Roswell, New Mexico, little honkers out to diminish the rest of us, Newt’s evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man suspicious of the free flow of information and of secular institutions, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk. Republicans: The No.1 reason the rest of the world thinks we’re deaf, dumb and dangerous.”
Keillor is described as an obsessive workaholic on the road some 32 weeks a year who arrives on location with Prairie Home Companion entourage on Monday, and stays locked in a hotel room subsisting on fast food and writing his Saturday script until emerging sometime Thursday for rehearsal. He rarely smiles. Little wonder. Homegrown Democrat clearly shows that this American wit has lost his grasp of humor.
Now I can visualize the smirks and a bit of giddiness out there, but look for a moment at what we have here. Keillor makes abundantly clear, consistently throughout the book that he is talking not about Bush, Gingrich, DeLay and Company, but all Republicans. He allows that there may have been a few passable ones around the time of Lincoln, but they’re long dead, and not since Teddy Roosevelt has there been a smidgen of compassion or basic humanity in the black hearts (Republicans apparently don’t have souls) of any who associate with the Grand Old Party.
Be ye liberal and excessively so, (and assuming this weapon does not already grace a prominent position on your bookshelf) you should run, not walk, to Barnes & Noble or your favorite used bookshop – the library won’t do, as you’ll surely want to read and re-read, then circulate it to all your friends, and yes, place it between the covers on cold winter nights as it will surely warm your toes as it has your psyche. Others may find the library an acceptable alternative and thus not be confronted with disposal options at its conclusion.
I recall in my lifetime when great political orators like Everitt McKinley Dirkson, James William Fulbright, Robert C. Byrd, Daniel Patrick Moynahan, Mike Mansfield, Howard Baker, and a legion of others could argue for hours with passion and conviction, and then repair to Jim Wright’s commodious House office for bourbon and branchwater, further debate, and finally, in comity, to hammer out a compromise acceptable to all and good for the Nation. And they went away proud of their accomplishments and not incensed over what they had given up.
Somewhere at some time all that changed. I trace the beginning of the end to January 3, 1995, when, after 40 solid years of Democrat legislative rule, the other guys finally got a chance. And it has been downhill from that date. It seems that the folks who ruled the playground were in no mood to share, and that has led to what we have today, a mentality (on both sides of the political aisle) where “my team is perfect and the other side is composed of naught but scum-sucking low lifes”.
I find this not promising for the Nation nor any of its individual constituencies. Screeds are not helpful to a national dialogue. We are becoming more like the Bloods and the Crips, the Jets and the Sharks. No one wins in gang warfare. Not for long, anyway.
Those wishing a more reasoned dialogue might read Daniel Patrick Moynahan’s Miles to Go. The (now departed) New York Senator was considered one of the twentieth century’s most liberal politicians, yet he was a scholar, a statesman, a great thinker and master of compromise. He was what we were; now we are Keillor. Those were the days, my friends.
#####
There was a time I found it unsettling to so enjoy the immense musical talents of Streisand and the sparkling humor of Keillor, when their personal views seemed so shaped by hatred and single-minded values. And then it came to me that in the same way that the physically challenged find compensation elsewhere – the blind with an acute sense of smell, the deaf with exceptional sight or touch, and the mentally challenged, sometimes called savants, who can multiply eight-digit numbers accurately to six decimal places -- Mother Nature (or your preferred deity) has elected to compensate for deficiencies by assigning advantages.
And so it must be that great artistic talents are penalized in other areas. This surely explains Hollywood, and allows me to freely enjoy the strains of “The Way We Were” or the Sunday humor of Prairie Home Companion.
#####
And, as promised, more metaphors chosen from actual high school essays:
“They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with a picket fence that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.”
“The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.”
…the adventure continues…
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