All Fecked Up

Feck-less [fek-lis]
-adjective
1. ineffective; incompetent; futile: feckless attempts to repair the plumbing.
2. having no sense of responsibility; indifferent; lazy.

Craze knows how to post pictures to her blog; I’m not as advanced. If I were, I could have made a picture worth the seventeen descriptive words above, and posted a picture of Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi side by side. It seems appropriate. They must have pictures of someone, or they wouldn’t have their current jobs.

Dubya won the 2000 election (depending on who you ask) with less than fifty percent of the popular vote, and proceeded to run the country like the Lady of the Lake had directed him to pull Excalibur directly form Dick Cheney’s head. “Dictator” is too strong a word; “king” is not inappropriate. Dubya considered the federal government his personal candy store. The only thing he would have changed would be to allow him to appoint Congress, not that either house gave him much grief.

Pelosi and Reid rode a groundswell of popular sentiment into their current jobs. The country had not been poised for a dramatic change since Ronald Reagan was elected in 1980. The war in Iraq was the key issue; ethics, pork, and the continual erosion of what we had all assumed to be ineradicable rights were close behind. Democratically majorities were elected in both houses of Congress, largely to effect change in those four areas. Pelosi and Reid were handed mandates to make it so.

Let’s see how they’ve done, six months after the election, with four-plus months of governing under their belts.

Iraq – We were promised no more blank checks for Bush’s war. This week’s emergency war funding appropriation bill showed how that worked out. Dubya rolled and bitch slapped Harry and Nan like a Baltimore pimp reminding two hoes who’s boss.

Ethics – There’s not a lot of noise being made about it, but Democrats are quietly debating to eviscerate their own bill. The end result will be some window dressing they can campaign on; nothing material will change dramatically.

Pork-barrel spending – The death knell for that reform was sounded before the Speaker’s an Majority Leader’s chairs had even been reshaped with new butt prints. Pork was included in the original emergency war funding bill, virtually the first piece of legislation they sent to the White House. “All previous emergency was appropriations had some pork,” they cried in their own (feeble) defense. True, but you were elected to be different.
Constitutional rights – Lots of hearings and hand wringing and finger pointing has taken place. Seen any legislation? This is the one freebie they got, as revoking the sections of the Patriot and Military Commissions Acts wouldn’t cost a cent.

Leadership? Hell, these two political bimbos can’t even follow directions.

Bust Out

Representative democracy is the most fragile form of government. Its survival depends on the good will and intentions of all its participants: voters, elected officials, appointed officials (who are, after all, elected officials once removed), and the hired help of civil servants, plus uniformed military and paramilitary organizations. (Think “police” when you read “paramilitary,” not “Posse Comitatus” or “Aryan League.”)

Disagreements and power shifts are inherent parts of such a democracy. The means through which these take place are what separates a legitimate democracy from a banana republic. Laws and ethics rules can only go so far. A level of common sense fair play must be observed by all participants for any democracy to flourish, or even survive for long.

The levels to which contract has been breached by the Bush Administration and recent Republican “leadership” are only now becoming evident. Today’s case in point: recess appointments.

Recess appointments serve a valuable function, allowing the president to replace sensitive positions while Congress is away, when waiting for their return would be detrimental to the nation’s interest. Not as important as they once were, when gathering a quorum might take a couple of weeks once Congress had scattered to the four corners of the continent, they still serve a valuable function.

It has recently been pointed out that seventeen 2006 recess appointments so blatantly disregarded their accepted purpose as to negate any protestations of good will by the Bush Administration, or their congressional dupes. (Click here for details.)

Creating a bogus forty-one second congressional session for the sole purpose of subverting established laws and principles can most charitably be described as despicable. It is abhorrent to the concepts of fair play and tolerance of opposing viewpoints that democracy depends on for its life blood. Key elements of the Republican party leadership – George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Tom DeLay, Bill Frist, John Boehner, Dennis Hastert, Karl Rove (unelected, but still culpable) – have treated the world’s longest-standing democracy, previously the gold standard for emerging nations everywhere, as their personal inventory, suitable for dispensing as they alone see fit.

The Sopranos would call it a “bust out.” The Mafia does it all the time. Weasel your way into a legitimate business by any means necessary. Order whatever you want, on credit, with no intention of paying the bills. Treat the inventory as personal possessions. Replace the workers with cronies and relatives. It doesn’t matter that the jobs won’t last long; they’ll just move on to the next feeding trough when the time comes.

Over two hundred years of democracy, treated with the care and respect of David Scatino’s sporting goods store. At least Tony Soprano tried to warn David off.

If It's Good for the Goose

The Literary Correspondent and I often disagree on matters political. This one is merits a lot of thought as something I could sign on to and feel quite good about it.

SOCIAL SECURITY:

(This is worth reading. It is short and to the point.)

Perhaps we are asking the wrong questions during election years. Our Senators and Congresswomen do not pay into Social Security and, of course, they do not collect from it.

You see, Social Security benefits were not suitable for persons of their rare elevation in society. They felt they should have a special plan for themselves. So, many years ago they voted in their own benefit plan. In more recent years, no congressperson has felt the need to change it. After all, it is a great plan.

For all practical purposes their plan works like this:

When they retire, they continue to draw the same pay until they die, except for occasional cost of living adjustments.

For example, Senator Byrd and Congressman White and their wives may expect to draw $7,800,000.00 (that's Seven Million, Eight-Hundred Thousand Dollars), with their wives drawing $275,000.00 during the last years of their lives.

This is calculated on an average life span for each of those two Dignitaries.

Younger Dignitaries who retire at an early age, will receive much more during the rest of their lives. (Editor’s Note: That seems a bit high. Senators currently make $165,200 annually. At that rate it would take 47 years to accumulate the $7.8 million figure notes above. Even allowing for cost-of-living and benefits, I doubt Byrd will be around that long. It’s still a substantial pension plan.)

Their cost for this excellent plan is $0.00. NADA..! ZILCH...

This little perk they voted for themselves is free to them. You and I pick up the tab for this plan. The funds for this fine retirement plan come directly from the General Funds.

From our own Social Security Plan, which you and I pay (or have paid) into, every payday until we retire (which amount is matched by our employer), we can expect to get an average of $1,000 per month after retirement. (Editor’s Note: Figure based on what an average wage earner has paid into the system. Does not include Medicare. Still, no one’s looking forward to retirement just so they can live on what Social Security will pay them, and everyone will take a pay cut. Except for Congress.)

Or, in other words, we would have to collect our average of $1,000 monthly benefits for 68 years and one (1) month to equal Senator! Bill Bradley's benefits!

Social Security could be very good if only one small change were made. That change would be to:

Jerk the Golden Fleece Retirement Plan from under the Senators and Congressmen. Put them into the Social Security plan with the rest of us.

Then sit back and see how fast they would fix it.

Editor’s Note: Given their jobs, and responsibility that comes with them, being generous to Congressmen isn’t a bad idea. However, the lives of elected officials have become so far removed from the daily regularities of their constituents, it’s not surprising many heralded “solutions” don’t work well for the general population. Letting Congress live with some of the same consequences of their actions as do the rest of us – let’s throw day care into the mix, as well – might be a nice way of keeping them attached to life as We know it. Getting rid of motorcades would be a nice, and inexpensive, start. Let them see what it’s like to have to live their lives taking into consideration how long it will take to get everywhere they have to go when they’re deciding what to do about transportation funding.

Home of the Brave?

I was recently in a government office building where I saw a sign notifying all employees to remove their identification badges when they left the building.

Has there been a spate of government employee abductions or attacks on the streets of Washington that the mainstream media has covered up? Or is this just another sign of America’s growing timidity? Even worse, is this an attempt by the Bush Administration to keep people just afraid enough to preserve that last, desperate thirty percent of approval?

I thought we were fighting the terrorists in Iraq so they wouldn’t follow us home and make us do things like this Stateside. If the United States is so unsafe that government employees should be afraid to reveal themselves as such outside a secure environment, maybe we should bring the troops home to defend us here.

I know, I’m a liberal pussy. At least I’m not afraid to wear my ID in public.

Irving Godt, 1923 - 2006

Irving Godt died on December 6, 2006. That name won’t mean much to all but a lucky few of you. Those of us who crossed paths with Irv are better off for it, whether we know it or not.

Irv Godt taught music history at Indiana University of Pennsylvania for thirty-three years. Those who had him for an instructor dreaded his class. Irv was notorious for the amount of preparation he demanded from all his students. The supplement he prepared for study purposes was over six hundred pages long. Not the book; the supplement.

I never had him for a class. I had a much better deal. Needing some spending money as a student, I got a job as Irv’s assistant, pulling down $1.75 an hour to help him to prepare and print the supplements, and be the music history departmental gofer. That meant I got to talk with him about a multitude of things beyond music.

I was too young to appreciate him completely. A small gargoyle of a man, Irv’s idea of big yucks was to gather half a dozen lounging students into his office, shut the door, and pass out dirty Elizabethan madrigals for us to sing. Much of what he had to offer went over my nineteen-year-old head. My loss. I should have been paying him, and a lot more than $1.75 an hour.

It always surprised us as students that the odd-looking little man in the basement office had an international reputation as a musicologist. Even today, Googling “Irving Godt” will return over 58,000 hits. He wrote books, gave lectures, and conducted the Pittsburgh Madrigal Society for years. He was far more appreciated away from IUP than in it, but he never left.

It was Irv Godt who taught me that you will never lack for someone to help you if they know you’re willing to do the work yourself. It sounds like common sense looking back thirty-plus years, but no one ever gave me a more valuable, or useful, piece of advice.

I was beyond lucky at IUP to get to work with some wonderful teachers, who had dedicated their lives to training young musicians, with skills and patience far beyond what would be expected from what some disdainfully call the “other” Indiana. Hugh Johnson. Dan DiCicco. Charlie Davis. Bob Lloyd. Charles Casavant. No one there taught me, or anyone willing to listen, more than Irving Godt. He was a rare person, one I hadn’t seen or spoken to (aside from a letter) in over twenty years, but I miss the idea than I won’t have the chance anymore.

Thanks, Dr. Godt.

Inside Man

Among the “benefits” of being fifty-one years old and the owner of a hemorrhoid and family history of colon cancer is the necessity for occasional colonoscopies. (For those of you not well versed in the intricacies of invasive medical procedures, a colonoscopy involves sending a fiber optic tube approximately 75 feet up your ass to take pictures of your innards. Think I exaggerate? It wasn’t your asshole.)

The first impression I got of yesterday’s procedure was the warning that the laxative I had to drink should be ingested through a straw, “to get it past the taste buds.” Doesn’t that sound promising? I hadn’t tasted anything this nasty since Lady Voldemort and I went our separate ways.

There’s more to do than just drinking Liquid Plumber for Humans. My pre-procedure fast lasted forty-two hours. That’s a long time for a 240-pound man. Calling it a “fast” is a misnomer; time had not moved this slowly since I left Lady Voldemort. (I know, that’s two paragraphs in a row. Having things shoved up my ass must bring her to mind.)

Forty-two hours doesn’t seem like much compared to Gandhi’s hunger strikes, but look at the context. Gandhi didn’t weigh a buck-twenty-five, even if his diaper was wet. I need twice as much food just to maintain weight. Plus, food obviously takes a more elevated place in my pantheon of pleasures than his. (That’s why I weigh 240, right?)

Aside from that, what did Gandhi eat, and how much of a sacrifice was it to skip three, four, or fifty meals? To me, anything eaten that doesn’t have at least some meat in it is a snack, not a meal. My relatively brief fast allowed cattle to sleep easier than anything since the advent of Chick Fil-A.

So it’s the morning of the procedure. I’m starving, and my butt’s been wiped more times than Tom Cruise has been asked to come out of the closet. I talk to the doctor for a few minutes, and he steps out of sight and gets quiet. For all I know he left the room. Just about the time I start to wonder when the hell they’re going to get this show on the road, the nurse offers me something to drink.

It’s over. I missed it. The anesthesia was so quick and so good, I didn’t even have to count backward from one hundred. If I did, I don’t remember it. Nothing to complain about here, right? An invasive procedure rendered so painless I missed it. Couldn’t be better.

Maybe. Problem is, did I get scoped at all? Sure, they gave me color pictures. What difference does that make? Could you pick your colon out of a photo array? For all I know, they could have played tic-tac-toe on my bare ass with felt-tipped pens. It’s not like I can see back there.

It’s all about trust. (Let’s face it, if pulling down your pants and allowing strangers to knock you out without any supervision isn’t all about trust, I don’t know what is.) The good news is that recent advances in technology have allowed them to make the fiber optic tubes both longer, and more flexible. So now I not only know my colon is clean, I don’t have any cavities, either.

Be Careful What You Ask For

Barack Obama has spent the past several months becoming the unstoppable force du jour in the Democratic Party’s presidential field. Obama makes a good candidate: he’s young, he’s bright, his speeches don’t sound like we heard it all before (which is what I think Joe Biden meant when he called Obama “articulate”).

Obama’s a person of color, but not so much color he’ll offend too many in the powerful White Bread voting bloc. Some of his alleged peers don’t think he’s black enough; if they’d prefer four more years of the Republic Party’s “compassion,” less power to them.

There’s one thing to consider before the Obama train leaves the station. It’s a name not often associated with him, belonging to a person who can provide an important lesson on the pitfalls of voting for someone before you know enough about him: John McCain.

I’ll admit to having been in the tank for McCain. I voted for him twice in 2000: I crossed over to vote in the Republic primary, then wrote him in during the general election. I admired his straight talk, and his willingness to break with party orthodoxy. Six months ago, I couldn’t wait to vote for him again.

Boy, is my face red.

McCain has devoted 2007 to proving he is the basest kind of political whore, so overcome by ambition he’ll say anything, to anybody, if he thinks there’s a vote in it. Hillary Clinton is justly vilified for her constant triangulation; McCain has slipped into the realm of quadrangulation.

First he sucked up to those who stabbed him in the back in 2000. “Good politics,” was the justification. “He’ll tack toward the center for the general election.” Wrong answer. What made McCain special was his ability to portray himself as apart from politics as usual. That’s why so many Democrats crossed over for him. It’s a sad commentary on the American electorate that we only remember what a candidate said five minutes ago, and twenty years ago. What is said during the primaries to get the fringes to vote – from the left or right – apparently doesn’t count come November.

Then there was last week’s horrifying interview with the New York Times. When asked for his position on the Iraq war, McCain said, “I have no Plan B,” which meant, in that context, no alternative to victory.

McCain elaborates in the next paragraph. Quoting from the Times :

He said that if the Bush administration's plan had not produced visible signs of progress by the time a McCain presidency began, he might be forced—if only by the will of public opinion—to end American involvement in Iraq.
"I do believe that history shows us Americans will not continue to support an overseas engagement involving the loss of American lives for an unlimited period unless they see some success," he said. "And then, when they run out of patience, they will demand that we get out."

McCain will cut and run if politics demands. How is this different from the Democrat’s "reckless"… game of "small politics" that "gives them an advantage in the next election" while denying "our soldiers the means to prevent an American defeat." (Excerpt taken from Slate magazine, quoting McCain’s recent speech at VMI.) It’s not. So much for character.

I’m not comparing Obama to McCain; that would be worse than racism. I’m just saying I’d like to see him around for a bit to gauge the level of his ambition before going all in on him.

Politics at Its Worst

Is there anything lower than Hillary Clinton’s contortionist triangulations? Or John McCain’s outright duplicity on the war? Pikers, both of them. Rank amateurs.

Are you already growing tired of the 2008 presidential campaign, even though it’s only mid-April of 2007? Sick of the self-serving and disingenuous statements each candidate feels obligated to trot out on a regular basis? That’s nothing compared to what you’re about to be subjected to until January of 2013, when the Baseball Hall of Fame votes on whether Barry Bonds should be included.

A seminal event occurred last January that transformed Barry’s personality. (An external event is the only thing seminal left to Barry, given the years of steroid abuse.) What could it be? The birth of a child? The death of someone close to him? A near-tragic experience of his own? We’re getting warmer. Hall of Fame voters passed over Mark McGwire for admission.

On paper, McGwire was more than qualified. 583 home runs, 12 All-Star games, 3 Silver Slugger Awards. He led his league in home runs 4 times and is the all-time leader in fewest at bats per home run. (Bonds is third, behind Babe Ruth.) That’s an HOF resume, but McGwire didn’t get close. Why not?

The S-word.

McGwire looked like an idiot testifying before Congress, parsing his words like a Bush press secretary. He was caught with the androstenedione, and hemmed and hawed his way around admitting to more extensive steroid use. The media types who vote for the Hall had a moment of righteous indignation and voted him out. What will happen next time is anyone’s guess.

Imagine Barry’s plight. Poster child for the symptoms of steroid abuse. Under investigation of perjury charges. Quite possibly the biggest asshole in the known world. (Face it, it’s either him or Dick Cheney.) Treated sportswriters like something to be wiped off the bottom of his shoe for years. Didn’t need them. His numbers spoke for him.

Now McGwire’s example shows numbers alone might not be enough. Oops.

Meet soft and fuzzy Barry. Kissing up to writers, though he probably knows which ones have votes, and which don’t. Talking about all the great memories he has of Pittsburgh, and how he would have stayed had the Pirates’ ownership had a clue.

That should cinch his perjury charge right there. Barry Bonds couldn’t get out of The Burgh fast enough. Shot off his mouth every chance he got. The Burgh didn’t exactly rip Barry’s clothes trying to get him to stay. After Barry’s concentrated bridge burning effort, capped off by the infamous Children’s Hospital ball-signing fiasco, the city was happy to settle for booing him on his returns as a visiting Giant.

The Barry Bonds Image Resurrection Tour will be at a ballpark near you throughout the summer. You may also look forward to repeated media sightings after he finally pulls the plug and starts the five-year countdown toward HOF eligibility.

Remember when Deion Sanders said the NFL should change the name of the cornerback position to Deion? That’s the relationship Barry has to “asshole.” Don’t let the new stump speech fool you.

Not Much to Add

Here's a frightening look into what's being done in our name by our government. I challenge anyone to debate the validity of this practice with me in comments.

Just so long as it's not done anonymously. This guy was willing to use his name; the Post held it back. Anyone willing to stand behind what he says here can at least leave a handle.

The Second Greatest Insult

You know what hurts? When your Spousal Equivalent adds someone to The List who’s standing right in front of you.

Last week the Crazy Like Me Correspondent and I went to a book signing by mystery author Robert Crais. His books are favorites of ours, and I’d heard good things about his personal appearances.

Crais started writing for television shows like Hill Street Blues, Cagney and Lacey, and Miami Vice thirty years ago. He’s been exclusively a novelist since 1987.

That’s the resume of a man in his middle fifties, right? I always figured the youngish-looking stud on his book jackets was the product of an old or airbrushed photograph, recycled to protect the author’s delicate vanity.

Imagine my surprise when a trim, compact guy who could have passed for forty walked into the room. He had smile lines around his eyes, probably because he smiles so much. He was witty, funny (not always the same thing), and self-effacing without the affectation of false modesty. I, of course, am none of the above, and immediately hated him with a zest and vigor only a mature and dedicated misanthrope can attain.

We weren’t ten minutes into his appearance when Craze nudged me and whispered, “He’s on The List.”

(Editor’s Note: For those of you not hip to The List, each partner is allowed up to ten celebrities with whom a casual sexual encounter would not be considered cheating. It can’t be someone either of you already knows, and must be a person of whose celebrity others would be aware. The List is a living document. My current incarnation includes Nicole Kidman, Elle McPherson, Cate Blanchett (Australia is my dream vacation), Emma Thompson, Uma Thurman, and couple of others whose names escape me but I’d know them if I saw them.)

Adding someone to the list while he’s standing less than thirty feet away, separated by only fours rows of people so bereft of social life that a book signing is high Friday night entertainment, is gauche. Telling me about it in real time only adds insult to injury. I’m going to have to watch her every second now.

The greatest insult? When your hand falls asleep while masturbating. Don’t ask.

A Date Which Will Live in Infamy

The first day at a new gig is always stressful. (No, I haven’t changed jobs. I’m at two years and counting, nearing my longest tenure for any position that didn’t have “unemployed,” or “musician,” or both associated with it.) Monday was my first day at [Government Agency Name Redacted]. Clearing security, getting a badge, trying to accurately put names to at least ten percent of the new faces – all took priority over remembering my hat and gloves. It wasn’t that cold when I left the house.

It was when I got back to the car. The first day at [Government Agency Name Redacted] went well, thanks to being properly prepared, and not becoming distracted by little things like my hat and gloves. Or turning off my lights when I parked my car. You know how most people, when the car doesn’t start, try it three, four, nine times, in case it wasn’t really dead, just sleeping? Not this time. One try was enough. Not a sound. It was like trying to start a brick.

Fortunately for me, the Crazy Like Me Correspondent was parked close by. (She may be Crazy Like Me, but she is definitely Smarter Than Me.) We took two cars because I started work before she did. We came back together because the Beltway Correspondent and the Music Education Correspondent were waiting at the latter’s home with a hot meal. AAA would be available later. The car could wait.

The Music Education Correspondent has eclectic taste in food. Last time she made what appeared to be Mongolian Yakdick in a sterno sauce. Tasty, if a little chewy. Knowing I was about to spend at least an hour freezing my hindquarters off waiting for the tow truck, I was looking forward to consuming the hindquarters of some unfortunate quadruped to make it a break-even proposition.

The joke was on me. The MEC decided Monday was a good night for a bacchanal of vegetarianism. Spinach lasagna. A salad with vegetables I couldn’t even identify. I found out later some of them were beets. Russian peasants ate beets to keep from starving at Stalingrad. I doubt George W. Bush has our troops fighting and dying in Iraq to preserve our right to eat beets. (I have no idea why he still has our troops fighting and dying in Iraq, but I’m willing to bet eating beets isn’t it.)

A chocolate dessert might hold me over. It would have, too, had there been any. Plum pudding. Flaming plum pudding. The MEC got a little carried way with the igniter fluid (or the “accelerant,” as the arson investigator put it) and we almost had to call Red Adair to put the thing out.

(It’s our turn to host next time. Here’s the menu: Pork cops stuffed with ground beef, covered with thick gravy. A side of bratwurst, boiled in a light beer sauce, then seared over a hot grill. A salad of thinly-sliced salami, pepperoni, cappicola; provolone and mortadella cheese, with finely crumbled feta, topped by a single slice of onion as a garnish. Dessert will be frozen meatsicles.)

I called AAA; a truck would be there within ninety minutes. Craze drops me off, and I sit. I can’t read, because there’s no light. I have a flashlight, but I’m saving the battery in case I need it to signal the tow truck in this big ass parking lot. (Only smart decision I made all day.) At least I’m out of the wind, which is gusting hard enough to shake the car.

And it’s cold. Not Chicago freeze-the-hair-in-your-nose-together cold, but cold for this area. Twenty, with luck. Just as I wondered if I should have accepted the Crazy Like – I mean Smarter Than Me Correspondent’s offer to borrow the blanket from her car, the tow truck arrives.

Two nice guys, made even nicer by how happy I was to see them. I palmed a twenty for a tip while they got their little jump box out of the truck. I’d never seen one before. About the size of a small briefcase, with one end of a set of jumper cables sticking out of it. Hook it up, turn the key, and the car starts.

And it did, too. They advised me to let it run, charge things up a little. I’m game, even though standing in the wind is giving my ears the supple quality of carved gargoyles. (Forgot my hat, too, remember?) Just as I’m ready to call it fixed, one of them decides to shut the car off and re-start it, just to be on the safe side.

Good idea, with one hitch. The car wouldn’t start. It clicked like it was thinking about it, but no dice. Whether it was because of an improper charge, or because they left it hooked up too long to my parasite of a car, the jump box is now an inert lump. Even worse, their confidence in the jump box was such that they don’t carry cables anymore. There I sat, not five feet from a tow truck battery that could jump start the Eisenhower, and Sling Blade and his partner don’t have any cables. My erstwhile saviors spent twenty minutes flagging down passing motorists. They even stopped another tow truck. I could hear him laughing all the way over at my car.

They called AAA and asked for another truck. AAA called me back to apologize, and tell me one would be there in half an hour. He’d better, because all this calling back and forth, plus extended usage at work while my phone got set up, has drained my cell’s battery. If Plan B doesn’t work, I can’t even call home for a ride.

Plan B arrived, the car started, and I arrived at home a mere fifteen hours after I left. I take great pride for showing enough restraint that Craze didn’t feel compelled to move out. This restraint is a relatively new addition to my repertoire. (Ask the Sole Heir’s mother, or Lady Voldemort.) I have to go now. I’m having my gloves surgically attached to my wrists.

For Want of a Tooth

The following appeared on MSNBC.com today:

Twelve-year-old Deamonte Driver died of a toothache Sunday.

A routine, $80 tooth extraction might have saved him.

If his mother had been insured.

If his family had not lost its Medicaid.

If Medicaid dentists weren't so hard to find.

If his mother hadn't been focused on getting a dentist for his brother, who had six rotted teeth.

By the time Deamonte's own aching tooth got any attention, the bacteria from the abscess had spread to his brain, doctors said. After two operations and more than six weeks of hospital care, the Prince George's County boy died.

To paraphrase John Scalzi’s excellent blog, I’m not going to complain about Medicaid, or the lack of dentists who accept it. I’m not going to rip the government (federal, state, or federal), nor criticize his family for letting things slide so far.

In a nation of such obvious wealth, blame need not be assessed for such an event. It’s a sin. Period.

Another Adherent to the Hypocritic Oath

The following lede appeared in Yahoo News last Thursday:

The lawyer for a former Baptist church leader who had spoken out against homosexuality said Thursday the minister has a constitutional right to solicit sex from an undercover policeman.

I think “former” may be the key word there. The Constitution may be mute on this point, but I hope his congregation – excuse me, former congregation – has something to say about it.

Toensing Up for a Fight

Every so often some allegedly responsible and respected authority goes so far off the rails that common sense demands a public flogging. Today’s subject is Victoria Toensing, described by the Washington Post “a deputy assistant attorney general in the Reagan administration, [currently] a Washington lawyer.” In other words, a member of the Republic Party.

Ms. Toensing fancies herself not just a brilliant legal scholar, but clever. Her op-ed piece, “Trial in Error,” is written in the form of a legal brief, defending Scooter Libby from as nefarious a conspiracy of ne’er-do-wells as have trod the earth since The New Deal.

According to her screed, if Libby is on trial, then so should the following: Special Prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald, the CIA, Joe Wilson, the media, Ari Fleischer, Richard Armitage, and the Justice Department.

On what grounds? Fleischer, for doing just as Libby is alleged to have done, lie under oath about who he told what about Valerie Plame. DOJ, for abdicating their responsibility by appointing Fitzgerald in the first place. Everyone else? For ignoring what she considers to be a time-honored tradition of ignoring perjury if the lies don’t cover up a crime.

Her logic: Plame was not undercover, so no one was legally prohibited from talking about her. Since talking about her was not a crime, lying under oath about talking about her is also not a crime. Therefore, Libby stands unjustly accused.

Toensing’s premise that Plame was not undercover is refuted in tedious detail here. It’s the lesser of her offenses, a mere misstatement of facts. Republicans have made a science of that for several years now. It’s the entire premise of her piece that offends common sense. If Libby is unjustly accused because there’s no perjury without a precedent crime, then what the fuck was the rationale for impeaching Bill Clinton?

I occasionally back away from political comment because even I think I sound like a broken record. (For those of you too young to remember broken records, ask someone.) Still, the disingenuousness of Republican comment over the past six years continues unabated, and must be contested. We all know what happens when the same lies are told often enough and shrilly enough. And we all know what happens after that.

What's in a Name?

I taught a class for an internet computer application several months ago, and a discussion emerged about Apache Web Servers. For those less familiar with the inner workings of the web, Apache is a common, and well-respected, software that actually hosts and serves up the web sites you see when you’re surfing.

One class member asked repeatedly and pointedly why it was named Apache. I didn’t know, but inferred from his tone and insistence that he was somewhat put out, if not offended.

My curiosity being what it is, I found out where the name came from, and emailed him the following, from Apache’s entry in Wikipedia:

The author claims the name was initially chosen as a catchy name in order to be original, but the most widespread interpretation (which almost immediately surfaced) is that the name comes from the fact that when it was developed in early 1995, it consisted of changes in the code to the most popular HTTP server of the time, NCSA HTTPd 1.3 and was therefore "a patchy" server. However, in the FAQ on the server's official site, it is stated: "The name 'Apache' was chosen from respect for the Native American Indian tribe of Apache (Indé), well-known for their superior skills in warfare strategy and their inexhaustible endurance.

He graciously thanked me for my reply, including this phrase in his email:

In one aspect it seems like it could be honorable to the Apache nation that the company chose the name and in another it seems kind of insensitive.

I’m tempted to write back to tell him further research has shown the name was originally supposed to be Godless Dirt Worshipper, but that didn’t test market well, especially in Oklahoma and the Great Plains.

This is why I don’t have any friends.

A Glutton For Punishment

Yesterday I took Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid to task because he lacked the huevos and chutzpah to do anything like what Republicans just did unto him back when we were losing civil liberties faster than Ford loses money. Imagine my surprise this morning when I received the following email, from none other than Senator Reid himself:

Dear Friend, (Bad start. A man only calls another man “friend” in two circumstances: he’s a Quaker, or he’s thinking of kicking the other guy’s ass. Picture Richard Boone in Hombre.)

Senator Reid continues:

There are very few men and women in America who believe the Iraq war is not worthy of debate. They are the Republican Members of the United States Senate. Yesterday, they did our country a grave disservice…

By voting against a real debate on Iraq, Republicans voted in favor of the President's plan to escalate the war. Numerous Republican Senators are on the record opposing this escalation. Do these Republicans stand with the President or do they stand with the American people?

Help me send a message to Republicans in the Senate.

Help you? How about send it for you, since you have already failed. If one message came out of the recent election, it’s that the American people want a debate on the Iraq war. The Elephant Men saw a chance to snooker Reid, and took it. I’d be madder if it indicated anything beyond their superiority in playing the Senate rules game.

I didn’t email any Republican senators. I’m not a contributor, and many of them are already ignoring their constituents. The guy I wrote to was Harry Reid, in a reply to the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee email I received:

Dear Senator Reid,

I have a question. Can someone please explain to me how the Republican minority can hold up a non-binding resolution through the exercise of Parliamentary procedure, and, I presume, the threat of a filibuster, while you were unable to take similar action during your tenure in the minority to halt (or even slow down) the Military Commissions Act, the suspension of habeas corpus, and various other offenses to our Constitutional rights, and to common sense?

I am regularly accosted for contributions by enthusiastic, eager, young Democrats here on the streets of Washington. A life-long Democrat, I'm telling you what I tell them: I'll not give a dime to see the party be run in the same feckless manner as we have been forced to become accustomed.

I liked using feckless. It almost sounds dirty. Not nearly as offensive as seeing “Majority Leader” and “Harry Reid” strung together, though.

The Peter Principle - A Case Study

The Democratic Party today announced a plea for someone, anyone, to please forward a copy of Robert’s Rules of Order to Harry Reid, c/o The U.S. Senate Majority Leader’s Office. It seems the Republican minority has already stifled what Senator Reid considered his primary order of business: passing a non-binding resolution.

It may be recalled that Senator Reid, until recently Senate Minority Leader, was unable to muster such a parliamentary challenge to the Military Commissions Act, the more onerous provisions of the Patriot Act, of the suspension of habeas corpus. Looks like the Majority Leader job may be too much for him, and he’d like his old job back.

Sheer Genius

Among the many things I learned as a musician is an appreciation of talent. Hard work is indispensable for success, but it’s not enough. People who are inordinately successful have talent.

Pete Rose probably worked harder than any baseball player ever. He still didn’t hit .303 without eye-hand coordination most of us can only imagine. Doc Severinsen will be 80 in July. The amount of time he’s had a mouthpiece actually touching his lips can probably be measured in decades. He was also the trumpet champion of Oregon when he was nine years old.

I envy those who have a talent I’d like, but lack. (Pete Rose and Doc Severinsen come to mind.) I try to make the most of the talents I have, and have little regard for those who waste their own gifts. This is why I stand in awe of Virginia Delegate Frank Hargrove.

Insulting people isn’t as easy as it looks. I’ve written and said quite a few things that pissed people off, but rarely has anyone felt truly insulted, even when I make an effort. That takes true insensitivity. Delegate Hargrove managed to offend and insult two diverse groups of people in virtually consecutive sentences last week. (Three groups, if you count people with a brain in their heads.)

Virginia’s history of sensitivity toward those unlike themselves (read: not white Protestants) is distinctive. Shamed into making the third Monday in January a holiday to coincide with the Federal Martin Luther King Day, Virginia created the Lee-Jackson-King holiday so two Confederate icons wouldn’t feel left out while those boys celebrated that Nigruh’s birthday. (The holidays were finally split in 2000.)

Before the Virginia Legislature is a bill that, if passed, would officially apologize to blacks for Virginia’s two hundred plus years of slavery. Common sense dictates any comments be kept innocuous, especially for Republicans fresh off of George Allen’s “macaca” gaffe. Delegate Hargrove apparently has his own definition of innocuous.

“I personally think that our black citizens should get over it,” Hargrove said of slavery. “Are we going to force the Jews to apologize for killing Christ?”

Oh, baby. A two-bagger. Regardless of your sentiments on either comment, I think we can all agree that for an elected official to say that, on the record, is bad taste at a Bushian level. As an outright display of public stupidity, it’s absolutely Sharpton-esque.

I bow to a master. This grasshopper has so much to learn, and so little time.

The Eyes of the Beholder

The Outfit – A Collective of Chicago Crime Writers is an informative and entertaining blog co-written by seven crime fiction writers. Each has a unique perspective and writing style. The posts come in an essentially random progression as each writer latches onto a topic of interest. The end result is an potpourri of everything from fiction to writing analysis to home improvement tips.

Earlier this week, Kevin Guilfoile wrote this thought-provoking piece on how all writing is subject to interpretation. The post itself invites interpretation, and the odds are excellent what I took away from it is not what Guilfoile intended. Still, he touched on a couple of pet peeves that limbered up my fingers for the keyboard.

During Guilfoile’s recent publicity tour, an interviewer started riffing on the intricate and detailed Biblical references in his book. Guilfoile was impressed with her perspicacity and insight, not to mention her knowledge of arcane Biblical references. (Arcane to me; they might be common knowledge to someone of less heretical bent.) He admitted that she was absolutely right, with one caveat: he hadn’t been thinking of any of that when he wrote it.

This episode points out an old gripe of mine that kept me from reading fiction for twenty years. I still bear scars from a seventh-grade English class, where I was tasked with finding the “theme” of a Sherlock Holmes story. “Why did Doyle write this story?” the teacher asked. “What is he trying to say?” I gave her the standard twelve-year-old’s tripe along the lines of “crime doesn’t pay.” Subsequent (and shallow) scholarship taught me what I should have written: Doyle wrote the story for money. At some deep, possibly subconscious level, he was saying he needed – or wanted – more money than he had. Sherlock was a purely commercial enterprise to Doyle; he didn’t like his greatest creation much. While all good commercial fiction has depth to it, implying too much profundity does a disservice to both writer and audience. Sometimes a cigar is just a smoke.

Guilfoile later discusses a review of a book by an unnamed author. The critic (thankfully, also unnamed) unleashes this burst of literary opulence as part of his praise:

To read this book with anything like comprehension, a person has to be, like its polymath author, both intellectual and hip, a person mature and profoundly well read and yet something of a true marginal, a word-nerd with the patience of Job. In my charitable estimate that would describe about five out of 500 people that I know.

Guilfoile himself likes the book, and its author, so don’t be too put off by the critic’s snobbery. The example does bring us to the second of my vexations: the idea that great literature can only be appreciated by at best one percent of the reading population. (I’m no Stephen Hawking, but five divided by 500 is one percent.) Since I’m sure the critic only knows people already in the upper strata of intellectual accomplishment, we’re talking maybe the top one percent of that one percent.

How does that make it great? It can be argued for literature to be great, its message should resonate with more than a handful of people out of a full Airbus, or it becomes somewhat of a masturbatory exercise for intellectuals to trade snarky comments to each other about how dumb everyone else is. Writing to be understood by a small, self-defining group is more likely to make a good textbook than great literature.

This phenomenon is not confined to writing. I have a Masters degree in music, and it used to put me off when people unaware of my education would comment on a piece of music I didn’t care for in such a manner as to imply I just wasn’t elevated enough to get it. Now I think it’s funny, their way of self-perpetuating a sense of being better than someone else, or being smarter, or hipper. It ignores a simple fact: anyone can write a book that no one understands. Writing doesn’t become art because you have to think to read it, but because you’ll think about it.

Thanks to Mr. Guilfoile for writing something that passed that test. I don’t know if these are the thoughts he had in mind, and I hope he doesn’t think I missed the boat altogether. But, as his post so eloquently states, that’s the chance he takes when he lets others read his stuff.

Clueless Near Seattle

It is often said that small business is the bulwark of the American economy. If that is true, this post falls under the category Good News/Bad News.

The following quote was attributed to Idaho restaurant owner Rob Elder in the current issue of Newsweek:

"At $5.15 an hour, I get zero applicants-or maybe a guy with one leg who wouldn't pass a drug test."

Rob is lamenting the fact that neighboring Washington state’s minimum wage is $7.98/hour, the highest in the nation. It is implied that he welcomes the prospect of Congress increasing the minimum wage nationally, allowing him to better compete with Washington business for qualified employees.

The good news is that Rob proves not all small business owners have a knee-jerk reaction against raising the minimum wage.

The bad news is that it has obviously never occurred to him that the minimum wage is just that: a minimum. There’s nothing to prevent him from paying more. It looks like Rob considers his employees to minimum wage earners – whatever the minimum wage might be – and unfit to be paid any more than he absolutely has to.

Maybe that’s another part of the reason people aren’t lined up around the block to work for him.

Older Than Dirt. Dumber, Too.

Lost in the current Iraq turmoil is the Bush Administration’s perverse lack of honesty, intellectual or otherwise, in every facet of government. Take the National Park Service. “What possible pervasive disingenuousness could hinder the Park Service?” might be among the questions that spring to mind. Just don’t ask who old the Grand Canyon is, or how it was created.

Those not asking can currently buy Grand Canyon: A Different View, by Tom Vail, at any of the park’s book stores. The book explains how the canyon was created by the great flood. You remember, the one where Noah saved two of each living creature, including, apparently, all 900,000 species of insects. Poor Noah must have got them all, since nothing has evolved and God quit Creating after the first Saturday.

Aside from foisting a book of such dubious scholarship (read: none) on the public, park rangers current labor under a gag order much stronger than anything Scooter Libby’s grand jury heard of. The official response of all National Park Service employees to questions about the Grand Canyon’s age is, “No comment.”

An e-mail recently circulated, allegedly written by well-known social commentator Ben Stein. (Stein was the boring science teacher in The Wonder Years, and had a highly entertaining game show on Comedy Central for several years.) In the e-mail, Stein laments how those who believe in God in America are under daily assault from the forces of Evil.

Which America is he living in? Certainly not the one where right-wing religious zealots control government policy on matters ranging from the age of the Grand Canyon to Shrub’s Messianic insistence on his right to wage war against any Muslims, wherever he finds them.

The relative triviality of the Grand Canyon controversy is more than valid. Here’s the equation it represents: science has a pile of evidence as high as the Grand Canyon is deep, and fundamentalist Christians have the Bible.

The Bible failure to mention the creation of the Grand Canyon is damning in itself. You’d think God would be all over getting credit for that one. It’s a keeper, much better work than His work on leeches, or New Jersey.

Here’s something to ponder for those who assert the Bible’s infallibility: God didn’t write it. Each book was passed down for hundreds of years by word of mouth and translated God knows how many times. Even if we concede it was originally passed from God’s lips to Moses’ (Abraham’s, Noah’s, take your pick’s) ears, can anyone look you in the eye and say nothing got changed? Books that used to be in the Bible are no longer there. Were they no less the Word of God in their time?

Translation is a whole other issue, as so much of translation is in the mind of the translator. Translating anything word-by-word rarely, if ever, gives the true meaning of what was intended. Interpretations have to be made, and anything subject to interpretation is open to argument. Witness figure skating judges. Or Hall of Fame voters.

Even punctuation comes into play. Punctuation is a relatively recent invention; early Bibles had none. Observe the difference the placement of a simple comma can have, from Lynne Truss’ excellent book on punctuation, Eats, Shoots and Leaves:

“Verily, I say unto thee, This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.”
And:
“Verily I say unto thee this day, Thou shalt be with me in Paradise.”
Now, huge doctrinal differences hang on the placing of this comma. The first version, which is how Protestants interpret the passage (Luke, xxiii, 43), lightly skips over the whole unpleasant business of Purgatory and takes the crucified thief straight to Heaven with Our Lord. The second promises Paradise at some later date (to be confirmed, as it were) and leaves Purgatory nicely in the picture for Catholics, who believe in it.

So enough about the absolute infallibility of the Bible. Christians themselves can’t even agree on what’s in it.

Don’t confuse a belief in the Higher Power of your choice with religion. Religion is a set of arbitrary rules, created by humans, primarily to keep other humans in line. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that Christianity is fraught with rules laid down by a relatively few educated, powerful, and wealthy men, most of which involve telling people living in shit up to their necks that when they die everything gets better, and those living the lives of luxury (and keeping the losers in shit up to their neck) will get their come-uppance in the end? Considering the general state of ignorance and poverty in what the heyday of religion (now known as The Dark Ages), how hard a sell do you think that was?

“But it’s faith,” they argue. “You have to believe.” Faith, as practiced by contemporary religious types (Christian, Muslim, take your pick), consists of being confronted with the pile of evidence mentioned above and saying, “Are you going to believe me, or your lying eyes?” True Believers argue for the fallibility of science by pointing out how scientific ideas change (evolve) over time, asking how anyone can be sure they’re right this time. Asking is the whole point of science.
Knowledge is an elusive quarry; every incremental step just brings us closer. To accept things on faith alone would have us still believing the Universe rotates around the Earth.

Faith is the final refuge of those who don’t want to think anymore. Life is often a confounding series of seemingly random events where the good guys don’t always win. Good people get sick and die; bad guys prosper. It can be difficult to accept all of this without wanting to think there’s a greater plan that we can’t begin to grasp from our remote perspective. Believe what you want; it’s still a (relatively) free country. Just don’t make it public policy that yours is the only “right” way. Don’t even think about compelling me to think, act, or believe like you.

There’s no need to step away from the lightning bolt I have earned by my blasphemy. There’s no blasphemy here. Heresy, sure. I can live with heresy. A little heresy is a good thing. No man is infallible. Every authority could use some constructive questioning from time to time.

The Grand Canyon is as old as dirt. Those who would argue it’s not are as dumb.

January Faces Both Ways

The news has picked up after the holidays, and the primary question for any blogger is, “Where to start?”

The now-minority Republicans are whining about the trampling of their rights by the big, mean Democrats. A few Republican pipsqueaks even re-submitted the Minority Bill of Rights, first circulated by then-Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi in 2004, when she was trying to get then-Majority Leader Tom DeLay's cowboy boot off her throat. That request was laughed aside. Now the Prada pump is on the other foot, and the GOP (which now stands for Grumpy Old Pussies) want the same treatment they denied Democrats.

What's fair? Pelosi and her peers promised bipartisanship, so some accommodation is in order. Worse things could happen than for the rule changes to be delayed a few weeks, if only to show Doughboy Denny Hastert and his merry band of midgets how the other half lives, and that the status quo ante could be revived by a 233-202 vote any time the Republicans become too obstructionist.

Shrub took his turn at disingenuous behavior by calling for Congress to cut spending and balance the budget by 2012. This tasks the new majority party (not his) with the Herculean task of cleaning up his party’s mess, while ensuring not much can happen until his successor is stuck with the heavy lifting. Conveniently overlooked is the fact that the budget is whacked in the first place because the Republicans simultaneously cut taxes, increased spending, and started a war. This trifecta had never been attempted in American history. Now we know why.

Speaking of American history, Keith Ellison was sworn in as the nation’s first Muslim lawmaker. His decision to take his oath on the Koran sparked an outburst of conservative indignity unseen since the advent of Freedom Fries in the congressional cafeteria.

Those who so staunchly (and irrationally) protest any perceived affront to either the Declaration of Independence or our “Christian Values” consistently forget one thing: the man who wrote the Declaration wasn’t a Christian. Thomas Jefferson was a Deist, which shouldn’t surprise anyone who sees the wide divergence between the wish for religious freedom expressed in the Declaration and its current state of practice. In a rare example of justice, Ellison was sworn in with his left hand resting on Jefferson’s personal copy of the Koran.

Shrub also continued his unconstitutional practice of nullifying duly-passed statutes with signing statements. This time he “amended” a law prohibiting the government from opening private mail to read, “Unless I want to.” (Silly me, I thought this kind of thing was already covered by the Fourth Amendment.) Almost as bad, no one in the “watchdog” media noticed this for over two weeks, as the journalist who usually reads them is off writing a book. Hopefully it’s on the constitutionality of signing statements.

After a week like that, George F. Will advocating a minimum wage of $0.00 barely rates any space at all. Will is one of those columnists with whom I rarely agree, but often makes me think, and sometimes even changes my mind. Occasionally he writes something so dumb, it’s not worthy of comment. This is one of those times.

2007 is off and running. Let’s hope it’s not just a matter of “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

Stormy Weather

President Bush was escorted to a storm shelter when a tornado warning was issued for Crawford, TX earlier today. Mr. Bush was allowed to go about his business when someone tightened the valve in his ear and the high winds stopped.

Shared Destinies?

Ray Charles – died June, 2004
Ronald Reagan – died June 2004

James Brown – died December 2006
Gerald Ford – died December 2006

My advice is for George H.W. Bush and Little Richard to start looking out for each other.

Stocking Stuffers

The Crazy Like Me Correspondent has decided I should take care of stocking stuffing this year. Something about losing the mystery of her stocking’s contents if she does it herself.

She’s taking a risk. My idea of a perfect stocking stuffer is Nicole Kidman. I doubt that Craze and the Sole Heir share my tastes, so I had to get creative.

My first idea was to get her a deeper stocking, then watch her try unsuccessfully to reach all the way to the bottom for the small, but valuable gift I told her was there. That had the benefit of being extremely economical, since it will still be there next year.

Since the element of surprise is so important to her, I also thought of wrapping up things we already own but don’t use everyday, so they wouldn’t be missed in the days leading up to Christmas. Imagine this little Christmas surprise:

Her: Thanks, but I think I have two of these now.

Me: No, you don’t. Trust me.

I like that idea. It combines the element of surprise with a guarantee the person will like the gift. How many Christmases have you racked your brain for the perfect surprise, only to find out the recipient didn’t like it? Or found out exactly what the person wanted, but missed the joy of seeing her surprise upon opening it? Not any more. Take a favorite CD, book, video. Wrap it up, put it in her stocking. Not only will I guarantee she’ll like it, she’ll definitely be surprised.

I’ll bet in fifty years, when this is an accepted piece of Christmas tradition, I won’t even get credit for it.

Speaker Centipede?

Nancy Pelosi’s tenure as Speaker of the House has been fraught with peril, with potential mutinies, missteps, and feet in mouth. This is an impressive record for someone who won’t even start work for three weeks yet.

Pelosi hit the ground running by trying to anoint John Murtha as Majority Leader. Steny Hoyer was in line for the job, but he and Pelosi had a falling out, and she apparently has some Irish in her family. (Define Irish Alzheimer’s Disease: All you remember are the grudges.) Murtha is a loyal Pelosi ally, and well-qualified as point man in the fight against Shrub’s Iraq policies. He also carries ethics scars from the Abscam scandal, making him an odd choice to lead a party allegedly dedicated to refuting the ethical malfeasance of the deposed Republican regime.

It was also a battle that didn’t need to be fought. Even if Pelosi had been able to shove Murtha down her peers’ throats, the resulting hard feelings could only hamper the Democrats’ hopes to make a quick start following up on their campaign promises. God knows they need it.

This did not bode well for a supposed master politician, but no one’s perfect. Pelosi’s recent actions with the House Intelligence Committee are downright scary.

Jane Harmon was the committee’s ranking minority member, thus in line for the chair. What being head Democrat of anything qualifies one for is debatable, considering their track record as the opposition party, but you don’t get to live with the politics you want, you have to live with the politics you have. (Where have we heard something like that before?)

Not in Nancy-land. Pelosi didn’t think Harmon had been hard enough on Shrub as ranking member, and decided to pass her over. This caused more hard feelings, but could be justified by the above paragraph. Pelosi’s new problem was that Alcee Hastings was next in line.

Hastings has been a newsworthy name far longer than his tenure in Congress, having been impeached and removed from his seat as a federal judge. He then won the Adam Clayton Powell Award by convincing his constituents that being removed as a judge for taking bribes was not a disqualification from further public service in Congress.

Given the furor over Murtha’s abortive nomination and ethics record, Pelosi didn’t dare submit Hastings’ name. This set off the Congressional Black Caucus, incensed because she passed over a brother. Granted, Hastings is as qualified as Duke Cunningham for the job, but Pelosi had pissed off another core constituency.

This brings us to her current choice, Silvestre Reyes, a member of the Intelligence Committee for several years. When asked by a reporter if al-Qaeda was Sunni or Shiite, Reyes replied, “Predominantly, probably Shiite.” Oops. Wrong. Reyes was then asked about Hezbollah. “Hezbollah. Uh, Hezbollah?...Why do you ask me these questions

at 5 o'clock?'' Apparently punctuality is among Rep. Reyes’ virtues. Miller Time cannot be kept waiting.

Lest this come off like a hatchet job, here’s Reyes’ comment in his own defense: “It’s hard to keep things in perspective and in the categories.” Just what you want to hear from one of the key people overseeing a war that has already killed 3,000 Americans.

Maybe these are the kinds of glitches that naturally occur when a party has been out of power for twelve years and isn’t used to as much media attention. Pelosi has already shot herself in her left and right feet. Does she have enough feet to get her through two years?

Curiouser and Curiouser

The first words phrase Republican babies are taught to speak is “less government is better.” Let’s see what this means in everyday usage.

History will show George W. Bush’s lasting legacy to the federal government to be the addition of a huge, inefficient, cabinet-level department that adds nothing to the agencies brought under its umbrella except an extra layer of bureaucracy, aka the Department of Homeland Security. It appears the only aspect of government diminished under Shrub’s expert guidance is the Constitution.

Social entitlement programs? Read what conservative icon George F. Will wrote in December 7^th’s Washington Post: the leaked Donald Rumsfeld memo… echoed the 1960s Great Society confidence in government-engineered behavior modification: jobs programs for unemployed young Iraqis, reallocation of reconstruction funds to "stop rewarding bad behavior" and "start rewarding good behavior," and bribery ("provide money to key political and religious leaders").

Increase efficiency by running government like a business? Over half of those hired to work on the Coalition Provisional Authority, ostensibly to oversee the reconstruction of Iraq, obtained their first passport to make the trip to Baghdad. Two CPA staffers said they were asked their position on Roe v. Wade before they were hired. The traffic code the CPA wrote for Iraq had the following libertarian passages: “the driver shall hold the steering wheel with both hands;” and “rest should be taken for five minutes for every one hour of driving.” Try to pass a law requiring an American from driving an eighteen-wheeler less than fourteen hours a day and you’d think the only thing standing between our economy and Haiti’s was No-Doz.

I don’t have much to say about this. As Will himself says, “[it] would be hilarious were it not horrifying that so much valor and suffering have been expended in this context.” It’s just that every so often I can’t resist pointing out what hypocritical sons of bitches these guys are, have been, and will continue to be. Let’s hope the Democrats are better. Let’s face it, the bar’s been set low enough for even their flea-like efforts to be enough.

A Press Release From The Home Office

The Home Office is proud to announce New Mystery's Reader's publication of the short story "Fringe Benefits." Go to the New Mystery Reader web site and click the December Short Story link at the right of screen.

Take a quick tour of the rest of the site while you're there. Lots of cool stuff. The November Review of the Month of Robert Wilson's The Hidden Assassins is also a product of The Home Office.

Thanks to Stephanie Padilla and everyone at NMR for their continued support.

Do Tuba-lieve in Miracles?

It's a well-known fact that the trumpets are the gods of the orchestra, and the trombones are the most manly. Tuba players are definitely the coolest, though. Check this out from today's Washington Post, and look for a Tuba Christmas event near you.

Fall Day Afternoon

What started out as a relentlessly pleasant extended holiday weekend was dealt a devastating blow when The Home Office learned today’s football game between our beloved Pittsburgh Steelers and the Team Formerly Known as the Official Team of the Anti-Christ (now merely the Baltimore Ravens) will not be televised here.

It’s not like I was asking for some obscure and one-sided contest with no local interest, like 8–2 San Diego vs. 2–8 Oakland. I can watch that at 4:00. Nope, the Steelers play the Ravens not twenty-five miles from here, in a sold out stadium where tickets were going for over $300 apiece. Thousands of Steelers fans live in the area, as well as hundreds of thousands of otherwise honorable Ravens fans. How has this travesty been allowed to transpire?

Part of it has to do with the NFL’s doubleheader policy. This is Fox’s fair and balanced weekend to show two games. The 1:00 game, directly opposite the Baltimore Battle of the Titans, has the Washington Redskins (aka The Current Official Team of the Anti-Christ) receiving their weekly pummeling. Granted, the masochistic tendencies of Redskins fans mean that game will easily win the ratings timeslot, especially in the wilderness of Northern Virginia, where George Allen voters have been known to stop testing their nooses during close games.

Still, for WUSA to show paid programming (read: infomercials) instead of the Baltimore game is a perversion. Even worse, the second game on fair and balanced Fox is Chicago at New England, which will trounce the San Diego-Oakland game. The Steelers and Ravens would at least have done pretty well in the Maryland suburbs.

What could cause such short-sighted arrogance? Washington is the ancestral home of The Man, who recently took a pretty good election beating in Maryland. Could this be payback? I’d hate to think so, in light of the recent rhetoric promising bi-partisanship, but one has to wonder.

There’s only one solution. By the time you read this, The Home Office will be officially boycotting all programming from WUSA-TV9 in Washington, DC, with the exception of future Steelers’ games, playoff contests, and certain other key match-ups with playoff implications. We will also boycott all known sponsors of today’s invisible game, a prospect made considerably easier by our inability to see who they are. We will most certainly boycott the manufacturers of whatever Chinese-made piece of Wal-Mart reject junk is featured on the paid “programming.”

Who’s with me? Are you tired of The Man sticking it to you? Think it’s time for a new Man Law? Me, too. All together, now. Attica! Attica! Attica!

Michael Richards is an Alcoholic

Right? Isn’t that the current excuse for any unsavory act? Gives you an idea of how Shrub must have been putting them away in his drinking days. He’s been dry twenty years, and he still can’t keep things in line.

Personally, I think Michael Richards is getting a bum rap. He’s not a racist; he’s the farthest thing from it. Kramer’s performing one of history’s noblest acts, taking one for the team, so to speak.

It can’t have escaped his notice that The Man has been sticking it to O.J. pretty good since this abortive If I Did It book and television thing started to unravel. Richards couldn’t bear to see this unfortunate African-American shoveled into the maw of mainstream media yet again.

“What can I do?” Richards said. (I’m projecting Richards’ thoughts here, a technique made ethical and sexy by no less a journalist than Bob Woodward. How cool am I?) “What can a single man – whose career has been defined by an extended fifteen minutes of being the comic relief for a situation comedy, and who has done nothing noteworthy since then – what can he do to correct such a public flagellation. I know! I’ll accept the burden myself. I’ll commit an offense so foul that the vultures and parasites who make up the media – and who have ignored me in droves since Seinfeld went off the air – will have no choice but to flock to my every statement and parse every denial of my racism. Climb on my back, O.J. You ain’t heavy, you’re my brother.”

I just saw Al Sharpton interviewed by Tucker Carlson. (Not deliberately; the channel was set to MSNBC when I turned on the television.) Not once did the man who made Tawana Brawley a household name utter a single word of appreciation for Richards’ munificent self-immolation.

Farewell, Cosmo. We knew you too little, and appreciated you not enough.

Why We Fight

Two headlines from the Associated Press today:

McQueen Shades Net $70,000 at Auction.

Poor Pakistanis Donate Kidneys for Money.

Don't belabor whatever interpretations you think a liberal pussy like me would put to this. Just see if you can think of a better recruiting poster for Al Qaeda.

Keep One Hand on Your Wallet

The election is over, and politicians everywhere are making kissy faces and promising to work together for the “good of the people.” This is why you can’t trust politicians. Their standards are so low as to be non-existent.

Shrub made the following statement at a rally eight days before the election:

However they put it, the Democrat approach in Iraq comes down to this: The terrorists win and America loses.

So he’s saying the Democrats are the party of the terrorists, and that a vote for a Democrat is a vote for terrorism.

Now it’s a week later. Democrats are now the majority party. The two top House Democrats meet with Shrub to bury the hatchet. Everyone shakes hands, one big happy family.

There’s no way I’d shake Shrub’s hand. A week ago he as much as called me an enemy of America; now it never happened? Holding grudges is a bad idea, but this SOB either lied to get what he wanted last week, or he’s lying to get what he wants now. Either way, the only place I want to bury the hatchet is in this bastard’s head.

All politicians do this, and always have. Shrub and his minions just raised (lowered?) it to such a degree that to consider it anything other than offensive is to have no standards at all.

This Just In

Fox News (Fair and Balanced) announced at 8:23 AM Eastern Time that their exit polls are projecting not only that the Democrats will lose every election today, but that angry mobs with torches will spontaneously gather outside the candidates' homes after the polls close.

On CNN, Lou Dobbs, behind the curve as usual, blamed everything on immigrants. "This country was heaven on earth before the Indians and immigrants screwed it up," Dobbs said.

Geraldo Rivera is in North Korea, interviewing one of Kim Jong Il's concubines, and was unavailable for comment.

Another Precinct Heard From

Lest anyone think I'm too hard on Republicans and the Shrub Administration because I'm a liberal pussy, read this article from The American Conservative.

The Man of Steele

The scariest thing about elections, even more than whether your vote will get counted, or if you’ll even be allowed to vote, is the people voting. Recent election results, and current polls, leave little choice but to conclude the American voting public consists of a large number of mouth-breathing drunks and/or drug addicts, unable to hold more than one idea in their minds at a time.

Remember the movie Fifty First Dates? Drew Barrymore has a brain injury that prevents her from remembering anything that happened before today. It’s cute, but not one of Adam Sandler’s best. (Drew Barrymore has no bests.) That’s how Americans vote. Like nothing happened before right now.

Take Maryland senatorial candidate Michael Steele. Steele has been a lifelong Republican, one of three black Republicans in Maryland. This appears to have been his unique party qualification, as he has virtually no accomplishments other than being Maryland party chairman and the current lieutenant governor. If his middle initial is T, it must stand for “Token.”

Steele has run his entire campaign without any reference to being a member of the Republican party. I encountered him at my Metro station a few weeks ago, and asked several of his supporters why that was. “Party shouldn’t matter,” they said. “He’s his own man”

I asked them about the hundreds of thousands of dollars he’d accepted from the Republican Party, and about his recent, well-publicized request for more. That’s when they got a little snippy.

So here we have a do-nothing hack who is a recent party chairman and lieutenant governor to one of the most partisan governors in the country, with hundreds of thousands of dollars of indebtedness to the Republican, running as – what can I call it? – something other than a Republican. Not a Democrat, and he’s certainly not an independent.

And he’s kept the election close. Maryland is essentially a one-party state. Republicans aren’t even running in most of our local races. Yet Steele runs TV ads that show him as a nice guy, as his opponent as a career politician. Like Steele’s not. Cardin actually has forty years of accomplishments to run on. All anyone remembers is that Steele would be someone nice to sit next to at a ball game.

We have another local candidate, who lost the Democratic primary decisively, probably at least in part because he’s a self-aggrandizing egotist. (Saying a politician is such a self-aggrandizing egotist that it distinguishes him from his peers is going a ways.) He immediately switched parties, welcomed with open arms by the Republicans. I guess the Shameless Whore Party didn’t have time to get their ballot petitions together.

These guys get votes, They lie and cheat and (some of them) steal for anywhere from two to six years, then tell you how things are going to change as soon as you vote for them again. “Are you going to believe me, or your lying eyes?” they say. And they get away with it! Your vote can only be construed to mean what they’ve done during their term is okay with you. So why should they change?

This may be a good election for protest votes. My congressman is running opposed by only the Green Party candidate. He’s the Number Three Dem, and will have quite a bit of pull if they take over. I’m voting for the Green, and sending my guy a letter if the Dems win. “Be careful what you ask for,” I’ll say. “Now you’re in charge, and accountable. If things don’t get better, we’re coming for your ass next.”

Anyone with me?

Fly the Friendly Skies

In case you have to fly any time soon, rest assured our domestic airlines are safe as Fort Knox. Last night the Sole Heir was pulled out of line while waiting for her flight and subjected to the full “there better not be a bomb stuffed down your jeans” search.

I’m not complaining about the search so much as much as what it represents. Ethnic profiling can be offensive. There’s no reason to pull every swarthy-looking individual out of line, just because the insidious enemy du jour is Arab. Current policy bends over so far in the other direction, they’re frisking middle-class teenagers and retired Norwegian-American schoolteachers. Aside from being stupid, it’s a waste of time.

Someday someone’s going to get a bomb or a gun or a utility knife on a plane, because some TSA employee is going to figure he’s over his quota of swarth searches for the day, or has done so many random searches the line is backing up and the natives are getting restless. Meanwhile, certain designated individuals (read: not you) can buy their way out of passing through checkpoints altogether if they’re frequent flyers. I guess the Powers That Be assume a busy and wealthy businessman willing to pay for the privilege of jumping the line must be a Republican and not a terrorist.

The logic is dubious. Catching Osama bin Boogeyman has been the GOP’s Job One for 1,881 days, and they aren’t any closer to finding him than they are to finding Amelia Earhart, Judge Crater, or Ashlee Simpson’s talent. They have to be “in” something. I just can’t make up my mind whether it’s incompetent or in cahoots.

Stealing the Limelight

On this date in 1897 a man was born who has provided inestimable assistance in making the Bush Administration what it is today.

Joseph Goebbels, Nazi Germany’s Minister of Propaganda, gave his name to “The Goebbels Technique,” the policy of repeating a lie until it is assumed to be the truth. I’ll bet Shrub doesn’t even give him credit for it.

(Note that the Nazis were at least honest enough to call propaganda what it was.)

A New Low

This article appeared in Slate magazine on Friday, October 27.

When the Justice Department Played Defense.

I defy anyone to find any legitimate justification for passing a law that defies not only the letter of the Constitution, but the spirit of the Bill of Rights and the Declaration of Independence.

They’re only coming for terrorists? Who gets to decide whether you’re a terrorist or not? What if they’re wrong? (Even the most well-intention will be wrong from time to time, and it’s a long, uphill fight to declare Shrub or Darth Cheney “well-intentioned.”)

Most of us know at least part of this poem. It was never more relevant in America than it is today.

When the Nazis came for the communists
I remained silent;
after all I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats
I remained silent;
after all I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists
I did not speak out;
after all I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

Think it’s too harsh to describe our current state as resembling the Nazis? The Nazis didn’t look so bad to the Germans when they started out. Times were tough, and the nation was suffering from a paranoid impression of being assaulted from all sides. Someone had to be blamed. Eventually the scapegoats were everyone except those in power.

The Military Commissions Act of 2006 makes me ashamed to represent myself as an American.

Putin His Foot in His Mouth Again

It’s not just American media who have strange sensibilities. The recent contretemps over comments made by Russian President Vladimir Putin shows the international media can be just as shallow.

Here’s Reuters’ description of the incident:

The Kremlin said on Friday President Vladimir Putin was joking and not condoning rape when he commented about the virility of Israeli President Moshev Katsav, whom police suspect of raping female employees.

Unaware a microphone was switched on during talks with Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert, Putin called Katsav a "mighty guy" and said: "Raped 10 women! I would never have expected that from him. He surprised us all. We all envy him."

I’m fifty years old and twenty-five pounds overweight, so giving Vladimir Putin the benefit of the doubt could take more bending over backward than my back can stand. (All right. Thirty pounds, damn it! Are you happy now?) I’m still willing to try, in the name of journalistic excellence. (Even I’m laughing at that.)

Have you ever said anything sarcastic, intended for a select audience you assumed would get the joke? Ever felt embarrassed when it leaked out? Ever had it leak out in an international forum, where a thousand journalists hang on your every word because catching you saying something dumb allows them to get credit for a day’s work without having done any?

Putin said something he shouldn’t have said, in a situation where he shouldn’t have said it. It’s the resulting outrage that’s disturbing. Forget these comments; Vladimir Putin’s record speaks for him. His mission in life is to reunite the Soviet Union under the umbrella of Greater Russia. He’s done all he can to stamp out Russia’s post-Gorbachev democratic reforms, and ruthlessly suppressed dissent of all flavors. And people have their shorts in a know over something he said?

Nothing Putin says can disgrace his actions. The same pundits now debating how many rapists can dance on the head of a pin spend most of their editorial time painting around his neo-Stalinist actions.

It’s bad enough we live in an era where people like Putin, Dubya, Ahmadinejad, and Hu Jintao run things. (Forget Kim Jong Il. He gives ruthless dictators a bad name. They make him sit at the kids’ table at the annual Evil Tyrant’s Dinner.) Media, self-proclaimed watchdogs of a political correctness they alone define, have reduced even the most serious news to sound bites. Their apologists say it’s the only news their readers or viewers want to hear. They smirk when they say it, because they mean it’s the only news their audience can understand. That may be true. But at least some of us recognize bullshit when we see it, which is more than can be said for many of those who have “recognizing bullshit” as part of their job description.

Improving College Aid?

A recent Washington Post editorial, “Improving College Aid,” makes several good points, but overlooks several others.

Need-based financial assistance is shamefully neglected in our educational system. Omitting platitudes about The American Dream, everyone suffers when any deserving student is denied the opportunity to be a doctor, teacher, nurse, or other professional, merely because they can’t afford to go to college. It is society’s loss when talent goes unrecognized. For it to happen in a nation with our resources is unconscionable.

That being said, the existing system does a questionable job of determining who is “in need.” Families who have conscientiously saved for their children’s education may have their sacrifices held against them, as they have money available. Financial aid decision-makers wield influence well beyond college assistance, as they have the ability to help to determine how much a family has left over for retirement, future medical expenses, or the proverbial “rainy day.” After college has been paid for, of course.

Picture two families, with the same number of children and the same income, living across the street from each other. Family A limits their vacations to an annual week of day trips, maybe a weekend in Ocean City. They eat out a couple of times a month. Their Honda/Nissan/Neon is nearing 100,000 miles.

Family B flies to Florida for spring break, and takes a comfortable vacation every year, and owns a second home in the mountains. They eat out twice a week and buy a new Acura/Infiniti/Mercedes as soon as the last one is paid for.

Family A had money in the bank for education; Family B does not. Who gets more financial aid? Family B, of course.

Also at issue is America’s continuing celebration of mediocrity. Should not an excellent student reap some reward other than a hearty “Well done” for making sacrifices of her or his own? Social functions are skipped and extracurricular activities are foregone in order to make the grades needed for a better school. Should such a student be confronted with another hurdle because his or her parents were too conscientious in their habits?

If merit scholarships are to be eliminated, athletic free rides must also go. (In its current usage, “athletic scholarship” is an oxymoron.) The elimination of legacies would also be a reasonable step, as it would make available more spots for deserving students.

What’s needed is a sliding scale that considers both merit and financial circumstance, and defines financial circumstance as income, not savings. People who make more money have more flexibility in how they dispose of their resources. Let’s not reward their bad choices at the expense of others.

There is, obviously, an income level above which financial aid should not be considered. I think anyone absorbing the Washington area’s cost of living for even a modest lifestyle would agree that $92,400 is not the amount after which their children should be on their own.

A Prick From Beyond the Grave

I feel like Steven van Zandt playing Silvio Dante impersonating Al Pacino as Michael Corleone: Every time I think I’m out, they pull me in again.

For several months I have made a conscientious effort to avoid overtly political posts. There’s already too much ill-conceived, unproven garbage accepted as Truth on the Internet, creating enough heat to melt Barbara Bush’s heart, but not enough light to see Dubya’s frat boy smirk from three feet away.

The Crazy Like Me Correspondent has goaded me in covert, deniable ways for several weeks. Others have wondered recently what I thought about certain news items. Blame them the next time I piss you off. I was willing to let things go along as they were.

What pushed me off the fence (with some coaxing from the Low Brass Correspondent) was word that Ken “Kenny Boy” Lay had his convictions set aside because he’s dead. There’s no conspiracy or back washing here. His appeals had been filed, and your day in court extends until all actions have been resolved. The presumption of innocence remains in effect while the appeal process moves forward. Since Lay’s death rendered his appeal moot, the court action could not be completed, and, since he’s not a Presidentially-declared enemy combatant, he must be presumed to be innocent. Let’s just say “not guilty.” Ken Lay’s innocent like Britany Spears is a natural blonde.

The primary effect of the ruling will be to make it a lot harder for those Lay screwed out of their life savings to get any of it back. The reimbursements were going to be spread pretty thin in the first place, with anyone getting ten cents on the dollar looking like a lottery winner. Now extra hoops will have to be navigated, as the civil plaintiffs will not be able to use Lay’s conviction as proof of his culpability.

The real winners are the lawyers. (Now there’s a shocker for you.) Extra hoops to means bigger fees. Plaintiffs who receive three cents on the dollar now should consider themselves luckier than Paris Hilton was in her choice of parents.

It’s only a matter of time before we start to hear anew that Lay isn’t really dead. With $44 million he can afford to make Howard Hughes look like Donald Trump in the publicity department. Maybe Lay can bunk with Elvis and Princess Anastasia for a while, keeping an eye on Kennedy’s brain.

Get over it folks. The term is “screwed” for a reason. Once your cherry’s gone, all that’s left is the pit. And that’s what you’re going to get for your trust in Enron.

Boy, Is My Face Red

The Washington Post is running an editorial today titled, "Blowing the Easy Ones." It's about the failure of authories to screen the mail of incarcerated terrorist suspects.

I thought it was going to be about Mark Foley.

Life Imitates Art

Congress has approved the construction of a 700 mile long fence to keep people from sneaking across our 2300 mile border with Mexico, apparently on the premise that no one will go over, under, or around the fence. One suspects that which 700 miles to be protected will be determined less by the frequency of crossings, and more by which patriotic representatives with districts on the border voted for the bill.

Does this remind anyone of the movie Blazing Saddles? Remember the scene where Slim Pickens and his posse are riding toward Rock Ridge, and Cleavon Little needs more time to set up his trap? Little sends Gene Wilder and Alex Karras out to set up a toll booth. Pickens stops everyone, right in the middle of about fifteen gazillion square miles of open prairie, and sends one guy back to town for a “shitload of dimes.” Everyone then goes through, one at a time, thus buying the sheriff enough time to save the town.

I’ll bet they won’t even give Mel brooks credit for the idea. They should at least name it the William J. LePetomiane Memorial Boondoggle, or something like that.