The Boss

I first heard Maynard Ferguson play in person in 1972 at Springdale (PA) High School. Maynard and his band gave a clinic before the concert for local high school musicians, who hung on every word like Moses listening to the burning bush. The last time I saw him was a couple of years ago, when his band shared a gig with Glenelg (MD) High School’s excellent jazz band. In between were more good times than I can recite here, even though I think I can remember every one, given a little time to think about it.

I remember sitting in line at 5:00 one cold morning in February, 1974 so I’d have enough gas to get to the Holiday Inn in Blawnox, PA. Maynard did three shows that night, even played baritone sax (well) on one number while Bruce Johnstone soloed on bass clarinet.

Ron Melani and I got stuck in traffic and were almost late for the gig at the Grand Ballroom of the Duquesne University Student Union. The students wrecked the joint every time Duquesne graduate Randy Purcell soloed. Maynard made sure it was often.

The whole trumpet section came down front to play the opening to “Be-Bop Buffet” up an octave at the Moonshadow bar in Atlanta; Maynard closed with a scary cadenza on “Pagliacci.”

Another Holiday Inn, this one in New Kensington, PA, where Maynard signed my copy of MF Horn between sets before heading off to his room to practice.

And my favorite: the Casino Theater in Vandergrift, PA, February, 2002. I drove the Sole Heir up from Maryland to see the gig with my parents. I didn’t expect much, but thought it might be cool thirty years from now if she could say she’d seen Maynard live, since she’d taken up the horn that year. The old man blew the walls down. Even better was the look of shock and discovery on the Sole Heir’s face as she became baptized into the Church of Maynard. Most parents spent their whole lives looking for ways to bond with their children; I spent fifteen bucks. Thank you, Maynard.

That’s not all I have to thank him for. Maynard Ferguson was one of the two people most responsible for me trying to make a career out of music. My lack of success is not held against him; far from it. I went places, met people, and did things I would never have done otherwise, in part because Maynard (and Doc Severinsen) got a high school kid so jazzed about his instrument.

I’m not here to get maudlin and start whining like John Lennon or Elvis died again. What I’ll remember most about Maynard, more than the shock at hearing him play unimaginable things (even though I’d heard him do something similar just a few weeks before), was the fun. More than the fun I had; the fun he had. No one ever had a better time at their work than Maynard Ferguson. He was still touring eight months a year at age seventy-eight. His last musical act was to record a new CD just a couple of weeks before taking ill for the last time.

Maynard played first trumpet on the soundtrack of The Ten Commandments. (In a trumpeter’s irony, Herb Alpert played drums.) I saw it noted somewhere on the web that Gabriel has now been bumped down to second trumpet.

Maynard was a big deal before I was born, so as far as I’m concerned, he’s always been there. His passing severs one more connection to my youth. (Careful now, you’re teetering on the edge of the Great Maudlin Swamp.) The good news is, thanks to recordings, I can pull up any phase of his career to keep me company: the early years, when he did things I still shake my head at; his middle years, when he set the hook so deep in me during my teens and early twenties; and most recently, when I can listen to a man in his sixties and seventies play and not feel bad over the erosion of his skills, mainly because it’s obvious he didn’t, and there’s still so much left.

What I think most of when I listen to Maynard is how much fun it must have been to be able to do what he did every night. Not just playing for a living; I did that for a while. I mean to know that every night he might do something that would amaze not just the audience, but the guys on the bandstand. The looks that were exchanged when Maynard would catch an eye on a night when he was really feeling it and give an expression as if to say, “listen to this.”

Fun’s fun; there’s a lot more to being a pro. Check out a video on YouTube and see the concentration on his face, the physical effort. James Brown is called The Hardest Working Man in Show Business, but no one ever left more of himself on a stage than Maynard did every night. A showman to the end, his last recording will be released after his death; for Maynard, there’s always one more show.

(For another, even better, take, read David Von Drehle's tribute from Saturday’s Washington Post.)

Kudos

Arizona came one step closer to properly caring for its at-risk youth this month, finally granting the Desert Flower Correspondent her counseling license. It was not a hasty decision; she rolled up enough other certifications that she now has more letters behind her name than in it. These last are, for her, the sweetest.

I know this because I have been privileged these last five years to be her friend and occasional confidant. We met during difficult times for both of us, and moving through things that could have become crises without the right person to listen and make constructive suggestions. Or not. I knew she’d be a great counselor because she has an innate ability to know when to talk and when to shut up, qualities I have yet to master.

Our sole contact has been through the Internet, with occasional phone calls. We could quite possibly be in the same room some time and not know it unless we knew to look. That’s okay, because we’ve seen things in each other that people who only deal with corporeal presence would never think of.

So if you need help getting over a hump, or know a kid who is about to make some bad decisions because some parents make it their life’s work to set kids up to do so, get yourself to Tucson. I know someone there.

LYG, BDF. (Don’t bother asking; this is like Carol Burnett tugging on her ear. If you don’t know what it means, I’m not going to tell you.)

The Volatile Mixture of Sports and Religion

Note to all Cleveland residents:
It has been a week since any Browns' center has been injured, retired, or suspended for drug use. Forget the chickens and rabbits; sacrificing the goat worked.

Floyd the Roid

For those of you who are somewhat out of the sports loop, American bicyclist Floyd Landis recently was stripped of his victory in this year's Tour de France for failing a performance-enhancing drug test with superhuman levels of artificial testosterone. Since then, Landis has seemed less like Lance Armstrong than George Bush, with his reason du jour for going to war in Iraq.

With the cooperation of the Crazy Like Me Correspondent, The Home Office has uncovered the
TOP SEVEN REASONS FLOYD LANDIS FAILED HIS DRUG TEST

7. All men's testosterone levels were elevated when they heard Christie Brinkley might be available.

6. Hearty pre-test breakfast of Rocky Mountain Oysters.

5. Someone substituted one of Lance Armstrong’s samples.

4. Dehydrated from strict training regimen of binge drinking.

3. High levels of artificial testosterone run in his family.

2. Mennonites use testosterone for Communion instead of wine.

1. Shook hands with Barry Bonds right before giving the sample.

Why only seven and not ten, you ask? You get what you pay for.

Solidarity

Actor Rob Schneider has announced that he will never work for, or with, Mel Gibson, after Gibson's recent drunken, anti-Semitic tirade. Good for you, Rob. Way to put your money where your mouth is. A leading part in a major Mel Gibson production was probably just around the corner, and you'd never have to do the What's-His-name by the copier or Deuce Bigalow shtik again.

I'm with you man. So much so that I'm announcing on this blog that I will never, ever work in any capacity with Mel Gibson ever again. Fuck him.

All together now. "Attica! Attica! Attica!"

Breaking News

To the best of my knowledge, no Baltimore Ravens players have been arrested today.

The Passion of the Mel

Mel Gibson asked Jewish leaders to help him to heal the rift caused by his allegedly anti-Semitic comments because, “it’s the Christian thing to do.” Gibson went on to say that he is “not a bigot. Hatred of any kind is against my faith, the one true faith,” and that he bears no ill will to any other faith, as he believes that eternal damnation and burning in hell are sufficient punishment.

In a related story, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad proclaimed Gibson to be an honorary Muslim, and declared he was ready to forgive Gibson’s many years of being an infidel in recognition of the actor’s efforts to bridge the gap between Christians and Muslims.

In Washington, president George W. Bush named Gibson Special Envoy to the Middle East, charged with solving the current crisis in Lebanon. “Who better to send?” Bush said. “Them Arab types don’t like talking to women, so Condy was kind of in over her head from the git-go. Mel speaks their lingo, and the Israelis figure he owes them big time. He’s the perfect choice.”

All Democratic Senators voted against Gibson’s confirmation, except Connecticut Senator Joseph Lieberman, who declined to comment when asked why he voted against his party on such a sensitive issue. A spokesman said the Senator was being rushed to Walter Reed Army Hospital for an emergency rhinoplasty for injuries sustained when President Bush stopped walking without sufficient warning.

A Retraction, of Sorts

For five years I have steadfastly maintained that no dumber man walks the planet than George W. Bush. I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong. Peter Cook is way dumber than Dubya.

Who’s Peter Cook? Christie Brinkley’s husband—for the time being. Just last week I nominated him for suicide watch when Christie moved out. I blamed her for her series of failed relationships, figuring any man worth his salt would put up with whatever he had to because at the end of the day he’d sleeping with Christie Brinkley. It was beyond my imagination that any man would mistreat her in such a manner to compel her to leave. A direct quote: “Anyone who would do that should be banned from the International Brotherhood of Men forever. Intentionally mistreating Christie Brinkley is like peeing on the Mona Lisa.”

Looks like I was wrong again. Twice in one posting; I’ll have to resist the urge to register Republican. Turns out Peter (an apt moniker) was banging a nineteen-year-old employee of his architectural firm. “I’m stupid,” he said in a statement today.

Stupid isn’t the half of it. You are—soon to be were—married to Christie Brinkley, dumb ass. A woman who looks like Christie isn’t someone you cheat on; she’s someone you cheat with. Maybe Cook thought he could taste the forbidden fruit, get Sissy home before Dad grounded her for missing curfew, and still have time to ride the merry-go-round at Christie’s Fantasyland, enhancing his climax by thinking of all the men who weren’t him.

There’s something about some men that makes them unable to resist younger women. Maybe they’re afraid of their own mortality. Whatever it is, they’re ruled by Lord Priapus (thank you, Tom Wolfe), led around by their probably undersized dicks by whatever fresh conquest looms. They miss out on the best parts of a woman because they’re too involved in the Quest to think about what they’re looking for, or why.

I used to work with a man about fifteen years younger than me. He, too, was into younger women. (Not to mention his third marriage.) Considering his age at the time—thirty-two—I assumed he’d given up on bars, and was looking for his next ex by going to confirmation parties and bat mitzvahs.

“You know what’s cool?” he said. “You find a young girl, and she’ll do stuff because she doesn’t know it’s dirty.”

“You know what’s really cool?” I said. “You find an older woman who likes it.” I couldn’t have confused him more if I had tried to explain Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.

What did Peter Cook and his chickie talk about after sex? Back-to-school shopping? The Homecoming dance? Zit medication? I’m as much a pig as the next guy; I like girls. A lot. I like women better. How to tell them apart? A girl is someone you just want to sleep with; a woman is someone you want to wake up with. It’s obvious Peter Cook isn’t awake yet.

As for my comments about Christie (“how wack must she be?”), a thousand apologies. I stand ready to sooth your hurt feelings in any way possible, which is a considerable number, since you’re on The List. As long as it doesn’t involve spending money. A man’s got to have standards.

Up or Down

(Editor's Note: The following essay was written well before I met the Crazy Like Me Correspondent. None of the events described have transpired on her watch. )

I will confess, I leave the toilet seat up as often as not, but I live alone. I am aware the seat may be up or down any time I use the facility and over the years I have developed a simple plan for checking whether I should change the position before beginning my task.

I look at it.

For a gender who delights in reminding us what sloth-like troglodytes we are, that simple action, accomplished billions of times a day by men the world over, seems to be too much effort for women. “But if you leave the seat down, you'll always know it’s down,” they say. Big deal. If you leave it up all the time, you'll always know it’s up.

Then the argument shifts to, “You have no idea what it’s like to have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and fall into the toilet because the seat is up. That’s why it should stay down.” Personally, that’s why I would look carefully before flopping my behind down, but we've already discussed that. Here’s something they never mention: we'll fall into the toilet, too, if the seat’s up. That’s why we look first.

As bad as dropping into the toilet may be, it has nothing on its reciprocal occurrence in a man’s life. Picture this. A man has awakened in the middle of the night to answer nature’s call. Half asleep, he staggers into the bathroom and, doing what a woman asserts is her God-given right, fails to check the seat location before draining that night’s consumption of malt beverage. He finishes, flushes, then returns to his blissful sleep.

A few minutes later his bride follows him. She goes into the bathroom, exerts her right not to have to check the seat, and the entire neighborhood is shattered by her resulting scream.

“HAAAAARRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!”

He leaps out of bed and runs to defend his one true love from whatever has frightened her, be it burglar, mouse, spider, or O.J. Simpson with a chain saw. As he reaches the bathroom he sees her, tears of rage on her cheeks and a look of hatred on her face.

“You bastard!! You peed on the seat!!”

Harry can only console himself with the knowledge that it was a good, relaxing purging, as that’s the only exercise the Big Guy is going to get for about three months.

My Kid

I hate people who can tell you when their kid first walked, spoke, spit up, wiped his/her own butt, whatever. I love the Sole Heir as much as any of them love their kids; I just don’t feel the need to inflict it on you.

That being said, today she told me she received a score of 5 on an Advanced Placement exam. For those of you not hip to AP tests, they’re usually given to high-achieving high school seniors. A score of 3 might get you college credit; 4 is almost always credit; and for a 5 some schools waive the proctologic exam of your parents’ finances before awarding aid. I don’t know how many freshmen get a 5 ; I just know it’s at least one.

Good job, Bink.

A Manly Metaphor

Christie Brinkley is now separated from her fourth husband, Peter Cook. Forget her public persona; how wack must she be? No one can get along with her.Any guy with the skills to get close enough to her to marry her, given the competition he’s bound to face, should be man enough to cowboy up and eat whatever he has to for the relationship to last. I mean, whatever else happens through the day, he gets to sleep with Christie Brinkley. She’s fifty-two, and she’s still on my list. (Granted, I’m into marginally older women.)

What must go on that the man either can’t keep her happy enough to stay, or she makes him unhappy enough to leave. We don’t even want to consider the idea that he treats her so poorly she’d have to leave. Anyone who would do that should be banned from the International Brotherhood of Men forever. Intentionally mistreating Christie Brinkley is like peeing on the Mona Lisa.

Don’t worry about Christie; she’ll land on her feet. (Cook should be on suicide watch for at least six months.) Christie is like the baseball pitcher with a 99-mph fastball. Even if he walks a batter every inning and throws six wild pitches a game, some team will want him. Show them the stats, the history of teams that gave up on him, some pitching coach will always say, “Yeah, but look at him! He throws ninety-nine miles an hour! They all missed something. Maybe I can stabilize his release point. Fix his arm slot. Something. Think of the potential upside.”

That’s Christie. The 99-mph heater with the inconsistent release point.

Internet Dating, Part II

A woman will tell you that looks aren't that important to her. She stares openmouthed, hands to her cheeks in dismay, at any word that might pass your lips to indicate that one of her peers is unattractive, or that, God forbid, you would not be interested in a woman because you think she looks like John Goodman in a halter top.

They would never sink to such depths. They know there is much more than that to everyone, and true beauty can only be found by getting to know someone and exploring the nooks and crannies of his or her psyche, and finding the truth in her or her heart. I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, and we had a word for comments like that.

Bullshit.

There are only two things more important to a woman than your looks: her looks and money. Money comes second because so much of it will be earmarked for the maintenance, or creation, of her looks. Calm down, I have proof.

I haven’t counted, but at least half the Internet ads I've seen of attractive women specify in them, “No replies without photo.” If a guy put that in there, he’d be roasted and his picture put up in every ladies room like it was a post office. Half of the women who do reply will ask for a picture right out of the chute. Then they get cute when they don’t think you’re a hunk.

I had one who insisted on a picture, then blew me off. It wasn't that I was unattractive, she wrote, but I looked too much like an old boyfriend. She didn't want to hurt my feelings by saying someone else’s name during an intimate encounter.

Hurt my feelings? Lady, it’s been so long since I had a intimate encounter I wouldn't care if you whispered “This is going to cost you an extra fifty dollars” in my ear. This is called “living in the moment.” My feelings can be hurt later, I’m busy now.

There was another one, who seemed like a very nice woman from the emails we traded, who then posted her picture on the site. I’m not going to say anything nasty about the picture. I'll let her do it. She wrote me a couple of days later to tell me that her responses had dropped to zero since posting the picture. People who had been corresponding with her had stopped, and she would understand if I didn't want to get together after all.

I wrote back and said not to worry about it. I tried to lighten the moment a little by saying it was no big deal, that I had posted my picture for a while with the same result.

I never heard from her again.

Having already acknowledged that I am not Mel Gibson, I’m not the Elephant Man, either. I have no problems with women rejecting me because of my looks. I do it. You do it. (Be honest.) Everyone does it. I just don’t like being told you don’t do it when we all know you do.

While we’re on the subject of putting pictures in personal ads, what are some people thinking of? Ladies, a word of advice. If you are trying to attract a man via a personal, do not attach a picture of you and your dog/cat/ferret dressed in matching outfits, especially Christmas suits. Men do not find this attractive. We find it scary. We would rather order a Cosmopolitan in a biker bar than deal with the possibility of having to help you dress Skittles for next year’s Christmas card. We are also not crazy about the idea of you having a dog/cat/ferret that would tolerate such behavior.

The Male Ego comes in for quite a bit of bashing, and deservedly so. I, personally, am convinced that it is no coincidence that Nicole Kidman dumped that squirt Tom Cruise shortly after I became available. That being said, try this headline on for size, written by an actual woman to attract a man’s attention:

“The woman you wished you’d married.”

As if her ego wasn't off-putting enough, she goes on to prove that she not only has no clue, she doesn't even know where to shop for one.

Since my divorce, I seem to be a magnet for married men. Something like cats, that seem to know I’m horribly allergic to them, and can’t keep their fuzzy little paws off of me. I think it’s because I’m so much more interesting that the women they are actually married to.

It occurred to me at this point that her headline should have read “The woman you wish you’d slept with.” I know enough about guys to know that “unsuitable, attached and wannabe philandering men” (her words) aren't looking for a woman to marry. They are looking for a woman (how can I put this delicately?) to shack up with. Her copious list of virtues are not what men who cheat are looking for. They are going to look pretty much in the area between the neck and the knees and leave it at that.

With that last sentence we have come full circle and admitted that men are, indeed, pigs. Fine. I wish I was a better person. Let’s be honest, though. We’re all about the same, and we’re all in this together. Let’s try to have a little fun and do the right thing at the same time.

The Law of Unintended Consequences

The Sole Heir’s mother was called in from vacation for a meeting at 4:00 PM on Monday, July 3. Granted, Monday was a work day; still, it is not clear what was so urgent to demand accomplishment so late the day before a major holiday, since half the country’s on vacation, and no one would be available to do anything about it until Wednesday.

In a related note, an acquaintance was called in from vacation on Monday to do a report. These are two glowing examples of managers trying to show what big dicks they have, and succeeding only in showing what big dicks they are.

As American as Falafel and Quiche

While Congress was distracted with whining about who should protect our ports and whether our phone records should be available to every fed with a bug up his ass, the terrorists took over ESPN.

Today is the Fourth of July, the most American of holidays. As recently as last year ESPN celebrated with five baseball games, starting in the early afternoon and running past midnight, moving through all four time zones to allow everyone a chance to glimpse our National Pastime.

What are they showing today? ESPN has poker and soccer, followed by Barry Bonds’ weekly festival of self-aggrandizing video masturbation and concluding with more poker before Baseball Tonight, their one-hour wrap-up of the day’s games, none of which they thought worthy of showing live. ESPN2 is even worse. Hours of Wimbledon and a replay of the afternoon’s soccer game (for the fifteen people in the country with cable but no VCR) are sandwiched around a hot dog eating contest.

I realize they have marketing surveys out the wazoo; I also understand all twenty-something marketing geniuses know more about this than I ever will. Doesn’t tradition count for anything? ESPN and The Deuce also ditched baseball on Memorial Day, replacing it with other two staples of Americana: poker and competitive paintball. All day. On both channels. Honest to Allah.

Now tell me the terrorists aren’t winning.

Internet Dating, Part I

Editor’s Note: This was written well before I met the Crazy Like Me Correspondent. None of the comments apply even remotely to her.

People living in the Washington area don’t need anyone to tell them how busy they are. High-stress jobs and traffic consume more potential leisure time than anyone cares to think about. Creating a social life from this chaos of obligations is always a challenge. This is the primary reason for the rise in Internet dating.

Internet dating provides an opportunity to deal with various aspects of the female personality in a compressed time. Instead of meeting and dating women over a period of months, you can encounter dozens in a day, and may actually communicate through email or chat with several in the course of a week.

Notice that I didn't say if this was good or bad. I prefer to take the Zen approach and say that it is not good or bad, it just is. It is certainly educational.

Before I get into full rant here, let’s get the disclaimers out of the way. I am well into my second divorce, which carries with it the implication of damaged goods. I am forty-five years old, so approximately half the women on the planet will consider me a pathetic old lecher if I even ask them where to find the Metamucil. I have never been mistaken for Mel Gibson. (I’m considerably taller.) My sense of humor is not for the faint of heart.

I am also a guy, with the base tendencies guys have. Everyone knows what those are. Some will be discussed here, some won’t. Suffice to sat that the women with whom I have been dealing should assume I have these tendencies.

I’m not going to get all New Age and start talking about Mars and Venus. It’s not that complicated, and there are copyright issues I’d rather nor deal with. I also don’t want anyone to think I’m being misogynistic. I’m being as honest and forthright as I can, from my perspective, which is the only one I can have and is, therefore, the only one that counts in my little corner of The Big Picture.

It is widely assumed that women are deeper and more sincere than men. This idea must have come from their ability to bear children, which supposedly gives them insight into the meaning of life and our place in it, as well as the cosmic and supernatural forces that guide our pitiful existence, regardless of our feeble attempts to exercise some control. Lots of people think that.

They’re wrong. Women are just as shallow as men. They’re just shallow about different things.

I realize I am throwing away any chance I have of being a guest on “Oprah,” or “The View.” I’ll get over it. I’d prefer a shot at Jim Rome’s show or “Win Ben Stein’s Money.”

Probably the favorite piece of evidence thrown in men’s faces by women who wish to establish themselves as superior life forms is our predilection for sports. We like to play sports, we like to watch sports, and we like to talk about sports. Sports occupy a major part of our attention. Maybe not as much as sex, but it’s close.

Women have loftier things on their minds and will not sully their gray matter with such base concerns. Life as we know it would change fundamentally if women were to adjust their thinking and worry about sports, even a little. Entire nations, especially this one, would see their economies shrivel and die should the female population waver even an inch from their ramrod-straight focus on what rules their world. Men have sports. Women have shopping.

Don’t laugh, the parallels are too tight. Men love to play sports, women love to shop. Men watch sports on television, women have gobs of cable channels devoted to nothing but shopping. Men will talk about sports all hours of the day. Women will talk about shopping the same way. You don’t think so? Tell me you’re never heard the following conversation, or one just like it.

“Where did you get that blouse?”

“Do you like it? I got it at Bloomingdale’s.”

“What did you pay for it?”

“It was only forty-five dollars.” (Note: I have no idea what any article of women’s clothing costs, and I don’t want to know. I picked a number at random, and I don’t want to hear about it if I’m off by several orders of magnitude.)

“You know, I saw one a lot like it at Nordstrom’s, but it was sixty-five dollars.”

“I know. I think the one at Nordstrom’s was a little nicer, but not twenty dollars nicer. Feel this material. The thread count can’t be that much different.”

“Speaking of thread count, did you see the sheets on sale at Hecht’s? They were a hundred twenty count and were on sale.”

“No! Get out! How long is the sale good for?” And on and on.

How is this different, or any more elevated, than a manly discussion of why A-Rod may hit thirty points higher than I-Rod, but I-Rod plays a tougher position and is therefore a more valuable player? It’s not. It’s even lower, because they’re talking about a blouse, and we’re talking about baseball. Millions of people will not be thrown into paroxysms of joy or despair if she misses the last sheets at Hecht’s, but they will if Bill Buckner lets an easy ground ball roll through his legs to lose the World Series.

An Alternative Solution

It’s hard to have confidence in Dubya’s pledges to keep illegally obtained data from being seen by unauthorized persons; the government can’t even keep the personal data it obtains legally from being seen by anyone who wants a peek.

I am one of a select group of 26.5 million veterans and their dependents, whose personal information was stolen out of some GS moron’s home. The government’s response was to tell us how sorry they were, provide the phone numbers of the three credit reporting agencies, pat us on the butt and send us on our way. They didn’t even tell us the name of the shitweasel who kept taking home computer files without authorization until someone finally stole them, allowing us the satisfaction of beating the snot out of him. The least they could do is publish his information, so he share in our enforced paranoia. (Veterans are the Rodney Dangerfield of interest groups in this country. Kids cook Mom breakfast in bed on Mothers Day; Fathers Day is for Dad to fall asleep watching the U.S. Open. When’s the last time you got a Veterans Day card? It should be a federal law that no veteran works on Veterans Day. It’s not like it would be a major sacrifice. You’d still have 98% of elected officials and corporate executives coming to work.)

This week the USDA had its systems hacked, jeopardizing the records of 26,000 DC area employees and contractors. Lucky me, I got nicked again. (I’m not complaining; my boss is a three-time loser.) At least the USDA will pay for a year’s worth of credit checks. The vets got bupkes.

I have a solution: publish the personal information of everyone who has ever dealt with the government in the Washington Post. Military, civilian, contractor, retired, active, elected, or appointed. Include anyone who ever got a student loan, FHA mortgage, farm subsidy, or small business loan. Then we’ll know for sure our confidences have been breached, and can avoid all this “we have no evidence anyone’s records have been used improperly” bullshit. The government then pays for the credit and identity protections they keep telling us we need every time someone steals our records. The cost would be zeroed out from all the money they’ll save by not having to pay for ineffective computer security any more.

It has to work better than what they’ve been doing.

Tunnel Vision

A leading indicator of 21^st Century hell is the presence of advertising everywhere. On the walls above urinals, blue screens at ballparks for ads only television viewers can see, before the movie (trailers don’t count; Pepsi ads do). A gas station in Breezewood, PA has video ads on its pumps.

A new low has been reached in Washington, DC, America’s nexus of new lows. Video ads are now displayed on the walls of subway tunnels, sequenced to move in time with the train so you don’t have to risk whiplash watching them. (Swear to God this is true: http://www.nbc4.com/news/8457121/detail.html.)

My trust of marketing people falls somewhere between politicians and lawyers. They won’t lie to you all the time, just when transmitting information. Their expertise is alleged to lay in a more directly profitable direction than honesty: they’re supposed to know how to contact just the right people your business needs to sell more of your product, which most of them probably don’t need. (The American economy is now almost wholly based on things we don’t need.)

The current ad playing on Metro tunnels for the Lincoln Navigator makes me wonder about their marketing team. How many of the people jammed into a Metro train are actively considering a luxury SUV purchase. “Hey, Ethel, screw the Lexus dealer. I saw an ad for a Navigator in a subway tunnel today.”

Let’s think of who Metro riders are, especially on the Red Line headed out for Northeast DC and Prince George’s County. Isn’t this comment any more likely to be generated: “Fred, instead of that KIA from CarMax, what about a Lincoln Navigator?”

I shouldn’t make too much of this; I’m sure these folks are smarter than me. (I live near Washington, DC, where everyone is smarter than me. Just ask them.) I mean, you’d have to be smarter than me to run a major American automobile manufacturing company, role model to industrialists around the world for forward-seeing, profit-building vision and efficiency. Wouldn’t you?

Or maybe not.

The Flag Amendment

Here's the letter that went out today to both senators:

I am a veteran and a member of the American Civil Liberties Union. (Inclusion in both groups is not an oxymoron.) I am appalled by the upcoming vote to amend the Constitution to allow Congress to pass laws outlawing flag burning. While I have no intentions of burning any flags and think those who do are reprehensible, I am frightened by what would be the first step to abridge the rights specifically laid out in the Bill of Rights over two hundred years ago. Passing this amendment would serve no constructive purpose other than to start us on a slippery slope to Constitutionally limiting our rights.

Americans’ rights have taken a beating over the past five years, with the Constitution being our only safeguard. Please don’t allow even that fragile bulwark to start to erode.

Casting an Increasingly Narrow Net

It seems like just a few days since I wrote to my senators and representative about a matter of high importance. I used to rant to all of you about them, but, frankly, none of you ever did dick to make things better. Now I’m going over your head.

Not that I’m kidding myself that these guys care. Every elected representative has one primary agenda item: get re-elected. Senator Sarbanes is retiring this year, so that doesn’t apply to him, yet he is the only one of the three to reply to my last letter. All right, I know it wasn’t really him, it was his office, but it was a nice note, written with an eye toward allowing the less enlightened to delude themselves.

Today the Washington Post ran an op-ed piece about legislation before Congress that would allow a handful of major telecommunication companies to control access to the Internet. (For more on this, visit the Post’s website at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/06/07/AR2006060702108.html)

Here’s the note I wrote to my elected representatives. I know they don’t care what I think, and they don’t care what you think. Enough of us get mad enough, and they might care what we think. Go ahead. If you have time to read this and half of the other crap you skim or watch on TV each day, you can write a letter.

As the gap between the richest and poorest continues to grow, the Internet has become a prime method for economic and educational advancement by those who may not have the resources for more formal education, or traditional

business opportunities. Pending legislation eliminating net neutrality endangers these opportunities.

Allowing telecommunications companies to control Internet access essentially makes them censors of the Internet. They may dispute this, but we have an excellent of their good intentions in our own back yard: Comcast’s refusal to

provide its cable customers with access to the Mid-Atlantic Sports Network (MASN) because MASN is a competitor of Comcast Sports Net. Other cable companies have refused specific programming that differed with their corporate agendas. This legislation would allow them the same control of the Internet.

Aside from the educational and economic opportunities, the Internet has become the ultimate safeguard of our First Amendment rights. Allowing large telecommunications companies to provide access based on the content provider’s ability to pay (or their political, religious, or personal convictions) has the grim potential to shackle large avenues of open discourse. This is anathema to the values America holds most dear.

In these times of domestic surveillance and government credibility gaps, an unfettered Internet serves a valuable function. Maryland is fortunate to have someone of your experience and considerable influence to represent us.

Please take advantage of the respect and influence you have earned from your peers to help to defeat this restrictive and un-American legislation.

Sincerely,

Just Another Dick Head

A side benefit of last summer’s Colorado sojourn was listening to the Sibling Correspondent pimp the virtues of Dick Dale. For those of you not in the loop, Dick Dale is The King of the Surf Guitar, pretty much having invented the style, then remaining its prime practitioner. (His son is also an accomplished guitarist, known, of course, as The Prince of the Surf Guitar.)

The Crazy Like Me Correspondent and I were lucky enough to catch Dick in concert this week at The Ram’s Head in Annapolis. (An intimate venue with much to recommend it.) Going to one performance doesn’t really qualify us to be Dick Heads (as his camp followers are called), but it’s a good start.

Dale doesn’t just give a concert; he puts on a show. He plays some tunes you wouldn’t expect: “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” “Folsom Prison Blues” (to which he sings as much of “Ring of Fire” as he can remember), “Fever,” and the timeless surfer classic, “Hava Nagila.” (Dale makes you wonder how the Beach Boys missed covering this one.) Of course, the evening couldn’t go by without the classic, “Miserlou,” made famous (again) as the theme for the movie Pulp Fiction.

His relaxed banter is corny, but genuinely amusing. He also plays drums (well), double teams with his bassist on the same ax, plays bass using drum sticks instead of his fingers, and knocks off a few choruses of jazz trumpet quite nicely.

Dale turned sixty-nine last month but looks like he’s having too much fun to stop making his annual tour any time soon. That’s good news. Anyone looking for a fun evening watching an accepted master would do well to become a Dick Head for a night.

I took the Sole Heir to see Maynard Ferguson when she started playing trumpet; I wanted her to be able to say thirty years from now that she’d seen Maynard play in person. (Incidentally, Maynard and Dick Dale share May 4 as a birthday.) She had a ball, and I think she appreciated the sentiment. Now I can thank my brother for the same thing, as I have seen the King of the Surf Guitar and lived to tell about it.

Bitchin’.