What is al-Qaeda’s primary goal? Effectively destroying America’s infidel way of life. Killing and causing mayhem are only means toward this end. We hear regular talk of sleeper cells undermining our society, and of agents who will stop at nothing to destroy all we hold dear. This week exposed the most dangerous terrorist agent working in the United States, the single man who has done the most to destroy our values and system of government: George W. Bush.
Congress passed the Patriot Act in the aftermath of the September 11, 2001 attacks. Liberals decried it as a serious erosion of Constitutional rights; Conservatives hailed it as providing sorely-needed powers in the alleged “war on terror.” The Bush White House said all the right things, which was easy for them. They had no intention of being bound by it.
We learned this week that our intelligence agencies have been spying on American citizens within the borders of the United States. These extraordinary actions have been, Bush says, “critical to saving American lives.” He went on to say that only those with “a clear link” to al-Qaeda or other terrorist organizations have been targets.
According to who? If the link is so clear, then probable cause should be easy to establish. Special courts for private hearings were created by the 1978 Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. Even those secret tribunals are considered too restrictive by Bush. The ultimate criterion for who gets spied on is Bush’s personal judgment, which has already given us the Iraqi quagmire, record deficits, and demonstrated his regard for true homeland security matters by his administration’s “response” to Hurricane Katrina.
“The American people expect me to do everything in my power under our laws and Constitution to protect them and their civil liberties,” Bush said in his weekly radio address. Since he invoked the Constitution himself, let’s see what it says on the matter, specifically the Fourth Amendment: The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized. Bush has yet to give a categorical explanation of how his recently exposed actions fit in here.
Caught with his hand in your cookie jar, Bush took the usual refuge of scoundrels and blamed the messenger. The recent New York Times article that exposed him “puts our citizens at risk,” he said, because “our enemies have learned information they should not have.” No methods have been revealed, and no agents’ covers have been blown. (Insert your personal Valerie Plame comment here.) Not just laws, but our most cherished Constitutional values are being flaunted at the highest levels of government. The American people who (barely) elected Bush have a right to know that the protections we have been told to assume since birth only extend as far as a spoiled kid with a messianic complex says they do.
Look at the example we’re setting for Iraq in the way of democracy. We have secret prisons, where people who may (or may not) be terrorists are tortured by our agents. (Bush’s best defense there is to say at least we’ve kept the deficit down by using existing Iraqi prisons.) We plant and pay for stories in the Iraqi press to make the situation on the ground look better than it is. Given some of the existing characteristics of the Iraqi population, how long will it be before Saddam v 2.0 takes over, using our actions as a template for “democracy?” (See this blog’s entry for December 11, titled “What We’re Fighting For.”) The updated Saddam might well be associated with terrorists. Given the religious demographics, he could be assumed to be willing to partner with Iran. We’ll be a lot safer then.
Bill Clinton was impeached for lying under oath about personal matters. He shouldn’t have done it, and may have deserved his impeachment solely for his hubris and disregard of the country’s business by refusing to come clean. On January 20, 2005, George W. Bush raised his right hand and swore an oath in front of millions of people to “preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.” Hell of a job he’s doing.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Just Desserts
Natalee Holloway made the cover of the National Enquirer the last two weeks in a row. Once was to report a phone call her parents allegedly received from her; the other was about evidence the Aruban government was covering up.
Is there a lower form of life in America today (other than any visiting Saudi princes) than the employees of supermarket tabloids? We could discuss the merits of those who buy these rags (if they have any), but saying these rodents are just giving the public what it wants is like excusing FEMA for butchering the Katrina emergency by saying other people made mistakes, too. (Not that the Bush Administration hasn’t tried.)
Haven’t the Holloways suffered enough? They aren’t the first to be subjected to this treatment, but it seems more severe for a couple of reasons. The most obvious is that Natalee is presumably dead. As a parent, my greatest fear, and one never far from my mind, is that something terrible will happen to my daughter. She’s fourteen; I’m almost fifty, and I suspect my parents still feel that way.
What worse is the Holloways never asked for this. They’re not Michael Jackson dangling his baby over a parapet, or Britney Spears getting married for fifteen minutes and making sure the whole world knows about it. As much as celebrities have to put up with, they at least get some (indirect) benefit: all publicity is good publicity today. Whatever keeps the buzz alive will sell your product, especially if your product is you. At what other time could (alleged) child pornographer R. Kelly sing the national anthem at a fight? Madonna kept her career going through lean singing years by being professionally scandalous.
Ever wonder what you’d do if you won the lottery, one of those hundreds of millions of dollars jobs? High on my list would be starting a my own supermarket tabloid. My rag’s only topics would be the lives of the reporters, photographers, and publishers who make their living from the anguish or embarrassment of others.
Ever wonder if the Enquirer’s publisher likes to get liquored up and paw his secretary? Maybe do more than that? How about the underage orgy that went on at his house while he and the wife were driving drunk through a day care parking lot? How do you think their Holloway reporter would like being interviewed about our pictures of him, Dennis Rodman, and a gerbil? Dirty pictures of Grandma from when she was a struggling starlet? Might be fun to find out.
We’d would lose money; the public is much more interested in seeing people with supposedly perfect lives knocked down a peg. It’s part of the love-hate relationship we have with celebrities. Everyone knows my targets are crudballs, so where’s the fun? That’s okay. I just won three hundred million dollars; I can absorb some losses. Besides, I can probably finance the paper by accepting the occasional “honorarium” for something I could print, but am willing to reconsider. Crudballs like this must have some fully-articulated skeletons hanging in their family closets.
Is there a lower form of life in America today (other than any visiting Saudi princes) than the employees of supermarket tabloids? We could discuss the merits of those who buy these rags (if they have any), but saying these rodents are just giving the public what it wants is like excusing FEMA for butchering the Katrina emergency by saying other people made mistakes, too. (Not that the Bush Administration hasn’t tried.)
Haven’t the Holloways suffered enough? They aren’t the first to be subjected to this treatment, but it seems more severe for a couple of reasons. The most obvious is that Natalee is presumably dead. As a parent, my greatest fear, and one never far from my mind, is that something terrible will happen to my daughter. She’s fourteen; I’m almost fifty, and I suspect my parents still feel that way.
What worse is the Holloways never asked for this. They’re not Michael Jackson dangling his baby over a parapet, or Britney Spears getting married for fifteen minutes and making sure the whole world knows about it. As much as celebrities have to put up with, they at least get some (indirect) benefit: all publicity is good publicity today. Whatever keeps the buzz alive will sell your product, especially if your product is you. At what other time could (alleged) child pornographer R. Kelly sing the national anthem at a fight? Madonna kept her career going through lean singing years by being professionally scandalous.
Ever wonder what you’d do if you won the lottery, one of those hundreds of millions of dollars jobs? High on my list would be starting a my own supermarket tabloid. My rag’s only topics would be the lives of the reporters, photographers, and publishers who make their living from the anguish or embarrassment of others.
Ever wonder if the Enquirer’s publisher likes to get liquored up and paw his secretary? Maybe do more than that? How about the underage orgy that went on at his house while he and the wife were driving drunk through a day care parking lot? How do you think their Holloway reporter would like being interviewed about our pictures of him, Dennis Rodman, and a gerbil? Dirty pictures of Grandma from when she was a struggling starlet? Might be fun to find out.
We’d would lose money; the public is much more interested in seeing people with supposedly perfect lives knocked down a peg. It’s part of the love-hate relationship we have with celebrities. Everyone knows my targets are crudballs, so where’s the fun? That’s okay. I just won three hundred million dollars; I can absorb some losses. Besides, I can probably finance the paper by accepting the occasional “honorarium” for something I could print, but am willing to reconsider. Crudballs like this must have some fully-articulated skeletons hanging in their family closets.
What We're Fighting For
The White House would have you believe over 2,000 Americans have died in Iraq because creating democracy in Iraq will make us safer. Here’s a look at some of the folks who are supposed to do this for us.
It’s not politicians, or closet Ba’athists, or even the insurgents who won’t have blown themselves to tiny bits by then. I’m talking about grass roots, average Joes and Janes who make up the bulk of any electorate, what Nixon would have called the Silent Majority.
The valley of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers is allegedly the birthplace of civilization; since then local civilization has suffered from what is, at best, arrested development, if not profound retardation. Witness the quaint local custom of honor killings.
Honor is important to Iraqis, and is provided by men doing manly (to them) things. Women can dishonor the family a million ways, even though almost all of them requires a man, who may not leave the woman any choice. Women who don’t measure up, regardless of the circumstances, have dishonored the family, and must make amends. We’re not talking about washing dishes for a month, or being banished; they have to die, and a family member has to do it.
National Public Radio recently interviewed an Iraqi family whose sixteen year-old daughter was kidnapped in an extortion plot. The daughter was returned, but since no one could prove she hadn’t been raped, she had to go. Her cousin, a policeman, shot her with his service weapon because, in his words, her father and brother lacked the courage. He made it sound like he did her a favor. She could never have shown her face again. She didn’t go to school, or have a job, so no one there will wonder about her. The only people who know she’s gone are her family and her tribe, and they know why. No charges will be brought because no one sees anything wrong with this.
I’m rarely accused of being politically correct, yet I try not to be too harsh on the customs of others, knowing many of ours can seem pretty strange to someone looking in from the outside. Honor killings are easy: these people are animals. Not “animal,” as in having disgusting personal habits; “animal” as in “sub-human,” or even better, “not human.” George W. Bush thinks it’s worth thousands of young American lives and billions of dollars he won’t spend to ensure Americans’ health care to turn Iraq over to vermin like this. He thinks it will make the world a better place.
Bush and I finally agree: give them the country. Quickly. The elections are December 15. Sit down with the winners on January 1 and give them the timetable by which they’re going to get their army and police in gear, and get our people out of there by Christmas 2006. Then the Iraqis can live in their little cesspool without infidel intervention. The United States has done more than enough wrong in Iraq over the last decade; at least we didn’t create Iraqis.
It’s not politicians, or closet Ba’athists, or even the insurgents who won’t have blown themselves to tiny bits by then. I’m talking about grass roots, average Joes and Janes who make up the bulk of any electorate, what Nixon would have called the Silent Majority.
The valley of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers is allegedly the birthplace of civilization; since then local civilization has suffered from what is, at best, arrested development, if not profound retardation. Witness the quaint local custom of honor killings.
Honor is important to Iraqis, and is provided by men doing manly (to them) things. Women can dishonor the family a million ways, even though almost all of them requires a man, who may not leave the woman any choice. Women who don’t measure up, regardless of the circumstances, have dishonored the family, and must make amends. We’re not talking about washing dishes for a month, or being banished; they have to die, and a family member has to do it.
National Public Radio recently interviewed an Iraqi family whose sixteen year-old daughter was kidnapped in an extortion plot. The daughter was returned, but since no one could prove she hadn’t been raped, she had to go. Her cousin, a policeman, shot her with his service weapon because, in his words, her father and brother lacked the courage. He made it sound like he did her a favor. She could never have shown her face again. She didn’t go to school, or have a job, so no one there will wonder about her. The only people who know she’s gone are her family and her tribe, and they know why. No charges will be brought because no one sees anything wrong with this.
I’m rarely accused of being politically correct, yet I try not to be too harsh on the customs of others, knowing many of ours can seem pretty strange to someone looking in from the outside. Honor killings are easy: these people are animals. Not “animal,” as in having disgusting personal habits; “animal” as in “sub-human,” or even better, “not human.” George W. Bush thinks it’s worth thousands of young American lives and billions of dollars he won’t spend to ensure Americans’ health care to turn Iraq over to vermin like this. He thinks it will make the world a better place.
Bush and I finally agree: give them the country. Quickly. The elections are December 15. Sit down with the winners on January 1 and give them the timetable by which they’re going to get their army and police in gear, and get our people out of there by Christmas 2006. Then the Iraqis can live in their little cesspool without infidel intervention. The United States has done more than enough wrong in Iraq over the last decade; at least we didn’t create Iraqis.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
A Rose by any Other Name
The following is a word-for-word transcript of a portion of Charles Gibson’s interview with CIA Director Porter Goss, which aired on November 29, 2005. You may check its accuracy by going to http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/story?id=1353449.
CHARLES GIBSON: Let me ask you about torture. You said the other day the CIA does not do torture, correct?
PORTER GOSS: That is correct.
GIBSON: How do you define it?
GOSS: Well, I define torture probably the way most people would — in the eye of the beholder. What we do does not come close because torture in terms of inflicting pain or something like that, physical pain or causing a disability, those kinds of things that probably would be a common definition for most Americans, sort of you know it when you see it, we don't do that because it doesn't get what you want. We do debriefings because debriefings are the nature of our business, is to get information. We want accurate information and we want to make sure that we have professional people doing that work, and we do all that, and we do it in a way that does not involve torture because torture is counterproductive.
GIBSON: We [ABC News] reported in the past two weeks about having talked to a number of people who have worked and did work in this agency, about six progressive techniques, each one harsher than the last, to get terrorists to talk, including things like long-term standing up, sleep deprivation, exposure for long periods of time to cold rooms or something called "water-boarding," which involves cellophane over the face and water being poured on an individual. Do those things take place?
GOSS: I've got to say there is a huge amount of disinformation out there on this whole subject because probably there's not very much accurate information available. And the reason there's not very much accurate information available about how we do debriefings and how we deal with people who are in detention is very simply, if we told you how we do that, we would be telling them, and that would lose the edge.
GIBSON: You know what water-boarding is though, right?
GOSS: I know what a lot of things are, but I'm not going to comment.
GIBSON: Would that come under the heading? Would that come under the heading of torture?
GOSS: I don't know. I have—
GIBSON: Well, under your definition that you just gave to me of inflicting pain?
GOSS: Let me put it this way, I'm not going to comment on any individual techniques that anybody has brought forward as an allegation, or dreamed up or anything like that. What we do, as I said many times, is professional, it's lawful, it yields good results and it is not torture.
The English translation of Goss’ comments can be distilled into a three-word statement:
We torture people.
Webster defines torture as:
1 a : anguish of body or mind : AGONY b : something that causes agony or pain2 : the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure.
Goss defines torture as “in the eye of the beholder.” Coincidentally, that’s a traditional definition of beauty. Goss can’t tell the difference.
Remember when we were the good guys? How do you spin this sow’s ear into a silk purse for the rest of the world when you’re telling them about us staking out the moral high ground?
How these guys can stand to look in a mirror is beyond me. Except for Cheney, who I’m pretty sure casts no reflection.
CHARLES GIBSON: Let me ask you about torture. You said the other day the CIA does not do torture, correct?
PORTER GOSS: That is correct.
GIBSON: How do you define it?
GOSS: Well, I define torture probably the way most people would — in the eye of the beholder. What we do does not come close because torture in terms of inflicting pain or something like that, physical pain or causing a disability, those kinds of things that probably would be a common definition for most Americans, sort of you know it when you see it, we don't do that because it doesn't get what you want. We do debriefings because debriefings are the nature of our business, is to get information. We want accurate information and we want to make sure that we have professional people doing that work, and we do all that, and we do it in a way that does not involve torture because torture is counterproductive.
GIBSON: We [ABC News] reported in the past two weeks about having talked to a number of people who have worked and did work in this agency, about six progressive techniques, each one harsher than the last, to get terrorists to talk, including things like long-term standing up, sleep deprivation, exposure for long periods of time to cold rooms or something called "water-boarding," which involves cellophane over the face and water being poured on an individual. Do those things take place?
GOSS: I've got to say there is a huge amount of disinformation out there on this whole subject because probably there's not very much accurate information available. And the reason there's not very much accurate information available about how we do debriefings and how we deal with people who are in detention is very simply, if we told you how we do that, we would be telling them, and that would lose the edge.
GIBSON: You know what water-boarding is though, right?
GOSS: I know what a lot of things are, but I'm not going to comment.
GIBSON: Would that come under the heading? Would that come under the heading of torture?
GOSS: I don't know. I have—
GIBSON: Well, under your definition that you just gave to me of inflicting pain?
GOSS: Let me put it this way, I'm not going to comment on any individual techniques that anybody has brought forward as an allegation, or dreamed up or anything like that. What we do, as I said many times, is professional, it's lawful, it yields good results and it is not torture.
The English translation of Goss’ comments can be distilled into a three-word statement:
We torture people.
Webster defines torture as:
1 a : anguish of body or mind : AGONY b : something that causes agony or pain2 : the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure.
Goss defines torture as “in the eye of the beholder.” Coincidentally, that’s a traditional definition of beauty. Goss can’t tell the difference.
Remember when we were the good guys? How do you spin this sow’s ear into a silk purse for the rest of the world when you’re telling them about us staking out the moral high ground?
How these guys can stand to look in a mirror is beyond me. Except for Cheney, who I’m pretty sure casts no reflection.
You Can't Make This Stuff Up
The following item appeared in Friday’s edition of the Washington Post:
Former FEMA Director Michael Brown, heavily criticized for his agency's slow response to Hurricane Katrina, is starting a disaster preparedness consulting firm to help clients avoid the sort of errors that cost him his job.
We all know Bush appointees have no shame; this proves they have no sense of irony.
I haven’t seen any video of Brown statement; I can’t imagine him saying the following with a straight face. "If I can help people focus on preparedness, how to be better prepared in their homes and better prepared in their businesses -- because that goes straight to the bottom line -- then I hope I can help the country in some way,” he told the Rocky Mountain News.
What’s he going to do, show people his press conferences and emails and say, “Don’t do this?” Consulting Michael Brown on disaster procedures is like asking the captain of the Exxon Valdez about safe navigation practices. It’s like Linda Tripp giving makeover advice. Bill Clinton teaching impulse control. Ike Turner as a domestic abuse counselor. Tom DeLay as an ethics instructor. Ozzy Osbourne discoursing about family values. Dick Cheney explaining the value of military service. Madonna praising chastity. George W. Bush teaching grammar.
Brown’s first suggestion is to hire a couple of interns to watch CNN and MSNBC 24 hours a day, so someone knows what’s going on. Next is to leave no record, written or electronic, of any suggestions, orders, or replies. When you have Mike Brown’s skills, deniability trumps all other considerations.
Someone will hire Brown, if only to show they’re True Believers. This essay is intended for anyone living in a jurisdiction that considers engaging Brownie, lest he do another “heckuva job” for you: sell now, before word gets out and property values drop faster than Bush’s approval ratings.
Former FEMA Director Michael Brown, heavily criticized for his agency's slow response to Hurricane Katrina, is starting a disaster preparedness consulting firm to help clients avoid the sort of errors that cost him his job.
We all know Bush appointees have no shame; this proves they have no sense of irony.
I haven’t seen any video of Brown statement; I can’t imagine him saying the following with a straight face. "If I can help people focus on preparedness, how to be better prepared in their homes and better prepared in their businesses -- because that goes straight to the bottom line -- then I hope I can help the country in some way,” he told the Rocky Mountain News.
What’s he going to do, show people his press conferences and emails and say, “Don’t do this?” Consulting Michael Brown on disaster procedures is like asking the captain of the Exxon Valdez about safe navigation practices. It’s like Linda Tripp giving makeover advice. Bill Clinton teaching impulse control. Ike Turner as a domestic abuse counselor. Tom DeLay as an ethics instructor. Ozzy Osbourne discoursing about family values. Dick Cheney explaining the value of military service. Madonna praising chastity. George W. Bush teaching grammar.
Brown’s first suggestion is to hire a couple of interns to watch CNN and MSNBC 24 hours a day, so someone knows what’s going on. Next is to leave no record, written or electronic, of any suggestions, orders, or replies. When you have Mike Brown’s skills, deniability trumps all other considerations.
Someone will hire Brown, if only to show they’re True Believers. This essay is intended for anyone living in a jurisdiction that considers engaging Brownie, lest he do another “heckuva job” for you: sell now, before word gets out and property values drop faster than Bush’s approval ratings.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Is the Pendulum Swinging Back?
Political tides ebb and flow with a momentum not nearly as well understood as the seas’. Turning points are reached, often through the action, inaction, hubris, or desperation of one faction or another. We may just have witnessed a rare triple turning point last week, when political thought caught up with reality, and business as usual was a grave miscalculation.
On Thursday Pennsylvania Representative John Murtha opined that the conquest and occupation of Iraq had proven to be a failure, and it was time to start bringing the troops home. Murtha’s no bleeding heart; he was a strong hawk when Dubya requested war powers, with a resume to match: two Purple Hearts, a Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, Bronze Star with Combat V, and a Distinguished Service Medal after thirty-seven years in the Marine Corps.
It’s not his style to seek the spotlight; it’s doubtful if he’s ever been on a Sunday talk show before this weekend. Speaking out like this indicates a serious crisis of conscience for a man who has proven his devotion and willingness to sacrifice for his country many times over.
Republicans responded in their tried and true method: they vilified him. White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan said Murtha endorsed “the policy positions of Michael Moore and the extreme liberal wing of the Democratic party.” Rep. Kay Granger of Texas, said Murtha's call for withdrawal was “reprehensible and irresponsible,” and showed “a policy of retreat and defeatism.”
The House’s most junior member, Rep. Jean Schmidt of Ohio, showed that while she may be new, she understands contemporary Republican politics. Schmidt told Congress about a call she received from Marine Colonel Danny Buhp, who asked her to tell the House to stay the course, because “only cowards cut and run; Marines never do.”
That almost started a fist fight. Democrats immediately called for Schmidt to retract her statement. When order was restored, Schmidt requested her words be “taken down,” and said her comments weren’t directed at any member of the chamber.
She left unsaid that Colonel Buhp, self-appointed determiner of all things Marine, is a Republican member of the Ohio legislature. He’s also a career reservist who has never seen combat. There’s no shame in that; I’m sure he’s done everything that has been asked of him. For Schmidt to use his comment in that context could not be construed as anything but a direct slap at Murtha by someone of purportedly equal military credentials. (Buhp has since distanced himself from what Schmidt said he told her.)
This is classic Republican 21st Century strategy. No matter who opposes you (John McCain in South Carolina, Max Cleland in Georgia, John Kerry everywhere), no matter how his record compares to yours, malign and degrade him until counterarguments are moot, then make a smarmy disclaimer when it doesn’t matter anymore.
It didn’t work this time. Public sentiment toward Schmidt’s transparent attempt to defame Murtha was quick and hostile, even in her own district. The White House has run away from McClellan’s initial comments faster than France can clear the road to Dunkirk.
Possible Turning Point One: Will Murtha’s comments be as significant as Walter Cronkite’s were about Vietnam? Marginalizing the anti-war forces was easy until America’s most-trusted newsman said it was a lost cause. Murtha’s not as well-known as Cronkite was, but his bona fides are better. McClellan’s linking of Murtha to liberal wing-nut Michael Moore was a clear attempt to marginalize him; it lasted even less time than anyone took Moore seriously.
Possible Turning Point Two: Have Americans finally had enough of lowest common denominator politics? It’s a rough business, but I’m old enough to remember when political argument stopped short of demonizing the opponent, or maliciously spinning a superior record against him. Is it becoming passé for a Republican to praise the military, then in the next breath slur those whose valor and sacrifice made it possible for the chickenhawk to avoid service in the first place? We can only hope.
Possible Turning Point Three: Have the Democrats finally found some onions? After years of being afraid to insult or offend anyone, are they actually going to stand for something, even if it means an occasional intemperate word? Murtha took point again when told of comments Bush and Cheney made immediately after his statement. “I like guys who got five deferments and [have] never been there and send people to war, and then don't like to hear suggestions about what needs to be done.” When’s the last time a politician with some street cred laid it on the line like that?
Not having served is no disqualification for leadership, but it’s not too much to expect leaders to be willing to learn from those whose experience trumps their own, and to consider opposing viewpoints. Bush and Cheney routinely flog anyone who voted in favor of war powers for even hinting they’ve changed their mind. No congressional vote gives any president a blank check to do as he wishes in perpetuity. Bush won election last year, in part, by criticizing Kerry for changing his positions over a thirty-year career. Bush apparently has never changed his mind. Of course, for him, life truly began at forty; anything before that is off-limits, probably because he can’t remember himself. Never changing one’s mind is a sign of not learning anything, and rarely has any public figure needed to learn as much as George W. Bush.
Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” A great nation has rarely been ruled by such a large collection of little minds as our selfishness has inflicted upon us now. John Murtha may be right, he may be wrong; he may be remembered as a hero, or become a forgotten historical footnote. For now, he represents what is best about us, right or wrong: a man who has seen his duty, and consistently done it. Even if that contradicts something he’s done before.
On Thursday Pennsylvania Representative John Murtha opined that the conquest and occupation of Iraq had proven to be a failure, and it was time to start bringing the troops home. Murtha’s no bleeding heart; he was a strong hawk when Dubya requested war powers, with a resume to match: two Purple Hearts, a Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, Bronze Star with Combat V, and a Distinguished Service Medal after thirty-seven years in the Marine Corps.
It’s not his style to seek the spotlight; it’s doubtful if he’s ever been on a Sunday talk show before this weekend. Speaking out like this indicates a serious crisis of conscience for a man who has proven his devotion and willingness to sacrifice for his country many times over.
Republicans responded in their tried and true method: they vilified him. White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan said Murtha endorsed “the policy positions of Michael Moore and the extreme liberal wing of the Democratic party.” Rep. Kay Granger of Texas, said Murtha's call for withdrawal was “reprehensible and irresponsible,” and showed “a policy of retreat and defeatism.”
The House’s most junior member, Rep. Jean Schmidt of Ohio, showed that while she may be new, she understands contemporary Republican politics. Schmidt told Congress about a call she received from Marine Colonel Danny Buhp, who asked her to tell the House to stay the course, because “only cowards cut and run; Marines never do.”
That almost started a fist fight. Democrats immediately called for Schmidt to retract her statement. When order was restored, Schmidt requested her words be “taken down,” and said her comments weren’t directed at any member of the chamber.
She left unsaid that Colonel Buhp, self-appointed determiner of all things Marine, is a Republican member of the Ohio legislature. He’s also a career reservist who has never seen combat. There’s no shame in that; I’m sure he’s done everything that has been asked of him. For Schmidt to use his comment in that context could not be construed as anything but a direct slap at Murtha by someone of purportedly equal military credentials. (Buhp has since distanced himself from what Schmidt said he told her.)
This is classic Republican 21st Century strategy. No matter who opposes you (John McCain in South Carolina, Max Cleland in Georgia, John Kerry everywhere), no matter how his record compares to yours, malign and degrade him until counterarguments are moot, then make a smarmy disclaimer when it doesn’t matter anymore.
It didn’t work this time. Public sentiment toward Schmidt’s transparent attempt to defame Murtha was quick and hostile, even in her own district. The White House has run away from McClellan’s initial comments faster than France can clear the road to Dunkirk.
Possible Turning Point One: Will Murtha’s comments be as significant as Walter Cronkite’s were about Vietnam? Marginalizing the anti-war forces was easy until America’s most-trusted newsman said it was a lost cause. Murtha’s not as well-known as Cronkite was, but his bona fides are better. McClellan’s linking of Murtha to liberal wing-nut Michael Moore was a clear attempt to marginalize him; it lasted even less time than anyone took Moore seriously.
Possible Turning Point Two: Have Americans finally had enough of lowest common denominator politics? It’s a rough business, but I’m old enough to remember when political argument stopped short of demonizing the opponent, or maliciously spinning a superior record against him. Is it becoming passé for a Republican to praise the military, then in the next breath slur those whose valor and sacrifice made it possible for the chickenhawk to avoid service in the first place? We can only hope.
Possible Turning Point Three: Have the Democrats finally found some onions? After years of being afraid to insult or offend anyone, are they actually going to stand for something, even if it means an occasional intemperate word? Murtha took point again when told of comments Bush and Cheney made immediately after his statement. “I like guys who got five deferments and [have] never been there and send people to war, and then don't like to hear suggestions about what needs to be done.” When’s the last time a politician with some street cred laid it on the line like that?
Not having served is no disqualification for leadership, but it’s not too much to expect leaders to be willing to learn from those whose experience trumps their own, and to consider opposing viewpoints. Bush and Cheney routinely flog anyone who voted in favor of war powers for even hinting they’ve changed their mind. No congressional vote gives any president a blank check to do as he wishes in perpetuity. Bush won election last year, in part, by criticizing Kerry for changing his positions over a thirty-year career. Bush apparently has never changed his mind. Of course, for him, life truly began at forty; anything before that is off-limits, probably because he can’t remember himself. Never changing one’s mind is a sign of not learning anything, and rarely has any public figure needed to learn as much as George W. Bush.
Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” A great nation has rarely been ruled by such a large collection of little minds as our selfishness has inflicted upon us now. John Murtha may be right, he may be wrong; he may be remembered as a hero, or become a forgotten historical footnote. For now, he represents what is best about us, right or wrong: a man who has seen his duty, and consistently done it. Even if that contradicts something he’s done before.
Monday, November 14, 2005
The Mistake by the Lake
Children growing up in Pittsburgh are taught never to complain. No matter how bad the weather or the economy, it could be worse. You could be in Cleveland.
The Pittsburgh Steelers rolled to another glorious victory last night, trouncing the hated Cleveland Browns 34–21. The game wasn’t that close; Cleveland scored by returning a blocked field goal for a score with 4:23 left in the game; they picked up another garbage touchdown with 21 seconds left, when the Steelers had Joe Greene, Jack Lambert, and Bill Cowher’s kids in the game on defense.
I’d feel sorry for the folks from Cleveland, but, they live in Cleveland. This was such a thorough whipping that Steeler wide receiver Hines Ward not only broke the all-time Steeler record for passes caught in a career; on one play he juggled a pass, caught it while falling out of bounds in the end zone with a Cleveland player grabbing Ward’s face mask, and still put the Cleveland player in the hospital. He was called out of bounds on review, but catching the ball and kicking the defensive back’s ass at the same time is highlight reel stuff.
What’s that? You think it’s terrible to make light of a man being injured so badly he came off the field strapped to a board? He lucked out; the game was in Pittsburgh. Do you know what they call people who go to emergency rooms in Cleveland? Corpses.
Why do Burghers feel so strongly about Cleveland? Easy. Pennsylvania let them use our lake, and they built a Cleveland on it. (Yes, it’s Pennsylvania’s lake; you ever hear of Erie, Ohio?) Besides, no matter how bad Pittsburgh’s pollution was in the days of high steel production and noon streetlights, none of our rivers ever caught fire.
It’s nice to go to sleep at night knowing all is right with the world, even though George W. Bush’s direct line to God doesn’t seem to help much with hurricane prevention, finding weapons of mass destruction, or ethical behavior by anyone who works for him. Next up, the official football team of the anti-Christ (aka Art Modell): Baltimore.
The Pittsburgh Steelers rolled to another glorious victory last night, trouncing the hated Cleveland Browns 34–21. The game wasn’t that close; Cleveland scored by returning a blocked field goal for a score with 4:23 left in the game; they picked up another garbage touchdown with 21 seconds left, when the Steelers had Joe Greene, Jack Lambert, and Bill Cowher’s kids in the game on defense.
I’d feel sorry for the folks from Cleveland, but, they live in Cleveland. This was such a thorough whipping that Steeler wide receiver Hines Ward not only broke the all-time Steeler record for passes caught in a career; on one play he juggled a pass, caught it while falling out of bounds in the end zone with a Cleveland player grabbing Ward’s face mask, and still put the Cleveland player in the hospital. He was called out of bounds on review, but catching the ball and kicking the defensive back’s ass at the same time is highlight reel stuff.
What’s that? You think it’s terrible to make light of a man being injured so badly he came off the field strapped to a board? He lucked out; the game was in Pittsburgh. Do you know what they call people who go to emergency rooms in Cleveland? Corpses.
Why do Burghers feel so strongly about Cleveland? Easy. Pennsylvania let them use our lake, and they built a Cleveland on it. (Yes, it’s Pennsylvania’s lake; you ever hear of Erie, Ohio?) Besides, no matter how bad Pittsburgh’s pollution was in the days of high steel production and noon streetlights, none of our rivers ever caught fire.
It’s nice to go to sleep at night knowing all is right with the world, even though George W. Bush’s direct line to God doesn’t seem to help much with hurricane prevention, finding weapons of mass destruction, or ethical behavior by anyone who works for him. Next up, the official football team of the anti-Christ (aka Art Modell): Baltimore.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Veterans Day (Plus 1)
The Burgh Correspondent asked me yesterday if I was going to say anything about Veterans Day. I took a pass; it was late to work up anything new, and I didn’t have anything old that either hadn’t been seen before, or was worthy of another airing. Plus, hard as this may be to believe, at times even I get tired of hearing myself rant. My Veterans Day contribution to the Internet’s Tower of Babel was a brief respite. You’re welcome.
Veterans Day is over, and something has come to mind. What follows isn’t anything new, we’ve all seen it before; thanks are due the Dialog Correspondent for refreshing my memory. Watching Dick “It’s Only Torture if the Other Guys Do It” Cheney place the wreath at Arlington Cemetery reminded me of this list, and of the sterling military careers of those who used whatever pretence to place, and keep, today’s future veterans in harm’s way.
My military “career” is hardly worth mentioning: three years in a band in Georgia, 1980–1983. Let it be noted that this was during a period of tension with the original Evil Empire™, Ronald Reagan’s Soviet Union. During my tenure at Fort McPherson, not a single Soviet military musical unit even got as far as Savannah, and I’m damn proud of that.
Silly, right? I’ll stack my record of military service up against any number of our current “leaders.” Look at a few prominent names on the list below. I can at least account for my years of service; George W. Bush can’t. That didn’t prevent him from allowing other to defame John McCain to Bush’s advantage in South Carolina in 2000. (The general gist of the comments was that McCain’s years in the Hanoi Hilton may have rendered him too unstable for the presidency.) Bush showed the same heroic spirit that kept him thousands of miles from Vietnam by his tepid condemnation of their actions, well after it made any difference.
Cheney? Paul Wolfowitz? Bill Frist? Rick Santorum? I’m Audie Murphy compared to these clowns. It’s an unfunny laugh to see those who found the time to serve celebrated by these “leaders,” who leveraged the service and sacrifice of others into the positions of power they have now.
Here’s the list. I make no representations for the complete accuracy, but nothing I could find in either Snopes or truthorfiction says it isn’t accurate. Remember, not serving is no dishonor. Profiting, financially or career-wise, by sending others into service you may have chosen to avoid, is. There’s a word for it. Cowardice. To paraphrase R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket, next time you decide who’s a real patriot, remember who was listening to Mick Jagger records and screwing college girls when some others were putting their asses on the line.
Democrats:
Richard Gephardt: Air National Guard, 1965-71.
David Bonior: Staff Sgt., Air Force 1968-72.
Tom Daschle: 1st Lt., Air Force SAC 1969-72.
Al Gore: enlisted Aug. 1969; sent to Vietnam Jan. 1971 as an army
journalist in 20th Engineer Brigade.
Bob Kerrey: Lt. j.g. Navy 1966-69; Medal of Honor, Vietnam.
Daniel Inouye: Army 1943-47; Medal of Honor, WWII.
John Kerry: Lt., Navy 1966-70; Silver Star, Bronze Star with Combat
V, Purple Hearts.
Charles Rangel: Staff Sgt., Army 1948-52; Bronze Star, Korea.
Max Cleland: Captain, Army 1965-68; Silver Star & Bronze Star,
Vietnam. Paraplegic from war injuries. Served in Congress.
Ted Kennedy: Army, 1951-53.
Tom Harkin: Lt., Navy, 1962-67; Naval Reserve, 1968-74.
Jack Reed: Army Ranger, 1971-1979; Captain, Army Reserve 1979-91.
Fritz Hollings: Army officer in WWII; Bronze Star and seven campaign
ribbons.
Leonard Boswell: Lt. Col., Army 1956-76; Vietnam, DFCs, Bronze
Stars,and Soldier's Medal.
Pete Peterson: Air Force Captain, POW. Purple Heart, Silver Star and
Legion of Merit.
Mike Thompson: Staff sergeant, 173rd Airborne, Purple Heart.
Bill McBride: Candidate for Fla. Governor. Marine in Vietnam; Bronze
Star with Combat V.
Gray Davis: Army Captain in Vietnam, Bronze Star.
Pete Stark: Air Force 1955-57
Chuck Robb: Vietnam
Howell Heflin: Silver Star
George McGovern: Silver Star & DFC during WWII.
Bill Clinton: Did not serve. Student deferments. Entered draft but
received #311.
Jimmy Carter: Seven years in the Navy.
Walter Mondale: Army 1951-1953
John Glenn: WWII and Korea; six DFCs and AirMedal with 18 Clusters.
Tom Lantos: Served in Hungarian underground in WWII. Saved by Raoul
Wallenberg.
Republicans -- and these are the guys sending people to war:
Dick Cheney: did not serve. Several deferments, the last by marriage.
Dennis Hastert: did not serve.
Tom Delay: did not serve.
Roy Blunt: did not serve.
Bill Frist: did not serve.
Mitch McConnell: did not serve.
Rick Santorum: did not serve.
Trent Lott: did not serve.
John Ashcroft: did not serve. Seven deferments to teach business.
Jeb Bush: did not serve.
Karl Rove: did not serve.
Saxby Chambliss: did not serve. "Bad knee." The man who attacked Max
Cleland's patriotism.
Paul Wolfowitz: did not serve.
Vin Weber: did not serve.
Richard Perle: did not serve.
Douglas Feith: did not serve.
Eliot Abrams: did not serve.
Richard Shelby: did not serve.
Jon! Kyl: did not serve.
Tim Hutchison: did not serve.
Christopher Cox: did not serve.
Newt Gingrich: did not serve.
Don Rumsfeld: served in Navy (1954-57) as flight instructor.
George W. Bush: failed to complete his six-year National Guard; got
assigned to Alabama so he could campaign for family friend running for
U.S. Senate; failed to show up for required medical exam, disappeared from
duty.
Ronald Reagan: due to poor eyesight, served in a non- combat role
making movies.
B-1 Bob Dornan: Consciously enlisted after fighting was over in
Korea.
Phil Gramm: did not serve.
John McCain: Vietnam POW, Silver Star, Bronze Star, Legion of Merit,
Purple Heart and Distinguished Flying Cross.
Dana Rohrabacher: did not serve.
John M. McHugh: did not serve.
JC Watts: did not serve.
Jack Kemp: did not serve. "Knee problem, " although continued in NFL
for 8 years as quarterback.
Dan Quayle: Journalism unit of the Indiana National Guard.
Rudy Giuliani: did not serve.
George Pataki: did not serve.
Spencer Abraham: did not serve.
John Engler: did not serve.
Lindsey Graham: National Guard lawyer.
Arnold Schwarzenegger: AWOL from Austrian army base.
Pundits & Preachers
Sean Hannity: did not serve.
Rush Limbaugh: did not serve (4-F with a 'pilonidal cyst.')
Bill O'Reilly: did not serve.
Michael Savage: did not serve.
George Will: did not serve.
Chris Matthews: did not serve.
Paul Gigot: did not serve.
Bill Bennett: did not serve.
Pat Buchanan: did not serve.
John Wayne: did not serve.
Bill Kristol: did not serve.
Kenneth Starr: did not serve.
Antonin Scalia: did not serve.
Clarence Thomas: did not serve.
Ralph Reed: did not serve.
Michael Medved: did not serve.
Charlie Daniels: did not serve.
Ted Nugent: did not serve. (He only shoots at things that don't shoot
back.)
Veterans Day is over, and something has come to mind. What follows isn’t anything new, we’ve all seen it before; thanks are due the Dialog Correspondent for refreshing my memory. Watching Dick “It’s Only Torture if the Other Guys Do It” Cheney place the wreath at Arlington Cemetery reminded me of this list, and of the sterling military careers of those who used whatever pretence to place, and keep, today’s future veterans in harm’s way.
My military “career” is hardly worth mentioning: three years in a band in Georgia, 1980–1983. Let it be noted that this was during a period of tension with the original Evil Empire™, Ronald Reagan’s Soviet Union. During my tenure at Fort McPherson, not a single Soviet military musical unit even got as far as Savannah, and I’m damn proud of that.
Silly, right? I’ll stack my record of military service up against any number of our current “leaders.” Look at a few prominent names on the list below. I can at least account for my years of service; George W. Bush can’t. That didn’t prevent him from allowing other to defame John McCain to Bush’s advantage in South Carolina in 2000. (The general gist of the comments was that McCain’s years in the Hanoi Hilton may have rendered him too unstable for the presidency.) Bush showed the same heroic spirit that kept him thousands of miles from Vietnam by his tepid condemnation of their actions, well after it made any difference.
Cheney? Paul Wolfowitz? Bill Frist? Rick Santorum? I’m Audie Murphy compared to these clowns. It’s an unfunny laugh to see those who found the time to serve celebrated by these “leaders,” who leveraged the service and sacrifice of others into the positions of power they have now.
Here’s the list. I make no representations for the complete accuracy, but nothing I could find in either Snopes or truthorfiction says it isn’t accurate. Remember, not serving is no dishonor. Profiting, financially or career-wise, by sending others into service you may have chosen to avoid, is. There’s a word for it. Cowardice. To paraphrase R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket, next time you decide who’s a real patriot, remember who was listening to Mick Jagger records and screwing college girls when some others were putting their asses on the line.
Democrats:
Richard Gephardt: Air National Guard, 1965-71.
David Bonior: Staff Sgt., Air Force 1968-72.
Tom Daschle: 1st Lt., Air Force SAC 1969-72.
Al Gore: enlisted Aug. 1969; sent to Vietnam Jan. 1971 as an army
journalist in 20th Engineer Brigade.
Bob Kerrey: Lt. j.g. Navy 1966-69; Medal of Honor, Vietnam.
Daniel Inouye: Army 1943-47; Medal of Honor, WWII.
John Kerry: Lt., Navy 1966-70; Silver Star, Bronze Star with Combat
V, Purple Hearts.
Charles Rangel: Staff Sgt., Army 1948-52; Bronze Star, Korea.
Max Cleland: Captain, Army 1965-68; Silver Star & Bronze Star,
Vietnam. Paraplegic from war injuries. Served in Congress.
Ted Kennedy: Army, 1951-53.
Tom Harkin: Lt., Navy, 1962-67; Naval Reserve, 1968-74.
Jack Reed: Army Ranger, 1971-1979; Captain, Army Reserve 1979-91.
Fritz Hollings: Army officer in WWII; Bronze Star and seven campaign
ribbons.
Leonard Boswell: Lt. Col., Army 1956-76; Vietnam, DFCs, Bronze
Stars,and Soldier's Medal.
Pete Peterson: Air Force Captain, POW. Purple Heart, Silver Star and
Legion of Merit.
Mike Thompson: Staff sergeant, 173rd Airborne, Purple Heart.
Bill McBride: Candidate for Fla. Governor. Marine in Vietnam; Bronze
Star with Combat V.
Gray Davis: Army Captain in Vietnam, Bronze Star.
Pete Stark: Air Force 1955-57
Chuck Robb: Vietnam
Howell Heflin: Silver Star
George McGovern: Silver Star & DFC during WWII.
Bill Clinton: Did not serve. Student deferments. Entered draft but
received #311.
Jimmy Carter: Seven years in the Navy.
Walter Mondale: Army 1951-1953
John Glenn: WWII and Korea; six DFCs and AirMedal with 18 Clusters.
Tom Lantos: Served in Hungarian underground in WWII. Saved by Raoul
Wallenberg.
Republicans -- and these are the guys sending people to war:
Dick Cheney: did not serve. Several deferments, the last by marriage.
Dennis Hastert: did not serve.
Tom Delay: did not serve.
Roy Blunt: did not serve.
Bill Frist: did not serve.
Mitch McConnell: did not serve.
Rick Santorum: did not serve.
Trent Lott: did not serve.
John Ashcroft: did not serve. Seven deferments to teach business.
Jeb Bush: did not serve.
Karl Rove: did not serve.
Saxby Chambliss: did not serve. "Bad knee." The man who attacked Max
Cleland's patriotism.
Paul Wolfowitz: did not serve.
Vin Weber: did not serve.
Richard Perle: did not serve.
Douglas Feith: did not serve.
Eliot Abrams: did not serve.
Richard Shelby: did not serve.
Jon! Kyl: did not serve.
Tim Hutchison: did not serve.
Christopher Cox: did not serve.
Newt Gingrich: did not serve.
Don Rumsfeld: served in Navy (1954-57) as flight instructor.
George W. Bush: failed to complete his six-year National Guard; got
assigned to Alabama so he could campaign for family friend running for
U.S. Senate; failed to show up for required medical exam, disappeared from
duty.
Ronald Reagan: due to poor eyesight, served in a non- combat role
making movies.
B-1 Bob Dornan: Consciously enlisted after fighting was over in
Korea.
Phil Gramm: did not serve.
John McCain: Vietnam POW, Silver Star, Bronze Star, Legion of Merit,
Purple Heart and Distinguished Flying Cross.
Dana Rohrabacher: did not serve.
John M. McHugh: did not serve.
JC Watts: did not serve.
Jack Kemp: did not serve. "Knee problem, " although continued in NFL
for 8 years as quarterback.
Dan Quayle: Journalism unit of the Indiana National Guard.
Rudy Giuliani: did not serve.
George Pataki: did not serve.
Spencer Abraham: did not serve.
John Engler: did not serve.
Lindsey Graham: National Guard lawyer.
Arnold Schwarzenegger: AWOL from Austrian army base.
Pundits & Preachers
Sean Hannity: did not serve.
Rush Limbaugh: did not serve (4-F with a 'pilonidal cyst.')
Bill O'Reilly: did not serve.
Michael Savage: did not serve.
George Will: did not serve.
Chris Matthews: did not serve.
Paul Gigot: did not serve.
Bill Bennett: did not serve.
Pat Buchanan: did not serve.
John Wayne: did not serve.
Bill Kristol: did not serve.
Kenneth Starr: did not serve.
Antonin Scalia: did not serve.
Clarence Thomas: did not serve.
Ralph Reed: did not serve.
Michael Medved: did not serve.
Charlie Daniels: did not serve.
Ted Nugent: did not serve. (He only shoots at things that don't shoot
back.)
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Scooting into Court
The political right may not be as blind as I thought. Scooter Libby has been indicted on five felony counts, all roughly equating to obstruction of justice or perjury, depending on how strictly you interpret the indictment. The conservative media has been more restrained than usual in their comments so far, exhibiting at least a rudimentary understanding of the “glass houses” principle.
The Wall Street Journal had an interesting approach. The WSJ made it crystal clear that lying under oath is wrong, and should never be condoned. Bu-u-u-u-t, they quibbled, prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald has shown no motive for the Scooter to perjure himself, so they remain skeptical.
This is disingenuous on two levels. This isn’t a murder case, where who did what first might be an issue and the best witness is dead. Perjury is a lot easier to prove. If he said A when he knew B to be true and Fitzgerald can prove it, Libby scoots off to jail. Motive is immaterial if the reasonable doubt threshold is met, much like no one really cares why Sam robbed the liquor store when they catch him red-handed. Libby may well have been caught in the act.
Another flaw in the Journal’s thinking hinges on their childlike innocence. They have no idea why their good friend Scooter would lie. To protect Dick Cheney, maybe. Telling Libby that Valerie Plame was an undercover operative probably isn’t a crime. Cheney may not have known how undercover she was, or had been; telling Libby isn’t the same as releasing the news to the media. It’s still embarrassing as hell for Dr. Strangelove, and Libby didn’t get his job by showing disloyalty to the people who could make or break him. Someone had to take this bullet for Cheney, and Scooter was in the right place at the right time.
Libby’s defense appears to be another insult to America’s collective intelligence: “I forgot.” Another example of naivety, similar to every child’s answer to such probing questions as “Why didn’t you brush your teeth?” or “Why isn’t this room clean?” Summon up an angelic face (a stray lock of hair across the forehead is always a nice touch), scratch your toe around in the dirt a few times, shove your hands into your pockets, and say, “I forgot.”
It’s not like Fitzgerald bumped into Libby on the White House elevator and said, “Hey, Scoot-man, where’d you hear about Valerie Plame?” thus catching Libby unaware. He was sent a formal invitation (doesn’t that sound much friendlier than “subpoena?”) and given plenty of time to prepare. These guys log everything, if only to defend against libel suits when their inevitable book comes out. What’s he going to say now, “Russert, Cheney, don’t you think they look like they were separated at birth?”
An article by two former Reagan staffers in Saturday’s Washington Post said Fitzgerald was a prime example of why special prosecutors are a bad idea. Their reasoning is based on him going back to his master and requesting permission to expand his investigative mandate to include possible perjury and obstruction charges. Well, duh! No one can run an investigation if the subjects or other “persons of interest” don’t have to tell the truth. That’s what investigations are supposed to do: find the truth, or as close as our system lets them get.
Libby did his job well. The old Reaganites also whined about how long Fitzgerald took on his investigation, conveniently forgetting Ken Starr kept his job longer than some Supreme Court justices. Fitzgerald said in his press conference that had it not been for the obstruction and delays by Libby (and possibly others as yet unnamed), the indictments could have come out a year earlier. For those keeping score at home, that would have been before the election. Maybe it would have made a difference, maybe not. As close as the election was, I think “maybe” is a good bet.
The editors of the Wall Street Journal are intelligent men; we can assume they’re too smart to believe half the crap they tried to pass off as valid points in their editorial. The problem is that truth is such a rare commodity in today’s political atmosphere it has almost become like the mysterious quark particles of physics, that can never be seen and must be assumed based on measurements and actions of the particles that contain them. Like a quark, truth cannot exist on its own in Washington; its mass is solely dependent on the spin exerted by outside forces.
Scooter Libby is entitled to a presumption of innocence. Given the state of politics in what passes for the world’s greatest democracy, maybe he should just get a presumption of “not guilty.” No one working in Washington today is innocent of the mess we’ve made.
The Wall Street Journal had an interesting approach. The WSJ made it crystal clear that lying under oath is wrong, and should never be condoned. Bu-u-u-u-t, they quibbled, prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald has shown no motive for the Scooter to perjure himself, so they remain skeptical.
This is disingenuous on two levels. This isn’t a murder case, where who did what first might be an issue and the best witness is dead. Perjury is a lot easier to prove. If he said A when he knew B to be true and Fitzgerald can prove it, Libby scoots off to jail. Motive is immaterial if the reasonable doubt threshold is met, much like no one really cares why Sam robbed the liquor store when they catch him red-handed. Libby may well have been caught in the act.
Another flaw in the Journal’s thinking hinges on their childlike innocence. They have no idea why their good friend Scooter would lie. To protect Dick Cheney, maybe. Telling Libby that Valerie Plame was an undercover operative probably isn’t a crime. Cheney may not have known how undercover she was, or had been; telling Libby isn’t the same as releasing the news to the media. It’s still embarrassing as hell for Dr. Strangelove, and Libby didn’t get his job by showing disloyalty to the people who could make or break him. Someone had to take this bullet for Cheney, and Scooter was in the right place at the right time.
Libby’s defense appears to be another insult to America’s collective intelligence: “I forgot.” Another example of naivety, similar to every child’s answer to such probing questions as “Why didn’t you brush your teeth?” or “Why isn’t this room clean?” Summon up an angelic face (a stray lock of hair across the forehead is always a nice touch), scratch your toe around in the dirt a few times, shove your hands into your pockets, and say, “I forgot.”
It’s not like Fitzgerald bumped into Libby on the White House elevator and said, “Hey, Scoot-man, where’d you hear about Valerie Plame?” thus catching Libby unaware. He was sent a formal invitation (doesn’t that sound much friendlier than “subpoena?”) and given plenty of time to prepare. These guys log everything, if only to defend against libel suits when their inevitable book comes out. What’s he going to say now, “Russert, Cheney, don’t you think they look like they were separated at birth?”
An article by two former Reagan staffers in Saturday’s Washington Post said Fitzgerald was a prime example of why special prosecutors are a bad idea. Their reasoning is based on him going back to his master and requesting permission to expand his investigative mandate to include possible perjury and obstruction charges. Well, duh! No one can run an investigation if the subjects or other “persons of interest” don’t have to tell the truth. That’s what investigations are supposed to do: find the truth, or as close as our system lets them get.
Libby did his job well. The old Reaganites also whined about how long Fitzgerald took on his investigation, conveniently forgetting Ken Starr kept his job longer than some Supreme Court justices. Fitzgerald said in his press conference that had it not been for the obstruction and delays by Libby (and possibly others as yet unnamed), the indictments could have come out a year earlier. For those keeping score at home, that would have been before the election. Maybe it would have made a difference, maybe not. As close as the election was, I think “maybe” is a good bet.
The editors of the Wall Street Journal are intelligent men; we can assume they’re too smart to believe half the crap they tried to pass off as valid points in their editorial. The problem is that truth is such a rare commodity in today’s political atmosphere it has almost become like the mysterious quark particles of physics, that can never be seen and must be assumed based on measurements and actions of the particles that contain them. Like a quark, truth cannot exist on its own in Washington; its mass is solely dependent on the spin exerted by outside forces.
Scooter Libby is entitled to a presumption of innocence. Given the state of politics in what passes for the world’s greatest democracy, maybe he should just get a presumption of “not guilty.” No one working in Washington today is innocent of the mess we’ve made.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Cowardice
Two types of people classically suffer from sleep deprivation: the parents of infants, and yours truly, for the duration of baseball’s playoffs. Last Tuesday’s (and Wednesday’s) Game 3 was a killer, running until 2:20 AM Eastern Time. Five hours and forty minutes of Tim McCarver should qualify as cruel and unusual punishment even during these Constitutionally-diluted, Patriot Act times. Fox Sports, get rid of the Tim-inater. Do it for the children, before they are permanently scarred.
Speaking of permanently scarred, how do you rest of you feel, knowing the two men who speak for you to the rest of the world are in favor of torture? The Senate, which has a Republican majority the last time I looked, voted 90 to 9 in favor of legislation to ban the use of “cruel and degrading treatment” of any prisoners in U.S. custody. The Bush Administration, in the person of Vice President Dick “Dr. Strangelove” Cheney, immediately submitted an amendment to exempt CIA employees from the measure. President Bush promises to veto the bill if it comes before him without the exemption.
This borders on the surreal. Bush has not vetoed a single bill since he took office. True, he had a legislature of sheep to work with until recently, herded by shameless “true believers” in both houses into voting however the Administration wanted. You doubt this? Just last month a bill to grant oil companies cost subsidies and sweeping environmental exemptions during Katrina rebuilding was extended to forty minutes from the customary five to give Tom DeLay, Dennis Hastert, and Roy Blunt enough time to cajole, threaten, or extort enough votes to put them over the top, at which time the polls closed within seconds.
Bush himself has a disturbing tendency to confuse stubbornness with backbone. He concedes no errors in the Iraq debacle, intends to stay the course at whatever cost because God speaks to him. Apparently God’s interest does not extend to budgetary issues. The recent highway bill overspent the Bush-imposed ceiling by tens of billions of dollars, containing enough pork to kill every Muslim in the Middle East. No veto there; the tide’s been swinging against him lately and he wants everyone whose arm he might want to twist to go home and tell his or her constituents about the great bridge we’re getting so we can cross Ten-Inch Creek to get from the interstate to the Bumfuck County Bass Fishing Hall of Fame without having to drive three miles down the road, saving tens of ounces of oil in the process.
We’re talking about a lot worse than arm-twisting in the current veto threat. The CIA has been at least indirectly implicated in all of the prisoner abuse scandals of the Iraq and Afghanistan adventures. (I’d call them “wars,” but the mission was accomplished two and a half years ago, so the war must be over, right?) Some of these guys watch way too many movies and aren’t wired up the same way as you or me or anyone we’d want to have within two miles of us.
They represent us, too. Many of these nameless (or multi-named), faceless individuals operate under the loosest of controls and act put out at the mention of responsible oversight; yet everything they do reflects on all of us. Have you ever looked at the news after a particularly violent day of terrorism and think, “those people (Iraqis, Chechens, Arabs, Muslims, your choice) aren’t ready (or deserving) of freedom (or decent living conditions, or life itself)?” Be honest. The subliminal urge to generalize, to tar all similar people with the same broad brush, is universal. The world is too complicated to break down each individual motivation, and we’re too busy. This is conceded and understandable.
It’s the same for the other guys.
Every time word gets out that someone was abused, degraded, injured, allowed to die, or killed in Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo, their families and sympathizers think, “Americans did that.” Who can blame them? Remember, we’re talking about people with less education, who lack our easy access to multiple sources of information, so their opinions aren’t likely to be as “enlightened” as ours.
When they think, “Americans did that,” do they mean, “A small group of potentially sociopathic assholes who have found a job that grants them official indulgence for their acts under the guise of patriotism” did it? Or do they think “Americans” and leave it at that? When (not if) they think “Americans” and leave it at that, they mean me. And you, And my daughter. I have a problem with that. I hope you do, too.
The military has recently resorted to the discredited Vietnam-era practice of reciting enemy body counts to the media. (That’s a different argument, for a different rant.) They do it because they don’t have anything else to measure their activity by. How many times have we “neutralized” Fallujah? Would there be any takers if I offered to bet you we’ll have to go back in there some day? Body count statistics ignore how many new terrorists are created for every one we kill. There is no indication we’re slowing their activities. To the contrary, their Improvised Explosive Devices are becoming more sophisticated and deadly by the day, leading to a logical conclusion that the insurgents (terrorists, if you wish) are either getting better, or working together. Does Cheney still think they’re a bunch of “dead enders” on their last legs?
Remember when we were the good guys? When we fought against those who indulged in torture whether they were Nazis, Fascists, Communists, or Ba’athists? If Bush and Cheney have their way, that’s the column we’ll be in. Americans will be officially-sanctioned torturers, with all the consequences in diminished international stature, disgrace, and increased justification for terrorist acts by our enemies.
I’m not so naïve as to believe we never tortured anyone before. Every war has examples. We used to acknowledge them as aberrations, beyond the pale of American ideals, and treat the perpetrators as the morally hollow cockroaches they are. Now these acts are to be accepted as the price of safety in a dangerous world. I’m old enough to remember denouncing Communism for the philosophy, “The end justifies the means.” With apologies to the comic strip Pogo, we have met the enemy, and he is us.
This isn’t the ranting of a bleeding-heart liberal. I’ll stipulate to John McCain’s bona fides on this issue, as well as John Warner’s and Colin Powell’s. Each has come out strongly in favor of the no-torture legislation. This is about doing the right thing, and about either standing up for alleged American ideals or hiding under the bed while pretending evil done in our name is acceptable because we call ourselves the good guys.
Talk is cheap, and saying we’re the good guys doesn’t make it so; history will stand in judgment of our actions. The cowardice shown by condoning certain acts in the name of our safety implies that the ideals and virtues we supposedly believed in and were willing to die for only have value when there is no threat. It blasphemes the virtue we hold dear, and degrades the sacrifices of those who have died to defend it. We will lose all of what we claimed made us special, and still won’t be any safer. We will have sold out the priceless in a vain effort to protect the valuable.
And then the terrorists will have won, even if they never kill another American.
Speaking of permanently scarred, how do you rest of you feel, knowing the two men who speak for you to the rest of the world are in favor of torture? The Senate, which has a Republican majority the last time I looked, voted 90 to 9 in favor of legislation to ban the use of “cruel and degrading treatment” of any prisoners in U.S. custody. The Bush Administration, in the person of Vice President Dick “Dr. Strangelove” Cheney, immediately submitted an amendment to exempt CIA employees from the measure. President Bush promises to veto the bill if it comes before him without the exemption.
This borders on the surreal. Bush has not vetoed a single bill since he took office. True, he had a legislature of sheep to work with until recently, herded by shameless “true believers” in both houses into voting however the Administration wanted. You doubt this? Just last month a bill to grant oil companies cost subsidies and sweeping environmental exemptions during Katrina rebuilding was extended to forty minutes from the customary five to give Tom DeLay, Dennis Hastert, and Roy Blunt enough time to cajole, threaten, or extort enough votes to put them over the top, at which time the polls closed within seconds.
Bush himself has a disturbing tendency to confuse stubbornness with backbone. He concedes no errors in the Iraq debacle, intends to stay the course at whatever cost because God speaks to him. Apparently God’s interest does not extend to budgetary issues. The recent highway bill overspent the Bush-imposed ceiling by tens of billions of dollars, containing enough pork to kill every Muslim in the Middle East. No veto there; the tide’s been swinging against him lately and he wants everyone whose arm he might want to twist to go home and tell his or her constituents about the great bridge we’re getting so we can cross Ten-Inch Creek to get from the interstate to the Bumfuck County Bass Fishing Hall of Fame without having to drive three miles down the road, saving tens of ounces of oil in the process.
We’re talking about a lot worse than arm-twisting in the current veto threat. The CIA has been at least indirectly implicated in all of the prisoner abuse scandals of the Iraq and Afghanistan adventures. (I’d call them “wars,” but the mission was accomplished two and a half years ago, so the war must be over, right?) Some of these guys watch way too many movies and aren’t wired up the same way as you or me or anyone we’d want to have within two miles of us.
They represent us, too. Many of these nameless (or multi-named), faceless individuals operate under the loosest of controls and act put out at the mention of responsible oversight; yet everything they do reflects on all of us. Have you ever looked at the news after a particularly violent day of terrorism and think, “those people (Iraqis, Chechens, Arabs, Muslims, your choice) aren’t ready (or deserving) of freedom (or decent living conditions, or life itself)?” Be honest. The subliminal urge to generalize, to tar all similar people with the same broad brush, is universal. The world is too complicated to break down each individual motivation, and we’re too busy. This is conceded and understandable.
It’s the same for the other guys.
Every time word gets out that someone was abused, degraded, injured, allowed to die, or killed in Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo, their families and sympathizers think, “Americans did that.” Who can blame them? Remember, we’re talking about people with less education, who lack our easy access to multiple sources of information, so their opinions aren’t likely to be as “enlightened” as ours.
When they think, “Americans did that,” do they mean, “A small group of potentially sociopathic assholes who have found a job that grants them official indulgence for their acts under the guise of patriotism” did it? Or do they think “Americans” and leave it at that? When (not if) they think “Americans” and leave it at that, they mean me. And you, And my daughter. I have a problem with that. I hope you do, too.
The military has recently resorted to the discredited Vietnam-era practice of reciting enemy body counts to the media. (That’s a different argument, for a different rant.) They do it because they don’t have anything else to measure their activity by. How many times have we “neutralized” Fallujah? Would there be any takers if I offered to bet you we’ll have to go back in there some day? Body count statistics ignore how many new terrorists are created for every one we kill. There is no indication we’re slowing their activities. To the contrary, their Improvised Explosive Devices are becoming more sophisticated and deadly by the day, leading to a logical conclusion that the insurgents (terrorists, if you wish) are either getting better, or working together. Does Cheney still think they’re a bunch of “dead enders” on their last legs?
Remember when we were the good guys? When we fought against those who indulged in torture whether they were Nazis, Fascists, Communists, or Ba’athists? If Bush and Cheney have their way, that’s the column we’ll be in. Americans will be officially-sanctioned torturers, with all the consequences in diminished international stature, disgrace, and increased justification for terrorist acts by our enemies.
I’m not so naïve as to believe we never tortured anyone before. Every war has examples. We used to acknowledge them as aberrations, beyond the pale of American ideals, and treat the perpetrators as the morally hollow cockroaches they are. Now these acts are to be accepted as the price of safety in a dangerous world. I’m old enough to remember denouncing Communism for the philosophy, “The end justifies the means.” With apologies to the comic strip Pogo, we have met the enemy, and he is us.
This isn’t the ranting of a bleeding-heart liberal. I’ll stipulate to John McCain’s bona fides on this issue, as well as John Warner’s and Colin Powell’s. Each has come out strongly in favor of the no-torture legislation. This is about doing the right thing, and about either standing up for alleged American ideals or hiding under the bed while pretending evil done in our name is acceptable because we call ourselves the good guys.
Talk is cheap, and saying we’re the good guys doesn’t make it so; history will stand in judgment of our actions. The cowardice shown by condoning certain acts in the name of our safety implies that the ideals and virtues we supposedly believed in and were willing to die for only have value when there is no threat. It blasphemes the virtue we hold dear, and degrades the sacrifices of those who have died to defend it. We will lose all of what we claimed made us special, and still won’t be any safer. We will have sold out the priceless in a vain effort to protect the valuable.
And then the terrorists will have won, even if they never kill another American.
Friday, October 21, 2005
The Fall Classic 2005
Output has been somewhat reduced lately here at The Home office. The company line blames it on a project at work and some family responsibilities. The truth is that October is always a slow month here, mainly due to sleep deprivation brought about by baseball playoff games that run until about 11:30 every night. At 88 days until the Big Five-O and counting, I’m too old to stay up that late and bounce right out of bed when the alarm rings at 5:45. Something has to give.
It won’t be the baseball. This year’s playoffs haven’t been as compelling as last year’s. Big surprise. Last year saw America’s version of Sisyphus, the Boston Red Sox, pull off a trifecta of which legends are made: not only the first team ever to come back from a three games to none deficit in a best-four-of-seven series, they did it against the hated Yankees, the Evil Empire, Sparta to the Athens of America. The Sox then ran the table, sweeping the St. Louis Cardinals for their first World Championship since 1918, crushing the Curse of the Bambino, which the Sox had brought upon themselves by selling Babe Ruth to the Yankees, who at that time were still only Annakin Skywalker compared to the Darth Vader they would become. That’s drama.
This Series has potential. The White Sox are one of only two teams who have waited longer than the Red Sox for a championship. Of course, they earned their curse, throwing the 1919 World Series. (The Cubs are the only team with a longer streak of frustration. They claim their own Curse of the Billy Goat, but they’re playing catch-up. The Cubs aren’t cursed; they just suck. If there is a Cub curse, it’s because the baseball gods can’t bear the thought of their yuppie scum fans wrecking Wrigleyville.) There can’t be more than a handful of people alive who can honestly claim to remember the last time the White Sox won the World Series; most people aren’t old enough to remember their last trip to the big dance in 1959.
No one remembers the last time the Houston Astros won: they never have. Born in 1962, the Astros didn’t win a postseason series of any kind until last year, before losing to the Cardinals in a seven-game thriller eclipsed nationally by the Red Sox-Yankees cataclysm. No matter who wins this year, it will be something new.
The White Sox are favored, having won 99 regular season games. The Astros won 89, sneaking into the playoffs on the last day as the wild card, 11 games behind St. Louis. Of course the Astros have since beaten the Cardinals in the National League Championship Series, and people paying attention aren’t surprised. Most mentions of the Astros’ disastrous start this year (15-30) are combined with comparison to the only other team to be 15 games under .500 and still play in the postseason, the 1914 Miracle Braves, lending a mildly disparaging “little engine that could” flavor the accomplishment. Left unmentioned is that the Astros’ record after they got their act together was 74-43, a pace that would have won 102 games over a full season. That’s two more than the Cardinals; three more than the Sox.
A lot has been made of Chicago’s brilliant postseason starting pitching. Deservedly so: four consecutive complete postseason games hasn’t been done since the 1956 Yankees. Good as they are, it’s unlikely they’ll stay that hot. Houston’s top three of Andy Pettitte, Roger Clemens, and Roy Oswalt aren’t bad, either. They’ll start six of a possible seven games, with Oswalt the likely Game 7 starter. Anyone who saw him pitch against St. Louis in Games 2 and 6 has to like Houston’s chances in a potential deciding game, and he wasn’t pitching over his head.
Houston doesn’t score many runs, and the White Sox have good hitters up and down the lineup. A World Series foible augurs in the ‘Stro’s favor. The White Sox will get to use the Designated Hitter in Games 1, 2, 6, and 7; pitchers bat in Games 3, 4, and 5. This means the Sox will be without their usual Number Five hitter Carl Everett and his 23 home runs and 87 RBI when playing in the jet engine-equaling noise of Minute Maid Park. The Astros will use their regular lineup.
It’s in Chicago that the Astros get a break. Future Hall of Famer Jeff Bagwell has suffered through a serious shoulder injury all year, unable to throw even well enough to play first base. He can still hit, and had a decent year playing almost exclusively as a pinch hitter. He’s a rallying presence for the Houston team, and has been a leader ever since the Killer Bees came into existence over ten years ago. (Houston seems to have an affinity for good hitters whose names begin with B. This year’s team features Biggio, Burke, and Berkman, in addition to Bagwell, plus a pitcher named Backe.)
Both teams can manufacture runs with the best of them. Chicago led the American League in successful squeeze bunts; Houston was second in the NL. Both teams have speed and play good defense. One of them will break a schneid of historic proportions in what should be a series of closely-played games. Probably seven of them, with Houston winning four.
It won’t be the baseball. This year’s playoffs haven’t been as compelling as last year’s. Big surprise. Last year saw America’s version of Sisyphus, the Boston Red Sox, pull off a trifecta of which legends are made: not only the first team ever to come back from a three games to none deficit in a best-four-of-seven series, they did it against the hated Yankees, the Evil Empire, Sparta to the Athens of America. The Sox then ran the table, sweeping the St. Louis Cardinals for their first World Championship since 1918, crushing the Curse of the Bambino, which the Sox had brought upon themselves by selling Babe Ruth to the Yankees, who at that time were still only Annakin Skywalker compared to the Darth Vader they would become. That’s drama.
This Series has potential. The White Sox are one of only two teams who have waited longer than the Red Sox for a championship. Of course, they earned their curse, throwing the 1919 World Series. (The Cubs are the only team with a longer streak of frustration. They claim their own Curse of the Billy Goat, but they’re playing catch-up. The Cubs aren’t cursed; they just suck. If there is a Cub curse, it’s because the baseball gods can’t bear the thought of their yuppie scum fans wrecking Wrigleyville.) There can’t be more than a handful of people alive who can honestly claim to remember the last time the White Sox won the World Series; most people aren’t old enough to remember their last trip to the big dance in 1959.
No one remembers the last time the Houston Astros won: they never have. Born in 1962, the Astros didn’t win a postseason series of any kind until last year, before losing to the Cardinals in a seven-game thriller eclipsed nationally by the Red Sox-Yankees cataclysm. No matter who wins this year, it will be something new.
The White Sox are favored, having won 99 regular season games. The Astros won 89, sneaking into the playoffs on the last day as the wild card, 11 games behind St. Louis. Of course the Astros have since beaten the Cardinals in the National League Championship Series, and people paying attention aren’t surprised. Most mentions of the Astros’ disastrous start this year (15-30) are combined with comparison to the only other team to be 15 games under .500 and still play in the postseason, the 1914 Miracle Braves, lending a mildly disparaging “little engine that could” flavor the accomplishment. Left unmentioned is that the Astros’ record after they got their act together was 74-43, a pace that would have won 102 games over a full season. That’s two more than the Cardinals; three more than the Sox.
A lot has been made of Chicago’s brilliant postseason starting pitching. Deservedly so: four consecutive complete postseason games hasn’t been done since the 1956 Yankees. Good as they are, it’s unlikely they’ll stay that hot. Houston’s top three of Andy Pettitte, Roger Clemens, and Roy Oswalt aren’t bad, either. They’ll start six of a possible seven games, with Oswalt the likely Game 7 starter. Anyone who saw him pitch against St. Louis in Games 2 and 6 has to like Houston’s chances in a potential deciding game, and he wasn’t pitching over his head.
Houston doesn’t score many runs, and the White Sox have good hitters up and down the lineup. A World Series foible augurs in the ‘Stro’s favor. The White Sox will get to use the Designated Hitter in Games 1, 2, 6, and 7; pitchers bat in Games 3, 4, and 5. This means the Sox will be without their usual Number Five hitter Carl Everett and his 23 home runs and 87 RBI when playing in the jet engine-equaling noise of Minute Maid Park. The Astros will use their regular lineup.
It’s in Chicago that the Astros get a break. Future Hall of Famer Jeff Bagwell has suffered through a serious shoulder injury all year, unable to throw even well enough to play first base. He can still hit, and had a decent year playing almost exclusively as a pinch hitter. He’s a rallying presence for the Houston team, and has been a leader ever since the Killer Bees came into existence over ten years ago. (Houston seems to have an affinity for good hitters whose names begin with B. This year’s team features Biggio, Burke, and Berkman, in addition to Bagwell, plus a pitcher named Backe.)
Both teams can manufacture runs with the best of them. Chicago led the American League in successful squeeze bunts; Houston was second in the NL. Both teams have speed and play good defense. One of them will break a schneid of historic proportions in what should be a series of closely-played games. Probably seven of them, with Houston winning four.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Tick-Tock
There are several milestones in everyone’s life. (At least, those fortunate enough to not have to skip any.)
First, you’re born. Not much to say about this, since no one remembers being born except Shirley McLaine.
The first memorable milestone is your eighteenth birthday, when you legally become an adult and can tell those penurious sadists who raised you to take a hike, unless and until you need money or a place to stay.
Next is your twenty-first birthday, when you get to see the look on the face of the bartender who’s been serving you for two years when you show him your driver’s license.
No one likes thirty; you’re officially grown up then, and describing an action as a “youthful indiscretion” doesn’t excuse it, unless you’re a politician.
Forty gets mixed reviews. Some say life begins at forty: others view it as the Gateway to Middle Age. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.
At fifty there’s no kidding anyone. You’re middle-aged, at the penultimate milestone. The only thing to look forward to is hoping the Icy Hand of Death™ gets you before you have to pay strangers to wipe your ass.
Then comes the pre-ordained stroll down Memory Lane as your life flashes before your eyes, fingers intertwined with the aforementioned Icy Hand.
Only the first and last are mandatory. Fortunately, a majority of us get to have them all. Since each one brings you closer to your rendezvous with the IHD, the latter milestones are often viewed with some trepidation. (The earlier ones are enjoyed, since everyone under thirty knows they’re going to live forever.) Let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter where you are in the series, every day you wake up is one less.
Your influence on that is twofold. Your actions can, to some degree, influence how many of those mornings you get to count down. No one has total control; not a week goes by that I’m not reminded of the late Military Intelligence Correspondent, who didn’t smoke, drank very little, indulged in no drugs or life-threatening experiences, and still felt the Icy Hand on his shoulder at the age of forty-seven.
What you can control is how you handle it. To paraphrase a birthday card I bought for a female friend’s thirtieth birthday once, you can view each day as being older than you’ve ever been before, or as being younger than you’re ever going to be. (This might have something to do with why she and I haven’t spoken in over ten years. I guess it’s unreasonable to expect a person that young to grasp certain metaphysical concepts.) I have chosen the latter.
As my penultimate milestone approaches, I have made a conscious decision to embrace it, have some fun with it, thumb my nose at the Icy Hand. Today starts the countdown to The Big Five-Oh; one hundred more days until my forties are but a memory, with no more substance than the Red Sox’ reign as World Champions or Pia Zadora’s acting career. (If that doesn’t show my age, nothing does.)
Let’s have some fun with this. Send in whatever geriatric humor you have; beating a dead horse is rarely as much fun as when you’re reminding some horse’s ass of his (her) mortality. For those of you who are younger than I, take heed; maybe you’ll learn something. For those of you who are older, take care of yourselves. There’s only one way I can catch you, and we’re having too much fun together for either of us to want that.
First, you’re born. Not much to say about this, since no one remembers being born except Shirley McLaine.
The first memorable milestone is your eighteenth birthday, when you legally become an adult and can tell those penurious sadists who raised you to take a hike, unless and until you need money or a place to stay.
Next is your twenty-first birthday, when you get to see the look on the face of the bartender who’s been serving you for two years when you show him your driver’s license.
No one likes thirty; you’re officially grown up then, and describing an action as a “youthful indiscretion” doesn’t excuse it, unless you’re a politician.
Forty gets mixed reviews. Some say life begins at forty: others view it as the Gateway to Middle Age. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.
At fifty there’s no kidding anyone. You’re middle-aged, at the penultimate milestone. The only thing to look forward to is hoping the Icy Hand of Death™ gets you before you have to pay strangers to wipe your ass.
Then comes the pre-ordained stroll down Memory Lane as your life flashes before your eyes, fingers intertwined with the aforementioned Icy Hand.
Only the first and last are mandatory. Fortunately, a majority of us get to have them all. Since each one brings you closer to your rendezvous with the IHD, the latter milestones are often viewed with some trepidation. (The earlier ones are enjoyed, since everyone under thirty knows they’re going to live forever.) Let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter where you are in the series, every day you wake up is one less.
Your influence on that is twofold. Your actions can, to some degree, influence how many of those mornings you get to count down. No one has total control; not a week goes by that I’m not reminded of the late Military Intelligence Correspondent, who didn’t smoke, drank very little, indulged in no drugs or life-threatening experiences, and still felt the Icy Hand on his shoulder at the age of forty-seven.
What you can control is how you handle it. To paraphrase a birthday card I bought for a female friend’s thirtieth birthday once, you can view each day as being older than you’ve ever been before, or as being younger than you’re ever going to be. (This might have something to do with why she and I haven’t spoken in over ten years. I guess it’s unreasonable to expect a person that young to grasp certain metaphysical concepts.) I have chosen the latter.
As my penultimate milestone approaches, I have made a conscious decision to embrace it, have some fun with it, thumb my nose at the Icy Hand. Today starts the countdown to The Big Five-Oh; one hundred more days until my forties are but a memory, with no more substance than the Red Sox’ reign as World Champions or Pia Zadora’s acting career. (If that doesn’t show my age, nothing does.)
Let’s have some fun with this. Send in whatever geriatric humor you have; beating a dead horse is rarely as much fun as when you’re reminding some horse’s ass of his (her) mortality. For those of you who are younger than I, take heed; maybe you’ll learn something. For those of you who are older, take care of yourselves. There’s only one way I can catch you, and we’re having too much fun together for either of us to want that.
Friday, September 23, 2005
William Vacchiano, 1912 - 2005
I never had the privilege of meeting William Vacchiano, although he’s responsible for one of my fondest trumpet memories. He was a profound influence on several people who have similarly influenced me, and so I was as saddened by his passing this week as I have ever been for someone I didn’t know.
The name William Vacchiano probably doesn’t mean anything to most of you, certainly not to those of you without some close involvement to classical music. That was probably all right with him. Bill Vacchiano enjoyed what I would consider to be the perfect measure of fame: he could go wherever he wanted without being disturbed by the public at large, while his peers and aspirants parted like the Red Sea to make way for him.
Vacchiano became one of the small handful of truly great orchestral trumpeters by accident. His father sent him to the music store to get a clarinet. Young Bill had a little trouble deciphering the instructions (given in Italian), and came home with a cornet. It worked out well for everyone.
He made his first mark in 1935, fresh out of Juilliard, where he had studied with Max Schlossberg, the father of American trumpet teaching. Auditioning for the Metropolitan Opera and New York Philharmonic on the same day, Vacchiano won both auditions. True, audition procedures were much more relaxed then than they are today; he wasn’t subject to the modern cattle calls of two hundred players that often show up for a single position. Still, playing for Simone Mantia and Arturo Toscanini on the same day was a tough gig; being hired by both is the stuff of legend.
Vacchiano chose the Philharmonic, where he served as associate principal until being promoted to principal trumpet in 1942. He held that position until his retirement in 1973, becoming probably the most visible orchestral trumpeter ever. For those of you old enough to remember, it was Bill Vacchiano playing first trumpet when Leonard Bernstein was televising his Young People’s Concerts and other programs that established Bernstein as the pre-eminent American musician of his time.
It’s only appropriate that Vacchiano was succeeded as principal trumpet by two of his students, Gerard Schwarz and Phil Smith. Vacchiano will be remembered as a player for as long as his recordings exist; his influence as a teacher will never end. He taught at Juilliard and the Manhattan School of Music for sixty-seven years, from 1935–2002. He also found time to work in some teaching at the Mannes School from 1937–1983.
It would be fair to say that every major American orchestra has had at least one of his students in the trumpet section at some time. I’d be surprised if any major orchestra didn’t have at least one player today who either studied with him or one of his students. There was no template to his teaching, no “one size fits all” approach. His students cover the gamut of playing styles, and encompass more than orchestral careers: Wynton Marsalis studied with Vacchiano at Juilliard.
I never met William Vacchiano, and haven’t played in anything like a serious ensemble in over ten years, yet one of the most cherished memories of my trumpet career involves him. It was the 1990 International Trumpet Guild Conference. I had helped a manufacturer in his display booth, and took advantage of the end of the day to sneak in a little testing of my own. I played the trumpet solo from Stravinsky’s Song of the Nightingale to what I thought was an empty room. Played it pretty well, I thought.
I finished with the feeling someone else was still there. I looked up and saw Bill Vacchiano about twenty feet away at the Stork mouthpiece display, getting ready to leave. We made eye contact for just a few seconds, then he nodded once, smiling only with his eyes. I can still see him; I don’t think anyone ever said anything about my playing that made me feel better than that glance.
If that’s how Bill Vacchiano could make a stranger feel at a random meeting, it’s no wonder his students, friends, and intimates, many of whom fill all three roles, feel his loss so strongly today. The rest of us can only imagine what it must have been like to get some of that every week, and be grateful that he has achieved a measure of true immortality. Not only will he be remembered well beyond his time here, but he continues to influence his art, and the lives of those who practice it.
Thank you, Bill.
The name William Vacchiano probably doesn’t mean anything to most of you, certainly not to those of you without some close involvement to classical music. That was probably all right with him. Bill Vacchiano enjoyed what I would consider to be the perfect measure of fame: he could go wherever he wanted without being disturbed by the public at large, while his peers and aspirants parted like the Red Sea to make way for him.
Vacchiano became one of the small handful of truly great orchestral trumpeters by accident. His father sent him to the music store to get a clarinet. Young Bill had a little trouble deciphering the instructions (given in Italian), and came home with a cornet. It worked out well for everyone.
He made his first mark in 1935, fresh out of Juilliard, where he had studied with Max Schlossberg, the father of American trumpet teaching. Auditioning for the Metropolitan Opera and New York Philharmonic on the same day, Vacchiano won both auditions. True, audition procedures were much more relaxed then than they are today; he wasn’t subject to the modern cattle calls of two hundred players that often show up for a single position. Still, playing for Simone Mantia and Arturo Toscanini on the same day was a tough gig; being hired by both is the stuff of legend.
Vacchiano chose the Philharmonic, where he served as associate principal until being promoted to principal trumpet in 1942. He held that position until his retirement in 1973, becoming probably the most visible orchestral trumpeter ever. For those of you old enough to remember, it was Bill Vacchiano playing first trumpet when Leonard Bernstein was televising his Young People’s Concerts and other programs that established Bernstein as the pre-eminent American musician of his time.
It’s only appropriate that Vacchiano was succeeded as principal trumpet by two of his students, Gerard Schwarz and Phil Smith. Vacchiano will be remembered as a player for as long as his recordings exist; his influence as a teacher will never end. He taught at Juilliard and the Manhattan School of Music for sixty-seven years, from 1935–2002. He also found time to work in some teaching at the Mannes School from 1937–1983.
It would be fair to say that every major American orchestra has had at least one of his students in the trumpet section at some time. I’d be surprised if any major orchestra didn’t have at least one player today who either studied with him or one of his students. There was no template to his teaching, no “one size fits all” approach. His students cover the gamut of playing styles, and encompass more than orchestral careers: Wynton Marsalis studied with Vacchiano at Juilliard.
I never met William Vacchiano, and haven’t played in anything like a serious ensemble in over ten years, yet one of the most cherished memories of my trumpet career involves him. It was the 1990 International Trumpet Guild Conference. I had helped a manufacturer in his display booth, and took advantage of the end of the day to sneak in a little testing of my own. I played the trumpet solo from Stravinsky’s Song of the Nightingale to what I thought was an empty room. Played it pretty well, I thought.
I finished with the feeling someone else was still there. I looked up and saw Bill Vacchiano about twenty feet away at the Stork mouthpiece display, getting ready to leave. We made eye contact for just a few seconds, then he nodded once, smiling only with his eyes. I can still see him; I don’t think anyone ever said anything about my playing that made me feel better than that glance.
If that’s how Bill Vacchiano could make a stranger feel at a random meeting, it’s no wonder his students, friends, and intimates, many of whom fill all three roles, feel his loss so strongly today. The rest of us can only imagine what it must have been like to get some of that every week, and be grateful that he has achieved a measure of true immortality. Not only will he be remembered well beyond his time here, but he continues to influence his art, and the lives of those who practice it.
Thank you, Bill.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
What's in a Name?
Ref·u·gee. (ref´ · ū · jē) noun
One who flees in search of refuge.
[French réfugié, from past participle of réfugier, to take refuge; from Old French, from refuge, refuge.]
Americans love to label things; thinking of a good acronym sends some (typically computer types or government workers) in a state resembling sexual ecstasy, or what computer types and government workers think sexual ecstasy might be like if they ever came across any. Many labels, once attached, take on lives of their own, sometimes wildly divergent from the original meaning.
It’s one thing to re-define slang, or words intended to be derogatory. The much-vilified N word, or the famous twelve-letter epithet denoting highly developed Oedipal tendencies come to mind. Sometimes a word is invented for a specific purpose, or shoehorned into a euphemism to keep from saying something is a duck, no matter how it walks or quacks. When our military crossed the border from Vietnam into Cambodia in large numbers, it was called an “incursion.” There was already an appropriate and well-accepted word available; “invasion” was apparently too war-like. (Since we didn’t invade, did we incurse? Where’s George Carlin when you need him?)
Now Jesse Jackson is up in arms because the media has referred to those displaced by Hurricane Katrina as “refugees.” I don’t know what term Jesse prefers, mainly because I don’t care. He’s not upset over the accuracy of the word, which is a good thing for someone who’s supposed to be well-educated. He says the word is racist.
It’s comments like this that have relegated Jesse to the status of Al Sharpton with better hair. Remember when Jesse was considered a role model and inspirational speaker, the most visible disciple of Martin Luther King? Probably not, if you’re under thirty or thirty-five. Now he’s reduced himself to arriving at media events with his entourage to give a sound bite, probably something rhyming or otherwise catchy to better ensure his appearance on the news.
The war in Iraq – pardon me, the peacekeeping in Iraq – has shifted most attention usually paid to civil rights away from the racial issues characterized by the Fourteenth Amendment’s equal protection guarantees, and back to the Bill of Rights. This means Jesse (and Al, and Lou) are scrambling for time on the news and coming out behind Scot Peterson, Natalee Holloway, and whether or not Jennifer Anniston can be happy with Vince Vaughn since Brad dumped her for that tattooed skank Angelina Jolie.
The sad truth here is that it’s Jesse who’s being the racist. I have no knowledge of him decrying the use of the term when applied to Iraqis, or those fleeing the genocide at Darfur. For him to imply that “refugee” confers an inferior status on those so called, he must therefore imply the same for these others, displaced through no more fault of their own than those in Louisiana.
This should be good news. It’s nice to know Jesse clearly feels race relations in this country have come so far that he can spend his valuable time quibbling over a dictionary definition. Instead of continuing the abstract discussion over how many racists can dance on the head of a pin, his time might have been better spent by using some of his pull with Operation Push to help the Red Cross and Salvation Army. Maybe he could ditch the expensive suit and get down in the dirt with some of the not-refugees he claims to care so much about and actually do something for them.
No matter how anyone feels about who should have done what and when, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina is a tragedy in the true sense of the word. (Sorry, Jen, no matter how bad Brad the bastard behaved, you don’t qualify.) Of the millions of words of invective and finger-pointing, Jesse’s choice of argument has probably trivialized the situation as much as anything else, coming as it has from an ostensibly responsible and respected leader. Except maybe for Shrub’s comment about what a nice new house Trent Lott is going to have.
Those are examples of what passes for leadership in Twenty-first Century America. They are prosecution exhibits A and B in making the case for why so much of New Orleans isn’t there any more.
(Does anyone else see the irony? The word that means “one who flees in search of refuge” is French in origin?)
One who flees in search of refuge.
[French réfugié, from past participle of réfugier, to take refuge; from Old French, from refuge, refuge.]
Americans love to label things; thinking of a good acronym sends some (typically computer types or government workers) in a state resembling sexual ecstasy, or what computer types and government workers think sexual ecstasy might be like if they ever came across any. Many labels, once attached, take on lives of their own, sometimes wildly divergent from the original meaning.
It’s one thing to re-define slang, or words intended to be derogatory. The much-vilified N word, or the famous twelve-letter epithet denoting highly developed Oedipal tendencies come to mind. Sometimes a word is invented for a specific purpose, or shoehorned into a euphemism to keep from saying something is a duck, no matter how it walks or quacks. When our military crossed the border from Vietnam into Cambodia in large numbers, it was called an “incursion.” There was already an appropriate and well-accepted word available; “invasion” was apparently too war-like. (Since we didn’t invade, did we incurse? Where’s George Carlin when you need him?)
Now Jesse Jackson is up in arms because the media has referred to those displaced by Hurricane Katrina as “refugees.” I don’t know what term Jesse prefers, mainly because I don’t care. He’s not upset over the accuracy of the word, which is a good thing for someone who’s supposed to be well-educated. He says the word is racist.
It’s comments like this that have relegated Jesse to the status of Al Sharpton with better hair. Remember when Jesse was considered a role model and inspirational speaker, the most visible disciple of Martin Luther King? Probably not, if you’re under thirty or thirty-five. Now he’s reduced himself to arriving at media events with his entourage to give a sound bite, probably something rhyming or otherwise catchy to better ensure his appearance on the news.
The war in Iraq – pardon me, the peacekeeping in Iraq – has shifted most attention usually paid to civil rights away from the racial issues characterized by the Fourteenth Amendment’s equal protection guarantees, and back to the Bill of Rights. This means Jesse (and Al, and Lou) are scrambling for time on the news and coming out behind Scot Peterson, Natalee Holloway, and whether or not Jennifer Anniston can be happy with Vince Vaughn since Brad dumped her for that tattooed skank Angelina Jolie.
The sad truth here is that it’s Jesse who’s being the racist. I have no knowledge of him decrying the use of the term when applied to Iraqis, or those fleeing the genocide at Darfur. For him to imply that “refugee” confers an inferior status on those so called, he must therefore imply the same for these others, displaced through no more fault of their own than those in Louisiana.
This should be good news. It’s nice to know Jesse clearly feels race relations in this country have come so far that he can spend his valuable time quibbling over a dictionary definition. Instead of continuing the abstract discussion over how many racists can dance on the head of a pin, his time might have been better spent by using some of his pull with Operation Push to help the Red Cross and Salvation Army. Maybe he could ditch the expensive suit and get down in the dirt with some of the not-refugees he claims to care so much about and actually do something for them.
No matter how anyone feels about who should have done what and when, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina is a tragedy in the true sense of the word. (Sorry, Jen, no matter how bad Brad the bastard behaved, you don’t qualify.) Of the millions of words of invective and finger-pointing, Jesse’s choice of argument has probably trivialized the situation as much as anything else, coming as it has from an ostensibly responsible and respected leader. Except maybe for Shrub’s comment about what a nice new house Trent Lott is going to have.
Those are examples of what passes for leadership in Twenty-first Century America. They are prosecution exhibits A and B in making the case for why so much of New Orleans isn’t there any more.
(Does anyone else see the irony? The word that means “one who flees in search of refuge” is French in origin?)
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Don't Let the Door Hit You in the Ass on Your Way Out
The Gulf Coast may have turned the corner in its recovery efforts: Mike Brown has gone back to Washington. His onsite post will be assumed by a Coast Guard officer who has seen disasters other than his own performance up close before.
Brown said through a spokesman that he was planning to leave FEMA after the hurricane season, anyway. Did the Prince of Darkness think leaving Brown to serve his nefarious purposes at FEMA any longer would be too obvious? A few weeks ago, this blog commented on how the Nineties and the Aughts were beginning to resemble the Fifties and the Sixties, partly due to government’s inability to be trusted, or to do anything right. While not absolving state and local officials in New Orleans, Brown had become the face that represented the government’s lack of initiative, compassion, and having a clue. Whether Brown really had planned to leave, or if that’s a last-minute cover story, Friday’s move can only be viewed as holding the door open for him.
Brown’s accomplishments as FEMA Administrator were defined when he said he was unaware people were stranded in the Superdome and Convention Center. Camel drivers in East Al-Boumfukk, Libya, knew thousands of people were living under conditions so bad that Sudan was taking up a collection to help them. Even staunchly conservative columnist Charles Krauthammer suggested in Friday’s column that Brown should have hired a few twenty year-old interns to watch CNN and keep him posted on developments as they occurred.
It might have been a coincidence, but Brown’s reassignment came within a day of the Mexican Army entering the United States for the first time since 1846, bringing water treatment plants and mobile kitchens. Is that depressing to anyone else? No insult intended toward Mexico’s generous and humanitarian gesture, but don’t we have any of that stuff? How can any American government official look himself in the eye the next time he criticizes Mexicans for illegally crossing the border? “We saved your pale asses, gringo. Now you see why we going in through Arizona and California. New Orleans makes Tijuana look like Monte Carlo. We won’t even drink the water there. Gives us Napoleon’s Revenge.”
FEMA did their best to keep out the Mexicans, along with the Canadians, Swedes, Germans, and probably several other countries. The Swedes had a state of the art emergency communications system loaded up and ready to fly in; they were told to hold for over three days because FEMA wasn’t ready to receive it. Mike Brown doesn’t know thousands of people are dying in the Dome and the Convention Center, and we don’t need an emergency communications system.
Better aid has begun to flow in. Thanks again to the Mexicans, who used their years of experience to show the rest of the world how to evade American government officials trying to deny them access to this country. And before I get chastised for once again being too hard on France, let’s appreciate their contribution. An elite French commando team snuck into New Orleans late last week to share their centuries of experience in mass evacuations.
For those of you who consider me to be a persistent bleeding heart liberal pussy, here’s the link to Krauthammer’s excellent op-ed piece of September 9. I have little argument with anything in there.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/09/08/AR2005090801667.html
Brown said through a spokesman that he was planning to leave FEMA after the hurricane season, anyway. Did the Prince of Darkness think leaving Brown to serve his nefarious purposes at FEMA any longer would be too obvious? A few weeks ago, this blog commented on how the Nineties and the Aughts were beginning to resemble the Fifties and the Sixties, partly due to government’s inability to be trusted, or to do anything right. While not absolving state and local officials in New Orleans, Brown had become the face that represented the government’s lack of initiative, compassion, and having a clue. Whether Brown really had planned to leave, or if that’s a last-minute cover story, Friday’s move can only be viewed as holding the door open for him.
Brown’s accomplishments as FEMA Administrator were defined when he said he was unaware people were stranded in the Superdome and Convention Center. Camel drivers in East Al-Boumfukk, Libya, knew thousands of people were living under conditions so bad that Sudan was taking up a collection to help them. Even staunchly conservative columnist Charles Krauthammer suggested in Friday’s column that Brown should have hired a few twenty year-old interns to watch CNN and keep him posted on developments as they occurred.
It might have been a coincidence, but Brown’s reassignment came within a day of the Mexican Army entering the United States for the first time since 1846, bringing water treatment plants and mobile kitchens. Is that depressing to anyone else? No insult intended toward Mexico’s generous and humanitarian gesture, but don’t we have any of that stuff? How can any American government official look himself in the eye the next time he criticizes Mexicans for illegally crossing the border? “We saved your pale asses, gringo. Now you see why we going in through Arizona and California. New Orleans makes Tijuana look like Monte Carlo. We won’t even drink the water there. Gives us Napoleon’s Revenge.”
FEMA did their best to keep out the Mexicans, along with the Canadians, Swedes, Germans, and probably several other countries. The Swedes had a state of the art emergency communications system loaded up and ready to fly in; they were told to hold for over three days because FEMA wasn’t ready to receive it. Mike Brown doesn’t know thousands of people are dying in the Dome and the Convention Center, and we don’t need an emergency communications system.
Better aid has begun to flow in. Thanks again to the Mexicans, who used their years of experience to show the rest of the world how to evade American government officials trying to deny them access to this country. And before I get chastised for once again being too hard on France, let’s appreciate their contribution. An elite French commando team snuck into New Orleans late last week to share their centuries of experience in mass evacuations.
For those of you who consider me to be a persistent bleeding heart liberal pussy, here’s the link to Krauthammer’s excellent op-ed piece of September 9. I have little argument with anything in there.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/09/08/AR2005090801667.html
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
What is Hip?
What’s it called when ten musicians, ranging in age from thirty to sixty, play a consistent repertoire of tunes, none of which have hit the charts for the last twenty years? If the musicians are known as Tower of Power, you have as good an evening of musical entertainment as can be had.
TOP started in 1968 and had a decent run on the charts. “Don’t Change Horses” and “You Ought to be Having Fun” were probably their two biggest hits. Their current show fits both of these into a medley including a few of their more generally popular songs. It’s nice they acknowledge their past; what they’re about now is pleasing their fans.
They don’t play a lot of gigs anymore. You’re not going to catch them trying to drum up some nostalgia business on a bill with Black Sabbath or Motley Crue. TOP plays fifty or so concerts a year, mostly to true aficionados, and no one has more fun than they do.
They’re a throwback to the days when live performances were more than promotional appearances for the new album. They’ve only made two recordings in the last seven years. Their cult status is secure.
It’ll stay secure, too, since so much of the cult is populated by other musicians, or knowledgeable laymen. There’s nothing new at a TOP gig, no special effects, no whoring to bring in new listeners. They’re happy with the crowds they draw, which overflow the venues they play. They play for themselves, and for their long-time fans. They’re not averse to new believers; my fourteen year-old has seen them twice and loved it both times. TOP just wants to make sure the true believers get taken care of. They’re like the Grateful Dead for people with jobs.
Every concert is an hour and a half of balls to the wall soul, rhythm and blues, soul, and acknowledgements of the greatness of James Brown. The Godfather of Soul can’t be duplicated, so they don’t try. Every tune pays homage without being a rip-off. Brown’s influences are everywhere, but no one sounds like Tower of Power.
They are the coolest act in show business. What makes these pre-geriatric farts so cool? They do what they do better than anyone else, and make no pretense to be anything but what they are. A TOP performance lacks the arrogance of some popular “artists” who treat their audiences like dirt because no one else understands their brilliance. Quite the opposite; TOP makes sure to give their audience what it wants: an evening of flawlessly played, tightly arranged, energetically performed music that can’t be heard anywhere else.
Emilio Castillo, Steven Kupka, and Dave Garibaldi have known what is hip from the get-go. Lucky for all of us they choose to keep sharing it. Everyone should get on down to the nightclub for a soul vaccination once in a while, even when it’s souled out. To paraphrase one of their tunes, wherever I go, whatever I do, one thing remains the same: I’ll still be diggin’ on TOP.
TOP started in 1968 and had a decent run on the charts. “Don’t Change Horses” and “You Ought to be Having Fun” were probably their two biggest hits. Their current show fits both of these into a medley including a few of their more generally popular songs. It’s nice they acknowledge their past; what they’re about now is pleasing their fans.
They don’t play a lot of gigs anymore. You’re not going to catch them trying to drum up some nostalgia business on a bill with Black Sabbath or Motley Crue. TOP plays fifty or so concerts a year, mostly to true aficionados, and no one has more fun than they do.
They’re a throwback to the days when live performances were more than promotional appearances for the new album. They’ve only made two recordings in the last seven years. Their cult status is secure.
It’ll stay secure, too, since so much of the cult is populated by other musicians, or knowledgeable laymen. There’s nothing new at a TOP gig, no special effects, no whoring to bring in new listeners. They’re happy with the crowds they draw, which overflow the venues they play. They play for themselves, and for their long-time fans. They’re not averse to new believers; my fourteen year-old has seen them twice and loved it both times. TOP just wants to make sure the true believers get taken care of. They’re like the Grateful Dead for people with jobs.
Every concert is an hour and a half of balls to the wall soul, rhythm and blues, soul, and acknowledgements of the greatness of James Brown. The Godfather of Soul can’t be duplicated, so they don’t try. Every tune pays homage without being a rip-off. Brown’s influences are everywhere, but no one sounds like Tower of Power.
They are the coolest act in show business. What makes these pre-geriatric farts so cool? They do what they do better than anyone else, and make no pretense to be anything but what they are. A TOP performance lacks the arrogance of some popular “artists” who treat their audiences like dirt because no one else understands their brilliance. Quite the opposite; TOP makes sure to give their audience what it wants: an evening of flawlessly played, tightly arranged, energetically performed music that can’t be heard anywhere else.
Emilio Castillo, Steven Kupka, and Dave Garibaldi have known what is hip from the get-go. Lucky for all of us they choose to keep sharing it. Everyone should get on down to the nightclub for a soul vaccination once in a while, even when it’s souled out. To paraphrase one of their tunes, wherever I go, whatever I do, one thing remains the same: I’ll still be diggin’ on TOP.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Opportunity is Where You Find It
The people of New Orleans can rest easy, their nightmare is over. George Bush flew over yesterday.
He didn’t land, but the pilot got as low as 1700 feet and flew around for half an hour so Shrub could look out the window like a kid discovering an ant farm. No time to stop, he’d only been on vacation for a month, his busy schedule of dissing Gold Star mothers didn’t leave any time for pressing the flesh, maybe ask how some of these people were doing. No point. He’s not running for anything, he has a mandate.
This is our president, the man who personifies compassionate conservatism. Like so many under that umbrella, the only thing he’s conservative with is his compassion. Certainly not with money; no one ever spent it like he has.
Now it’s time to see if we got what we paid for. Shrub has spent hundreds of billions of dollars to “protect” us from the ravages of terrorism. How can we best evacuate entire cities in the event of a nucular attack? Protect the water supply from contaminants? Maintain order in the face of crisis?
Here’s his big chance. Throwing out the first pitch at a World Series game, then turning out the lights in two countries half a world away is easy. All this time he’s been worrying about towel-headed fanatics living in caves, and who puts the big hit on him? The same God whose Agent on Earth Shrub considers himself to be.
This is his chance to be a hero. With the Iraq situation going to hell in a handbasket, his primary historical legacies will be having the world’s worst terrorist attack take place in his country, on his watch, and leaving the Middle East a bigger mess than he found it, no mean feat.
He said he was devastated, looking out the window as he flew over. “Those people down there must be doubly devastated.” Devastated twice as much as him? People who have lost everything, and have no idea when they can go back to clean up so they can start over? Twice as much as he’s devastated after his month-long vacation at his private ranch, off to spend the weekend at Camp David, unless he rolls up his sleeves and stays in the sweatshop called the White House?
It’s one thing not to be a good president; this clueless bastard isn’t even a good person. Shame on us, shame on us all for letting him happen.
He didn’t land, but the pilot got as low as 1700 feet and flew around for half an hour so Shrub could look out the window like a kid discovering an ant farm. No time to stop, he’d only been on vacation for a month, his busy schedule of dissing Gold Star mothers didn’t leave any time for pressing the flesh, maybe ask how some of these people were doing. No point. He’s not running for anything, he has a mandate.
This is our president, the man who personifies compassionate conservatism. Like so many under that umbrella, the only thing he’s conservative with is his compassion. Certainly not with money; no one ever spent it like he has.
Now it’s time to see if we got what we paid for. Shrub has spent hundreds of billions of dollars to “protect” us from the ravages of terrorism. How can we best evacuate entire cities in the event of a nucular attack? Protect the water supply from contaminants? Maintain order in the face of crisis?
Here’s his big chance. Throwing out the first pitch at a World Series game, then turning out the lights in two countries half a world away is easy. All this time he’s been worrying about towel-headed fanatics living in caves, and who puts the big hit on him? The same God whose Agent on Earth Shrub considers himself to be.
This is his chance to be a hero. With the Iraq situation going to hell in a handbasket, his primary historical legacies will be having the world’s worst terrorist attack take place in his country, on his watch, and leaving the Middle East a bigger mess than he found it, no mean feat.
He said he was devastated, looking out the window as he flew over. “Those people down there must be doubly devastated.” Devastated twice as much as him? People who have lost everything, and have no idea when they can go back to clean up so they can start over? Twice as much as he’s devastated after his month-long vacation at his private ranch, off to spend the weekend at Camp David, unless he rolls up his sleeves and stays in the sweatshop called the White House?
It’s one thing not to be a good president; this clueless bastard isn’t even a good person. Shame on us, shame on us all for letting him happen.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Sibling Ambition
I am fortunate to have friends eager to assuage my divorced father guilt by telling me what a good father I am: responsible adult, role model, all the usual stuff. I’m grateful for that, and to them for seeing those qualities in me, even if I occasionally disagree about how much of each is present.
My recent vacation showed me the real thing (again). Someone who never misses one of his kids’ school or personal events. He’s up early to get them off for school, picks them up from day care when necessary, and more often than not makes supper after work. He’s remodeled the house and installed an above-ground pool and deck for them. There is no task too large to undertake on their behalf, and no detail so small it is overlooked.
He was gracious enough to point out to a friend the many alleged sacrifices I make to be a good father, while acknowledging none of his own. Our “sacrifices” have much in common: I never feel as though I have sacrificed anything for the Sole Heir, I look forward to spending time and doing things with, and for, her. Watch him for a few days and it’s easy to see the same is true.
The difference is that when I found myself in a marital situation I didn’t understand and failed to grasp well, I left. I didn’t disappear (my responsibilities as a father were never too far from my mind and I could always be rounded up with a phone call), but I wasn’t home and certainly wasn’t as close as I should have been for a few years. Say what you want about making the effort, no absentee father can be as good as one who is home and makes the effort.
And that’s what he does. I’m not implying any superhuman endurance for his staying married; he and his wife get along as well, or better, as any couple I know. Still, they’ve been married almost fifteen years, human nature tells us there has been some friction. I’m sure he dealt with it as he deals with everything else: patiently, willing to see both sides, and to place the greater benefit ahead of his own.
This is an impressive guy, there’s no one I respect more. I’m may be four years older, but I want to be just like my brother when I grow up.
My recent vacation showed me the real thing (again). Someone who never misses one of his kids’ school or personal events. He’s up early to get them off for school, picks them up from day care when necessary, and more often than not makes supper after work. He’s remodeled the house and installed an above-ground pool and deck for them. There is no task too large to undertake on their behalf, and no detail so small it is overlooked.
He was gracious enough to point out to a friend the many alleged sacrifices I make to be a good father, while acknowledging none of his own. Our “sacrifices” have much in common: I never feel as though I have sacrificed anything for the Sole Heir, I look forward to spending time and doing things with, and for, her. Watch him for a few days and it’s easy to see the same is true.
The difference is that when I found myself in a marital situation I didn’t understand and failed to grasp well, I left. I didn’t disappear (my responsibilities as a father were never too far from my mind and I could always be rounded up with a phone call), but I wasn’t home and certainly wasn’t as close as I should have been for a few years. Say what you want about making the effort, no absentee father can be as good as one who is home and makes the effort.
And that’s what he does. I’m not implying any superhuman endurance for his staying married; he and his wife get along as well, or better, as any couple I know. Still, they’ve been married almost fifteen years, human nature tells us there has been some friction. I’m sure he dealt with it as he deals with everything else: patiently, willing to see both sides, and to place the greater benefit ahead of his own.
This is an impressive guy, there’s no one I respect more. I’m may be four years older, but I want to be just like my brother when I grow up.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
On the Road Again
It’s even money you know someone who has something they’ve always wanted to do. It may even be the person who lives in your mirror. They might want a trip, learn a new skill, or do something they already know but never get around to, whatever. Not to sound too much like I don’t despise Nike anymore, here are two words of advice.
Do it.
I’m not talking about anything destructive, or that might imperil one’s financial security. This isn’t advocating investing all your money in penny stocks or dabbling in recreational heroin use. Nor should this be used as an argument for doing something conspicuous just for the sake of showing off, like spending the food money on a yellow Hummer so everyone can see you driving three blocks to the store. I’m talking about feeding your soul.
This soul food will be different for everyone. For me it’s a vacation. Not too expensive, not exotic at all. It’s a simple matter of packing up my car and daughter and driving to Colorado to visit my brother and his family. It’s a little over 4,000 miles the way we do it (4,069.3 this year, to be precise), and not trying to save too many miles is the secret.
This year’s trip was the southern route. We drove into Virginia, through the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky to Nashville, then across I-40 through Memphis and Oklahoma City to angle north in Amarillo, catching I-25 in New Mexico to come at Denver from the south. Coming home was more or less a straight shot on I-70.
We saw the Kentucky Horse Park, crossed the Mississippi (too late to go to Mud Island), made a slight detour to Toad Suck Park, Arkansas. (No kidding, you can look it up.) Found a great Italian place in Oklahoma City and had lunch at a steak ranch in Amarillo where the 72-oz. steak was free if you could eat it in an hour. (We each had a 16 ouncer and it held us for lunch and supper.) Saw dinosaur footprints in New Mexico and drove through country that probably looks just as it did three hundred years ago. Coming home we rode to the top of the Gateway Arch and watched a Cardinals’ game in St. Louis.
It would be easy to get all Zen about it and say it was the journey that mattered, not the destination. The journey was spectacular, every mile a pleasure, and was still overshadowed by five days in Colorado with my brother’s family. A Rockies’ game, Water World, cookouts, pool time, trips to Boulder and Golden, and just remembering what it feels like to spend time with the most genetically similar person in the world to yourself, remembering you like him and would spend a lot more time like this if you weren’t separated by half a continent.
The cousins, my daughter (14) and his two girls (12 and 10), have been together maybe ten times in their lives, and couldn’t be closer if they were triplets. They were virtually joined at the hip from 3:00 PM Wednesday until 7:00 AM Tuesday. If there was a cross word between them, the adults missed it.
Now we’re home. The Sole Heir is preparing for her vacation with her mother, I’m back to work. Last weekend barely existed for me, as I slept 4,000 miles of driving out of my system and sinuses. Seems hard to imagine all the stuff we did, so far removed it all was from our normal time together. That’s why we’ll move heaven and earth to do it again in two years, then two more, until she’s of an age where adult responsibility overtakes even her father’s ability to keep her a child as long as practical, then a week more.
Such a trip might not be for everyone, but everyone has its equivalent in them somewhere, looking for a chance to break the mold, one seemingly out of character activity that helps to define the rest of your life by what it is not. Not particularly responsible, though great responsibility is required to carry it off safely. Not particularly expensive, though penury is no way to have fun and the budget was gleefully adjusted on the fly. Not difficult, even if being the sole driver for that long is no picnic. Just something you can enjoy without guilt or second thought, your adult responsibilities leavened by childlike release.
I can’t wait for next time. More of a northern route, maybe including Yellowstone…
Do it.
I’m not talking about anything destructive, or that might imperil one’s financial security. This isn’t advocating investing all your money in penny stocks or dabbling in recreational heroin use. Nor should this be used as an argument for doing something conspicuous just for the sake of showing off, like spending the food money on a yellow Hummer so everyone can see you driving three blocks to the store. I’m talking about feeding your soul.
This soul food will be different for everyone. For me it’s a vacation. Not too expensive, not exotic at all. It’s a simple matter of packing up my car and daughter and driving to Colorado to visit my brother and his family. It’s a little over 4,000 miles the way we do it (4,069.3 this year, to be precise), and not trying to save too many miles is the secret.
This year’s trip was the southern route. We drove into Virginia, through the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky to Nashville, then across I-40 through Memphis and Oklahoma City to angle north in Amarillo, catching I-25 in New Mexico to come at Denver from the south. Coming home was more or less a straight shot on I-70.
We saw the Kentucky Horse Park, crossed the Mississippi (too late to go to Mud Island), made a slight detour to Toad Suck Park, Arkansas. (No kidding, you can look it up.) Found a great Italian place in Oklahoma City and had lunch at a steak ranch in Amarillo where the 72-oz. steak was free if you could eat it in an hour. (We each had a 16 ouncer and it held us for lunch and supper.) Saw dinosaur footprints in New Mexico and drove through country that probably looks just as it did three hundred years ago. Coming home we rode to the top of the Gateway Arch and watched a Cardinals’ game in St. Louis.
It would be easy to get all Zen about it and say it was the journey that mattered, not the destination. The journey was spectacular, every mile a pleasure, and was still overshadowed by five days in Colorado with my brother’s family. A Rockies’ game, Water World, cookouts, pool time, trips to Boulder and Golden, and just remembering what it feels like to spend time with the most genetically similar person in the world to yourself, remembering you like him and would spend a lot more time like this if you weren’t separated by half a continent.
The cousins, my daughter (14) and his two girls (12 and 10), have been together maybe ten times in their lives, and couldn’t be closer if they were triplets. They were virtually joined at the hip from 3:00 PM Wednesday until 7:00 AM Tuesday. If there was a cross word between them, the adults missed it.
Now we’re home. The Sole Heir is preparing for her vacation with her mother, I’m back to work. Last weekend barely existed for me, as I slept 4,000 miles of driving out of my system and sinuses. Seems hard to imagine all the stuff we did, so far removed it all was from our normal time together. That’s why we’ll move heaven and earth to do it again in two years, then two more, until she’s of an age where adult responsibility overtakes even her father’s ability to keep her a child as long as practical, then a week more.
Such a trip might not be for everyone, but everyone has its equivalent in them somewhere, looking for a chance to break the mold, one seemingly out of character activity that helps to define the rest of your life by what it is not. Not particularly responsible, though great responsibility is required to carry it off safely. Not particularly expensive, though penury is no way to have fun and the budget was gleefully adjusted on the fly. Not difficult, even if being the sole driver for that long is no picnic. Just something you can enjoy without guilt or second thought, your adult responsibilities leavened by childlike release.
I can’t wait for next time. More of a northern route, maybe including Yellowstone…
Friday, July 15, 2005
Not a Helpful Solution
The Literary Correspondent recently forwarded to The Home Office a disturbing e-mail she had received. It should be pointed out that the Literary Correspondent and I have a tendency to look at events from different sides of the political spectrum.
A friend of hers (fortunately for me, I don’t know that I have any “friends” of this ilk, and don’t want to find out) is soliciting support for an anti-terrorist letter to be sent to “Senators, Congressmen and all political figures who need to act now to protect us from the Muslim terrorists.” The accompanying letter is better described as a screed. It begins:
To date, and to the best of my knowledge, we have not heard from any Muslim leaders in our country denouncing the Muslim attacks on us and on our allies. Why do we not expect these people, in our country, to stand with us and loudly denounce the insurgent terrorists?
And concludes:
What can we do about the Muslim invasion in our country?
Some ideas:
Do not allow Muslim schools in this country.
Do not allow Muslim mosques in this country.
Stop all Muslims from entering this country.
Do not support Muslim owned businesses; many are fundraisers for the insurgents.
Do not believe that any Muslims are peaceful, read their doctrines and beliefs.
AND, the ACLU be damned!
First, the personal note. As a card-carrying member of the ACLU, I have issues with her presumption of the authority to damn anyone, let alone me. Based on her letter, she’s in way over her head in making those kinds of judgments. She should stick to things more in line with her talents. Coloring between the lines. Not stepping on sidewalk cracks.
You’d think Americans would have learned their lessons from the forced internment of American citizens of Japanese ancestry during World War II, or the McCarthy-era blacklistings. As much as some Americans claim to love freedom, and are willing to see every Iraqi citizen blown to tiny bits so those tiny bits can be free, we’re willing to deny that freedom to others at the drop of a casualty.
The event that must have triggered this outburst (based on its date) didn’t even happen here. We could learn a lot from the British response to last week’s bombings. The affected areas were cordoned off as crime scenes for a few days; it was business as usual elsewhere. London lost as many as 500 people a night during the Blitz and basically told Hitler to go fuck himself. A lot Brits who grew up then are still around. I don't think half a dozen backpack charges placed at the behest of a guy who lives in a cave is going to faze them much.
The mayor made a speech to that effect the other day. “London has been the target of a cowardly terrorist attack…This was indiscriminate slaughter irrespective of age, class, religion, whatever…That isn’t an ideology. It isn’t even a perverted faith. It is just an indiscriminate attempt at mass murder…I urge Londoners from all of this city’s diverse communities and faiths to support one another and stand together against terrorism…Whatever you do, however many you kill, you will fail.” (Emphasis not in original.)
That about sums it up, somewhat more eloquently than I would have. I looked through the speech, “and the camel you rode in on” isn’t in the text. It doesn’t have to be; it sits between the lines, holding the speech together like the mortar between bricks.
What might be the most important aspect of his speech is his appeal to all faiths to support each other and stand together. Any overt attempts to marginalize an entire religion even more than it is will only increase the alienation and rancor. Our best way out of this is to establish better rapport with mainstream Muslims. They are best suited to communicate rationally with anyone on the fence about the long-term benefits of working peacefully, and best positioned to provide information on who might be prepared to do us wrong.
Before we do anything we can’t undo and could be ashamed to explain to our children, let’s make sure we aren’t panicking over this. Among my first memories as I became aware of the world around me were the annual summer race riots during the mid to late sixties. I was surprised when they stopped; I assumed black people routinely burned down cities every summer. Time passed, conditions changed, and discontent over civil rights (or the lack thereof) became expressed differently.
Terrorism as we see it now may well be a phase that will pass. That’s not to say we should sit back and do nothing and take our casualties; that's wrong-headed and will only delay the end of the phase. Let’s treat the perpetrators as they criminals they are, and treat law-abiding citizens as the fully functional members of a free society that they are until proven otherwise. If we don't believe the system we claim to have loved so much for 229 years can handle this, then we're even more hypocritical than I have been suspecting.
Walking away from what we are supposed to stand for in the name of nominally increased security is handing the terrorists a greater victory than they could ever hope to achieve by blowing up every building in the country. Their supposed purpose is to undermine our freedoms and way of life. They can’t do that unless we let them. The sentiments in our anonymous letter do exactly that.
The terrorists who blew up London and the World Trade Center are no more Muslims than Timothy McVeigh was a good Christian boy. I doubt the writer of the above letter ever contemplated rounding up all the Christians (or even just the Baptists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, whatever McVeigh was) and shipping them off somewhere. What’s that? They’re citizens, and were already here? So are a lot of Muslims, some of whom probably have a much better understanding of the Bill of Rights than does our letter writer.
Terrorists are an abomination in the sight of decent people everywhere, regardless of race, religion, sexual preference, or national origin. If we want to stop them, let’s make it easier for their unwilling “peers” to speak out against their atrocities. The terrorist mantra is that they’re being ignored, their convictions trampled by a Western world intent on destroying them. Iraq is their greatest recruiting poster. Maybe it’s time to invest in making friends in addition to killing enemies. Just killing enemies doesn’t seem to be making us any safer.
A friend of hers (fortunately for me, I don’t know that I have any “friends” of this ilk, and don’t want to find out) is soliciting support for an anti-terrorist letter to be sent to “Senators, Congressmen and all political figures who need to act now to protect us from the Muslim terrorists.” The accompanying letter is better described as a screed. It begins:
To date, and to the best of my knowledge, we have not heard from any Muslim leaders in our country denouncing the Muslim attacks on us and on our allies. Why do we not expect these people, in our country, to stand with us and loudly denounce the insurgent terrorists?
And concludes:
What can we do about the Muslim invasion in our country?
Some ideas:
Do not allow Muslim schools in this country.
Do not allow Muslim mosques in this country.
Stop all Muslims from entering this country.
Do not support Muslim owned businesses; many are fundraisers for the insurgents.
Do not believe that any Muslims are peaceful, read their doctrines and beliefs.
AND, the ACLU be damned!
First, the personal note. As a card-carrying member of the ACLU, I have issues with her presumption of the authority to damn anyone, let alone me. Based on her letter, she’s in way over her head in making those kinds of judgments. She should stick to things more in line with her talents. Coloring between the lines. Not stepping on sidewalk cracks.
You’d think Americans would have learned their lessons from the forced internment of American citizens of Japanese ancestry during World War II, or the McCarthy-era blacklistings. As much as some Americans claim to love freedom, and are willing to see every Iraqi citizen blown to tiny bits so those tiny bits can be free, we’re willing to deny that freedom to others at the drop of a casualty.
The event that must have triggered this outburst (based on its date) didn’t even happen here. We could learn a lot from the British response to last week’s bombings. The affected areas were cordoned off as crime scenes for a few days; it was business as usual elsewhere. London lost as many as 500 people a night during the Blitz and basically told Hitler to go fuck himself. A lot Brits who grew up then are still around. I don't think half a dozen backpack charges placed at the behest of a guy who lives in a cave is going to faze them much.
The mayor made a speech to that effect the other day. “London has been the target of a cowardly terrorist attack…This was indiscriminate slaughter irrespective of age, class, religion, whatever…That isn’t an ideology. It isn’t even a perverted faith. It is just an indiscriminate attempt at mass murder…I urge Londoners from all of this city’s diverse communities and faiths to support one another and stand together against terrorism…Whatever you do, however many you kill, you will fail.” (Emphasis not in original.)
That about sums it up, somewhat more eloquently than I would have. I looked through the speech, “and the camel you rode in on” isn’t in the text. It doesn’t have to be; it sits between the lines, holding the speech together like the mortar between bricks.
What might be the most important aspect of his speech is his appeal to all faiths to support each other and stand together. Any overt attempts to marginalize an entire religion even more than it is will only increase the alienation and rancor. Our best way out of this is to establish better rapport with mainstream Muslims. They are best suited to communicate rationally with anyone on the fence about the long-term benefits of working peacefully, and best positioned to provide information on who might be prepared to do us wrong.
Before we do anything we can’t undo and could be ashamed to explain to our children, let’s make sure we aren’t panicking over this. Among my first memories as I became aware of the world around me were the annual summer race riots during the mid to late sixties. I was surprised when they stopped; I assumed black people routinely burned down cities every summer. Time passed, conditions changed, and discontent over civil rights (or the lack thereof) became expressed differently.
Terrorism as we see it now may well be a phase that will pass. That’s not to say we should sit back and do nothing and take our casualties; that's wrong-headed and will only delay the end of the phase. Let’s treat the perpetrators as they criminals they are, and treat law-abiding citizens as the fully functional members of a free society that they are until proven otherwise. If we don't believe the system we claim to have loved so much for 229 years can handle this, then we're even more hypocritical than I have been suspecting.
Walking away from what we are supposed to stand for in the name of nominally increased security is handing the terrorists a greater victory than they could ever hope to achieve by blowing up every building in the country. Their supposed purpose is to undermine our freedoms and way of life. They can’t do that unless we let them. The sentiments in our anonymous letter do exactly that.
The terrorists who blew up London and the World Trade Center are no more Muslims than Timothy McVeigh was a good Christian boy. I doubt the writer of the above letter ever contemplated rounding up all the Christians (or even just the Baptists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, whatever McVeigh was) and shipping them off somewhere. What’s that? They’re citizens, and were already here? So are a lot of Muslims, some of whom probably have a much better understanding of the Bill of Rights than does our letter writer.
Terrorists are an abomination in the sight of decent people everywhere, regardless of race, religion, sexual preference, or national origin. If we want to stop them, let’s make it easier for their unwilling “peers” to speak out against their atrocities. The terrorist mantra is that they’re being ignored, their convictions trampled by a Western world intent on destroying them. Iraq is their greatest recruiting poster. Maybe it’s time to invest in making friends in addition to killing enemies. Just killing enemies doesn’t seem to be making us any safer.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
An Appreciation
The lights are about to go out at the 87th Precinct.
Salvatore Lombino, aka Evan Hunter, even better known to crime fiction readers as Ed McBain, died of throat cancer last week at the age of 78. McBain wrote his first 87th Precinct novel, Cop Hater, in 1956. He wrote over fifty more, fitting them in around the time required to write another good series about attorney Matthew Hope, more “serious” work as Evan Hunter, movie and television scripts (including Hitchcock’s classic The Birds), and even more books under so many names he claimed not to be able to remember them all.
It’s no disparagement of his other work to say that he’ll be remembered best for the 87th Precinct. Aside from virtually inventing what is now called the police procedural, McBain gave us an assembly of characters that presaged what is now known as the ensemble cast. If his detectives had been actors, none would have cause to feel cheated.
Hill Street Blues is credited with revolutionizing police drama, folding multiple stories over the lives of real people who happen to be cops. Not a police or crime show, but a drama about cops. There would be no Hill Street in its imaginary city that looks a lot like New York had there been no 87th Precinct in an imaginary city that resembled New York more than a little. Not crime or mystery books, books about people who happen to be cops.
And what people they are. Not were, the Eight-Seven’s detective squad will live long past its creator’s demise. Steve Carella, as human a cop as ever put on paper, and his deaf mute wife, Teddy, regularly showing an intimacy that went beyond sexual; Bert Kling, Artie Brown, Meyer Meyer, even fat Ollie Weeks from the Eight-Eight, another half dozen slightly less prominent. All flawed, some more than others, all with enough redemptive qualities to make the reader comfortable with wanting them to succeed. (Even if you have to look pretty hard to find those qualities in Fat Ollie, m’dear.)
McBain wrote with a stark eloquence, evoking the darkness without letting the gruesome become grotesque. His detectives’ professional mixture of distance and compassion make them successful without making their success inevitable, or universal. Some bad guys get away; the Deaf Man eludes them still. Some relationships succeed, others fail for all the reasons to which flesh is heir. Witnessing the detectives’ occasional fallibility makes their continuing efforts more noble.
What may have been the best part of McBain’s writing is also now the greatest disappointment: he was still getting better. Money, Money, Money (2001) was as good as any, with 2002’s Fat Ollie’s Book a noble sequel, picking up a story line from its predecessor and running with it. His plots stayed current, the writing tight. His recent books read as though written by someone forty years younger, on the cutting edge of contemporary criminal evolution. His laurels would have made a comfortable bed on which to rest: Mystery Writers of America Grand Master (1986), the only American recipient of the British Crime Writers Association’s Cartier Golden Dagger (1998).
Ed McBain could have phoned it in for the last ten years and sales would have stayed high enough to keep getting him published. He need not have written a word in the past twenty years to be universally and forever recognized as among the handful of greatest crime writers. It is our great good fortune he chose neither course, continuously honing his craft, producing electric fiction that will be read for generations to come.
And he left us a present: Slate’s obituary says the next (and, sadly, last) 87th Precinct novel will be out in October. Thanks, Ed. Wherever you are, let’s be careful out there.
Salvatore Lombino, aka Evan Hunter, even better known to crime fiction readers as Ed McBain, died of throat cancer last week at the age of 78. McBain wrote his first 87th Precinct novel, Cop Hater, in 1956. He wrote over fifty more, fitting them in around the time required to write another good series about attorney Matthew Hope, more “serious” work as Evan Hunter, movie and television scripts (including Hitchcock’s classic The Birds), and even more books under so many names he claimed not to be able to remember them all.
It’s no disparagement of his other work to say that he’ll be remembered best for the 87th Precinct. Aside from virtually inventing what is now called the police procedural, McBain gave us an assembly of characters that presaged what is now known as the ensemble cast. If his detectives had been actors, none would have cause to feel cheated.
Hill Street Blues is credited with revolutionizing police drama, folding multiple stories over the lives of real people who happen to be cops. Not a police or crime show, but a drama about cops. There would be no Hill Street in its imaginary city that looks a lot like New York had there been no 87th Precinct in an imaginary city that resembled New York more than a little. Not crime or mystery books, books about people who happen to be cops.
And what people they are. Not were, the Eight-Seven’s detective squad will live long past its creator’s demise. Steve Carella, as human a cop as ever put on paper, and his deaf mute wife, Teddy, regularly showing an intimacy that went beyond sexual; Bert Kling, Artie Brown, Meyer Meyer, even fat Ollie Weeks from the Eight-Eight, another half dozen slightly less prominent. All flawed, some more than others, all with enough redemptive qualities to make the reader comfortable with wanting them to succeed. (Even if you have to look pretty hard to find those qualities in Fat Ollie, m’dear.)
McBain wrote with a stark eloquence, evoking the darkness without letting the gruesome become grotesque. His detectives’ professional mixture of distance and compassion make them successful without making their success inevitable, or universal. Some bad guys get away; the Deaf Man eludes them still. Some relationships succeed, others fail for all the reasons to which flesh is heir. Witnessing the detectives’ occasional fallibility makes their continuing efforts more noble.
What may have been the best part of McBain’s writing is also now the greatest disappointment: he was still getting better. Money, Money, Money (2001) was as good as any, with 2002’s Fat Ollie’s Book a noble sequel, picking up a story line from its predecessor and running with it. His plots stayed current, the writing tight. His recent books read as though written by someone forty years younger, on the cutting edge of contemporary criminal evolution. His laurels would have made a comfortable bed on which to rest: Mystery Writers of America Grand Master (1986), the only American recipient of the British Crime Writers Association’s Cartier Golden Dagger (1998).
Ed McBain could have phoned it in for the last ten years and sales would have stayed high enough to keep getting him published. He need not have written a word in the past twenty years to be universally and forever recognized as among the handful of greatest crime writers. It is our great good fortune he chose neither course, continuously honing his craft, producing electric fiction that will be read for generations to come.
And he left us a present: Slate’s obituary says the next (and, sadly, last) 87th Precinct novel will be out in October. Thanks, Ed. Wherever you are, let’s be careful out there.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Happy Birthday
If you believe in this sort of thing, on July 7, 1927, God decided to make a trumpet player.
Happy 78th birthday, Doc Severinsen.
Happy 78th birthday, Doc Severinsen.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Press Release From The Home Office
The Home Office is pleased to announce the publication of the short story “Hail Mary” by New Mystery Reader as July’s Story of the Month.
Stop by the NMR site (www.newmysteryreader.com) to read “Hail Mary,” as well as the other excellent stories and book reviews posted. Yours truly has contributed reviews of new hardcovers (The Living Room of the Dead), new paperbacks (Men From Boys) and June’s Spotlight Review (The Black Angel).
Many thanks to Stephanie Padilla at New Mystery Reader for her enthusiastic support.
Stop by the NMR site (www.newmysteryreader.com) to read “Hail Mary,” as well as the other excellent stories and book reviews posted. Yours truly has contributed reviews of new hardcovers (The Living Room of the Dead), new paperbacks (Men From Boys) and June’s Spotlight Review (The Black Angel).
Many thanks to Stephanie Padilla at New Mystery Reader for her enthusiastic support.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
A Chance to Do Right
Sandra Day O’Connor’s retirement from the Supreme Court (probably so she can “loosen up” with John Riggins) reinvigorates the Senate’s recent bi-partisan agreement not to filibuster judicial nominees. “Extraordinary circumstances” will be parsed and debated, with all other Senate business hanging in the balance, while the acceptability of Shrub’s nominee is debated.
Democrats will line up with a list of unacceptable and ill-informed decisions and writings; Republicans will counter with their own brilliant and morally insightful list, with “So what?” thrown in for good measure. The crux will come down to whether a president is entitled to get whoever he wants on the Court. The answer is, obviously, “No.”
It is difficult to believe the Founding Fathers wanted a rubber stamp for anyone a president wants to nominate, or they would not have required the Senate’s advice and consent for confirmation. Advice is in the eye of the beholder. The Senate can tell the president whatever it wants, whereupon he is free to ignore them. The consent piece is supposed to act as a guarantee against the repayment of a political favor, or the appointment of a justice well outside the mainstream of American thought, since justices can only be impeached for misconduct, not recalled for being an idiot.
The hypocrisy of the current majority’s penchant for referring to themselves as “strict constructionists” of the Constitution is rarely more evident than it is here. (The Terri Schiavo case may be one case, when both houses of Congress turned over every rock they could find, looking for judges to interpret the law the way Congress wanted, then threatened changes in the court system when their own parochial idea were ignored.) The framers of the Constitution were deeply concerned about the potential for a tyranny of the majority; the tradition of filibusters is the best example of this. While not specifically mentioned in the Constitution, filibusters go back about that far. Senators were expected to conduct themselves as gentlemen and use it only when the rights and perspectives of the minority were in danger of being abused or ignored.
Republicans should be well aware of this, if any of them could be bother to read the history they espouse to honor and protect. Franklin Roosevelt was unhappy when the Supreme Court’s overturned some of his New Deal legislation. (The Court has often lagged well behind the prevailing political sentiment of the day, and thank God for that.) Roosevelt’s attempt to stack the court by enlarging it, thereby adding sufficient justices to ensure a sympathetic majority, was soundly and properly defeated, on the ground that the Supreme Court is not an ideological sanctuary, where presidents may park disciples of whatever half-baked political idea is currently in vogue.
Whatever the Democrats do, they are not denying Shrub his Constitutionally-protected right to put whoever he wants on the Supreme Court. It is the responsibility of the President and the Senate to agree on a justice who can speak responsibly for all Americans. Not that everyone will agree with him or her all the time; that’s not possible, regardless of who is selected. Fringe groups on the left and right will disagree with a good choice; that’s as it should be.
The President’s responsibility as the head of government is to find a nominee agreeable to him that will not so offend the loyal opposition as to prompt a filibuster. The Senate’s responsibility is to grant him quite a bit of leeway. Both sides’ willingness to do these things has been well-evidenced by the high percentage of Shrub’s federal court judges that have been approved, even though the filibustered few got all the attention.
There’s one last argument against letting Shrub automatically have whoever he wants. We had an opportunity in the country to have a King George I over two hundred years ago. Mr. Washington turned it down. We don’t need one now, and that’s what we’ll be inching toward if the Senate abdicates its responsibility. What freedoms that have survived since 1787 are due, in large part, to the ability of the executive and legislative branches to appoint informed and non-partisan consciences to the federal courts. Presidents don’t send edicts to Congress; they send requests. Let us not start down a slippery slope toward one-man rule. One-party rule is bad enough.
Democrats will line up with a list of unacceptable and ill-informed decisions and writings; Republicans will counter with their own brilliant and morally insightful list, with “So what?” thrown in for good measure. The crux will come down to whether a president is entitled to get whoever he wants on the Court. The answer is, obviously, “No.”
It is difficult to believe the Founding Fathers wanted a rubber stamp for anyone a president wants to nominate, or they would not have required the Senate’s advice and consent for confirmation. Advice is in the eye of the beholder. The Senate can tell the president whatever it wants, whereupon he is free to ignore them. The consent piece is supposed to act as a guarantee against the repayment of a political favor, or the appointment of a justice well outside the mainstream of American thought, since justices can only be impeached for misconduct, not recalled for being an idiot.
The hypocrisy of the current majority’s penchant for referring to themselves as “strict constructionists” of the Constitution is rarely more evident than it is here. (The Terri Schiavo case may be one case, when both houses of Congress turned over every rock they could find, looking for judges to interpret the law the way Congress wanted, then threatened changes in the court system when their own parochial idea were ignored.) The framers of the Constitution were deeply concerned about the potential for a tyranny of the majority; the tradition of filibusters is the best example of this. While not specifically mentioned in the Constitution, filibusters go back about that far. Senators were expected to conduct themselves as gentlemen and use it only when the rights and perspectives of the minority were in danger of being abused or ignored.
Republicans should be well aware of this, if any of them could be bother to read the history they espouse to honor and protect. Franklin Roosevelt was unhappy when the Supreme Court’s overturned some of his New Deal legislation. (The Court has often lagged well behind the prevailing political sentiment of the day, and thank God for that.) Roosevelt’s attempt to stack the court by enlarging it, thereby adding sufficient justices to ensure a sympathetic majority, was soundly and properly defeated, on the ground that the Supreme Court is not an ideological sanctuary, where presidents may park disciples of whatever half-baked political idea is currently in vogue.
Whatever the Democrats do, they are not denying Shrub his Constitutionally-protected right to put whoever he wants on the Supreme Court. It is the responsibility of the President and the Senate to agree on a justice who can speak responsibly for all Americans. Not that everyone will agree with him or her all the time; that’s not possible, regardless of who is selected. Fringe groups on the left and right will disagree with a good choice; that’s as it should be.
The President’s responsibility as the head of government is to find a nominee agreeable to him that will not so offend the loyal opposition as to prompt a filibuster. The Senate’s responsibility is to grant him quite a bit of leeway. Both sides’ willingness to do these things has been well-evidenced by the high percentage of Shrub’s federal court judges that have been approved, even though the filibustered few got all the attention.
There’s one last argument against letting Shrub automatically have whoever he wants. We had an opportunity in the country to have a King George I over two hundred years ago. Mr. Washington turned it down. We don’t need one now, and that’s what we’ll be inching toward if the Senate abdicates its responsibility. What freedoms that have survived since 1787 are due, in large part, to the ability of the executive and legislative branches to appoint informed and non-partisan consciences to the federal courts. Presidents don’t send edicts to Congress; they send requests. Let us not start down a slippery slope toward one-man rule. One-party rule is bad enough.
Friday, July 01, 2005
More Ignorant Crackers
This will probably piss off Runs With Scissors again; I’ll get over it. I’m still trying to figure out how he can write his replies in crayon and get them transmitted through the Internet. Scanner, maybe.
Southern “gentlemen” have been making news the past few weeks for being anything but gentlemen. The next time anyone wonders whether the hubris of modern conservatism is founded on the ignorance of crackerhood, let them look no farther than this quartet.
You all know Jesse Helms. He’s the poster child for not living in North Carolina despite its temperate weather and scenic charms: the state is more than half full of people who elected this inbred troglodyte to the Senate for thirty years.
Jesse recently published his autobiography, meaning he has now written more books than he has read. While he admitted being wrong about AIDS funding, he stands by his segregation record. Integration would have come in its own time, he says. All the trouble was because we rushed things before people were ready.
Ya think!? It had only been a hundred years since the end of the civil war and the Fourteenth Amendment gave everyone, lily-white and Nigruhs alike, equal protection under the law. So what if they couldn’t vote? Southern white folk would take care of their childlike wards, just like they did in the good old days. Look how far we’ve come, Jesse would say. They don’t even have to call us Massa no more. They all had schools, nice separate but equal ones, if by equal you mean no indoor plumbing and books with pages missing. Not that white Southerners got such a hot education. Jesse was taught there.
Virginia Representative Tom Davis’s trespass is at the same time more trivial and more disturbing. Davis heads the committee currently looking into baseball’s steroid problem, Congress having nothing better to do now that the troops are home from Iraq, the budget s balanced, and Social Security is solvent for another hundred years. This week he contributed to the current political climate by saying baseball would do well not to consider favorably the bid put forth by a group containing wack job billionaire George Soros to purchase the Washington Nationals.
Soros’s primary offense appears to be that he’s a liberal wack job. I doubt Rep. Davis would have any issues with Fox News’ Rupert Murdoch getting back into baseball if he wanted to, and he’s as big a rich wack as there is. Say what you want about Democratic abuses when they were the semi-permanent majority, throwing political weight around to this degree is unheard of. Davis gets easily re-elected, as good a reason as any to invoke the Helms Rule and not live in his district. It’s at least half full of people with no more sense and decency than him.
(Davis had an aide backtrack from his statement yesterday, saying the Congressman was speaking as a private citizen and not in his official capacity. The statement, aside from showing the heroic Congressman’s unwillingness to face the music himself, had all the sincerity of a mobster running the protection racket, when he says to the candy store owner, “it would be shame if a fire was to break out in here.”)
Then there’s Bill Frist, who claimed his look at some family videotape convinced him that at least a dozen neuro-specialists were wrong and Terri Schiavo was just some prayers and a good massage away from starring in a revival of 42nd Street. Last week’s autopsy results showed she’s barely deader now than she was then. What about Bill’s “diagnosis?” He swears up and down he never said that.
All of the above are candidates as Billy Graham’s heir when compared to Jeb Bush. It wasn’t enough that he seriously considered having the state police “rescue” Terri Schiavo, backing down when a local police official with an understanding of his oath of office said he would uphold the law, even if violence was required to do so. Bush bided his time, waiting for the autopsy results. When Terri was proven to be brain dead beyond redemption, Bush asked for an investigation into how quickly Michael Schiavo called 911. No one mentioned this, not even her parents, for fifteen years. Now it’s a burning issue to be investigated in Florida, since their immigration and drug problems are history. Can there be any doubt Bush would ask for a homicide investigation if the autopsy had come out differently?
I’m sure all of these “gentlemen” would tell you they’re good Christians. Why should they be any more honest about that than anything else? They can wrap themselves in the flag and Bible all they want; they’re shameless whores who wouldn’t know the right thing to do if Moses handed it to them carved in a rock.
Good Christians understand humility and the benefits of turning the other cheek. These four are out for what they can get by appealing to the basest and most vindictive elements of their constituency. Jesse’s gone, for all intents and purposes, and hallelujah for that. Let’s hope the rest of them are in the process of overplaying their hands and overestimating the venality of the American people. If they’re not, and can continue to get away with this for too long, then maybe America isn’t destined to be the shining house on the hill we supposedly all aspire to. If it isn’t, we have only ourselves to blame.
Southern “gentlemen” have been making news the past few weeks for being anything but gentlemen. The next time anyone wonders whether the hubris of modern conservatism is founded on the ignorance of crackerhood, let them look no farther than this quartet.
You all know Jesse Helms. He’s the poster child for not living in North Carolina despite its temperate weather and scenic charms: the state is more than half full of people who elected this inbred troglodyte to the Senate for thirty years.
Jesse recently published his autobiography, meaning he has now written more books than he has read. While he admitted being wrong about AIDS funding, he stands by his segregation record. Integration would have come in its own time, he says. All the trouble was because we rushed things before people were ready.
Ya think!? It had only been a hundred years since the end of the civil war and the Fourteenth Amendment gave everyone, lily-white and Nigruhs alike, equal protection under the law. So what if they couldn’t vote? Southern white folk would take care of their childlike wards, just like they did in the good old days. Look how far we’ve come, Jesse would say. They don’t even have to call us Massa no more. They all had schools, nice separate but equal ones, if by equal you mean no indoor plumbing and books with pages missing. Not that white Southerners got such a hot education. Jesse was taught there.
Virginia Representative Tom Davis’s trespass is at the same time more trivial and more disturbing. Davis heads the committee currently looking into baseball’s steroid problem, Congress having nothing better to do now that the troops are home from Iraq, the budget s balanced, and Social Security is solvent for another hundred years. This week he contributed to the current political climate by saying baseball would do well not to consider favorably the bid put forth by a group containing wack job billionaire George Soros to purchase the Washington Nationals.
Soros’s primary offense appears to be that he’s a liberal wack job. I doubt Rep. Davis would have any issues with Fox News’ Rupert Murdoch getting back into baseball if he wanted to, and he’s as big a rich wack as there is. Say what you want about Democratic abuses when they were the semi-permanent majority, throwing political weight around to this degree is unheard of. Davis gets easily re-elected, as good a reason as any to invoke the Helms Rule and not live in his district. It’s at least half full of people with no more sense and decency than him.
(Davis had an aide backtrack from his statement yesterday, saying the Congressman was speaking as a private citizen and not in his official capacity. The statement, aside from showing the heroic Congressman’s unwillingness to face the music himself, had all the sincerity of a mobster running the protection racket, when he says to the candy store owner, “it would be shame if a fire was to break out in here.”)
Then there’s Bill Frist, who claimed his look at some family videotape convinced him that at least a dozen neuro-specialists were wrong and Terri Schiavo was just some prayers and a good massage away from starring in a revival of 42nd Street. Last week’s autopsy results showed she’s barely deader now than she was then. What about Bill’s “diagnosis?” He swears up and down he never said that.
All of the above are candidates as Billy Graham’s heir when compared to Jeb Bush. It wasn’t enough that he seriously considered having the state police “rescue” Terri Schiavo, backing down when a local police official with an understanding of his oath of office said he would uphold the law, even if violence was required to do so. Bush bided his time, waiting for the autopsy results. When Terri was proven to be brain dead beyond redemption, Bush asked for an investigation into how quickly Michael Schiavo called 911. No one mentioned this, not even her parents, for fifteen years. Now it’s a burning issue to be investigated in Florida, since their immigration and drug problems are history. Can there be any doubt Bush would ask for a homicide investigation if the autopsy had come out differently?
I’m sure all of these “gentlemen” would tell you they’re good Christians. Why should they be any more honest about that than anything else? They can wrap themselves in the flag and Bible all they want; they’re shameless whores who wouldn’t know the right thing to do if Moses handed it to them carved in a rock.
Good Christians understand humility and the benefits of turning the other cheek. These four are out for what they can get by appealing to the basest and most vindictive elements of their constituency. Jesse’s gone, for all intents and purposes, and hallelujah for that. Let’s hope the rest of them are in the process of overplaying their hands and overestimating the venality of the American people. If they’re not, and can continue to get away with this for too long, then maybe America isn’t destined to be the shining house on the hill we supposedly all aspire to. If it isn’t, we have only ourselves to blame.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
News from the Web
The Home Office is pleased to announce its status as a regular reviewer for New Mystery Reader (www.newmysteryreader.com) . June's Spotlight Review of John Connelly's The Black Angel is our handiwork. Recent reviews have included novels by Elmore Leonard (almost perfect), Michael Lawson (excellent first novel), Simon Kernick (very good), Roland Jefferson (not so good), and Robin Cook (ecch!). To read the reviews, go to the website and scroll through the hardcover reviews for the above authors.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Busy, Busy, Busy
The Home Office apologizes for the lack of recent activity. (If "apologize" is the right word for granting you a reprieve from the rantings and "humor" contained herein.) Things have been busy, most productively with New Mystery Reader. We are now a regular reviewer; check the site (www.newmysteryreader.com) for the short story "Food Noir" and reviews of books by Elmore Leonard, Robin Cook, Simon Kernick, Roland S. Jefferson, and Michael Lawson, with more to follow.
Remember, the best way to support The Home Office is to support those who support us. (You can wait until after you've decoded that last sentence.) Lots of good stuff at New Mystery Reader; check it out.
Remember, the best way to support The Home Office is to support those who support us. (You can wait until after you've decoded that last sentence.) Lots of good stuff at New Mystery Reader; check it out.
Back to the Future
Remember the Sixties? (For any readers of a certain age and disposition, flashbacks count.) Not the tie-dyed, peace and love, don’t drop the brown acid, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida Sixties. I’m talking about the civil rights violating, credibility gap, labor strife, military-industrial complex, up against the wall motherfucker Sixties.
Well, they’re back.
Similarities are everywhere. I know, I found tons of similarities between our current situation and the Civil War, and was taken to task for it by Running With Scissors. (We’ll get to him in the near future.) This is why, in the immortal words etched into the statue on the ground of Faber College in the seminal film Animal House, “knowledge is good.”
We have the Patriot Act; the Sixties had J. Edgar Hoover keeping dossiers on everyone who ever said “good morning” on May Day.
The Sixties had the labor strike of the week; we have underfunded pension plans (if they’re funded at all) and GM laying off 25,000 workers because the Japs are killing them and GM is losing $2,500 on every car it sells. (That parallel runs closer to the Seventies; remember, history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes.)
The Sixties had the Credibility Gap; the best way to tell if Dubya is dissembling is to see if his lips move. (Personal note to Fearless Leader: that’s the word, moron, not “disassembling.”)
The Sixties had the Silent Majority; the Aughts have the Moral Majority.
The Sixties had an increasingly unpopular war becoming less likely daily to achieve what it was intended to do, even if anyone could remember what that was; sound familiar, especially if you think back to the “rationale du jour” of the winter of 2003?
Let’s hope someone as yet unseen comes along and does more than re-arrange the deck chairs. We all remember what followed the Sixties: the Seventies. And they were even worse.
Well, they’re back.
Similarities are everywhere. I know, I found tons of similarities between our current situation and the Civil War, and was taken to task for it by Running With Scissors. (We’ll get to him in the near future.) This is why, in the immortal words etched into the statue on the ground of Faber College in the seminal film Animal House, “knowledge is good.”
We have the Patriot Act; the Sixties had J. Edgar Hoover keeping dossiers on everyone who ever said “good morning” on May Day.
The Sixties had the labor strike of the week; we have underfunded pension plans (if they’re funded at all) and GM laying off 25,000 workers because the Japs are killing them and GM is losing $2,500 on every car it sells. (That parallel runs closer to the Seventies; remember, history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes.)
The Sixties had the Credibility Gap; the best way to tell if Dubya is dissembling is to see if his lips move. (Personal note to Fearless Leader: that’s the word, moron, not “disassembling.”)
The Sixties had the Silent Majority; the Aughts have the Moral Majority.
The Sixties had an increasingly unpopular war becoming less likely daily to achieve what it was intended to do, even if anyone could remember what that was; sound familiar, especially if you think back to the “rationale du jour” of the winter of 2003?
Let’s hope someone as yet unseen comes along and does more than re-arrange the deck chairs. We all remember what followed the Sixties: the Seventies. And they were even worse.
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