Turning Over a New Leaf

Enough is enough. Writing these essays used to be a lot of fun, especially when they were just emails sent to an unfortunate group of friends too polite to ask me to please, for the love of God, stop sending these. (A friend referred to my e-mails in a Brando-esque whisper as “the horror.”)

Sniping at those who can’t really be hurt is fun. It gets an occasional bug out of your ass, and may cause a smile or two. Unfortunately, current news worthy of comment has very little entertainment value, unless you’re Stephen Colbert. My latent anger gets more exercise than Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime. Just since the last posting I’ve learned the government is playing Six Degrees of The Home Office with my phone records. (The phone companies, in a burst of inspired disingenuousness worthy of the Bush Administration, have denied turning over the records. The phone companies only gave the records to other companies, who then handed them over to the gov. I feel much better.)

Last week came word that some self-important functionary in the Department of Veterans Affairs violated the confidentiality of over 26 million veterans (including yours truly) so he could “work at home;” the laptop containing the records was promptly stolen right out of his house. The policy breach wasn’t bad enough; the Washington Post reported the burglary look place sometime between approximately 9:00 AM and 3:00 PM. Isn’t that primo “working from home” time? How can the items you say you’re working on be stolen while you’re working on them?

The head of the VA appeared said he was “mad as hell.” That’s nice. VA’s own Inspector General has reamed them for years about lax practices in this area; now this guy’s mad? When is someone to take some of this stuff seriously, instead of continuously violating our rights to “protect” them? (Dubya never went to Vietnam, but the state of our civil liberties and the Iraq situation prove he learned the lesson of “We had to destroy the village to save it.”)

That’s enough; I’m getting worked up again. Suffice to say, at my age, my blood pressure doesn’t need the exercise. What I need now, more than the Daily Outrage, is a few laughs. So from now on, If I can’t make fun of it, I can’t be bothered with it. (At least until I’m really bothered by something.) And there’s nothing funny about the legacy my generation will be leaving to our children through the acts of the politicians we have elected.

So let’s have a little fun. Below is a reprint of something I wrote in my pre-blog days, 2003 to be exact. It’s as true today as it was then.

There has been a certain amount of culture shock since The Home Office relocated to the People’s Republic of Maryland last March. On the plus side, traffic in Maryland, bad as it is, is better than in Virginia. The risk of being shot in a public library is also greatly diminished. (For those of you who are not local, the Virginia House of Delegates voted down a bill that would have made it illegal to carry a firearm into a public library. No point in being unprepared if you happen onto a terrorist reading the Koran.)

Living in Maryland has its down sides. Living in Prince George’s County has even more. Here are a couple of indications, provided solely as a public service, should anyone consider moving to this area.

I recently took the Sole Heir Correspondent to a local Taco Bell for a cold drink in the midst of an errand-running expedition. Our order was taken by a young woman who I do not wish to unfairly disparage, so I will use her real name, since she is probably as incapable of reading this as she is unlikely to make the effort.

Nicole gave us the standard PG County fast food greeting, which consists of not quite making eye contact while silently waiting for me to decide she’s ready to take my order. Taco Bell offers three drink sizes. I ordered a small and a medium. No flavor was required, all Nicole had to do was give us the cups; the soda dispensers are self-service.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: We’d like a small and a medium drink, please.

Nicole (still not looking at me): We ain’t got small.

Me: You’re out of small cups?

Nicole: Ain’t no small.

A brief period of silence followed, broken by the Sole Heir telling me sotto voce, “Dad, I think they just have medium, large, and extra large.”

Finally catching on, I told Nicole I want the smallest size, and the one in the middle. She handed me two identical cups, which Taco Bell describes as “large,” and I would call “medium,” seeing as how they were of the intermediate size of the three options. As she handed me the cups, she asked if the order was for here or to go.

Huh? Her entire contribution consisted of handing me two cups, one of them incorrect. I had to get the drinks, lids, and straws. What earthly difference could it have made to her, or to Mr. Bell, where I drank them? I was tempted to order one for here and one to go, but I was afraid we’d get into a discussion about which was to stay and which was to go, even though they were both the same size.

Prince George’s County has the well-earned reputation of being the metropolitan Washington area’s equivalent of a third world nation. Proof of that was found in a call to the cable company that same week.

The cable call was prompted by a promotion the company was running when I ordered my original service back in March. Comcast would provide free installation and three free months of every channel Showtime offers if I signed up for digital cable. If I didn’t want to keep the Showtime, I could cancel after the third month. I had tried to cancel a couple of weeks earlier, but they wouldn’t let me, saying it was too early to cancel, and that if I cancelled too soon they would have to charge me for the installation after all. When the valid cancellation window opened, hesitation would require paying for a month of Showtime I could live without, since I had watched it exactly zero times since moving in.

I called the number I saw on a televised ad the previous night and was immediately directed to a pleasant young man who looked high and low for my account information without finding it. It was finally determined that I had called the Montgomery County number, and he couldn’t help me. He could, and did, transfer me to the Prince George’s County number.

I didn’t get a human right away on the PG County number. First I had to choose the language in which I wanted to transact my business. Fortunately, English was the first choice. Immediately after pressing “one” for English, I got to listen to a thirty-second spiel informing me of Comcast’s Cable Amnesty Program. It was not thought to be necessary to inform Montgomery County residents of the illegality of cable theft. In PG County, it opens the conversation.

Welcome to Prince George’s County, Maryland, where the showcase high school offers a course in Japanese to show its advanced and cosmopolitan makeup. All it really does is teach its illustrious graduates to ask “You want fries with that, motherfucker?” in a sushi restaurant.

Values Voters

George F. Will and I sit on opposite sides of the political spectrum, each about as far from the center as the other. We tend to agree about a third of the time, which I’m sure brings him great comfort on cold winter nights. I always read him, even though I often disagree, because his perspective is usually thought-provoking enough to make me re-examine my opinion. Not change it (though that does happen from time to time) but think about it.

Today he nailed one, the column falling into the category of “Things I Wish I had Written.”

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/05/17/AR2006051701874.html

To which I sent the following reply:

Dear Mr. Will,

Thank you for your column on values voters in today's Washington Post. I am about as liberal as you are conservative. Although I often disagree with your perspective, I appreciate the thoughtfulness that goes into its expression. Today we are in complete agreement.

I belong to no organized religion, yet work every day to live according to what most would refer to as Judeo-Christian principles. I have come to actively distrust those who, to borrow a phrase, wear their piety too much on their sleeves. I resent the implication that I am without "values" because I don't have a problem with same-sex marriage and believe that. I also believe abstinence is the most efficient method of preventing unwanted teen pregnancies, but I'm willing to accept the fact that young people aren't going to practice it in large numbers, so maybe we'd better have Plan B ready, such as teaching about condoms and other birth- and disease-control methods.

I consider tolerance to be a value, as well as the idea that a nation as wealthy as ours should not countenance the idea that any child goes hungry, or without adequate medical care. (Adults are more on their own. At some point everyone has to quit whining about their difficult childhoods. Abraham Lincoln had a difficult childhood; so did Helen Keller. Get over it.)

That doesn't make me a knee-jerk liberal. My primary objection to capital punishment is how often it's used. Some people cry out for the death penalty; DC Sniper John Muhammed is the Poster Child for Capital Punishment.

What I'm saying (not as well as you) is that values take different forms and embrace different principles with equal validity. Those who considered themselves to be "values voters" to seize the moral high ground by attempting to deny it to others lack some important values themselves.

Thank you for pointing this out so eloquently.

I’m sure this, too, will bring great comfort to him. Probably hang it right next to his framed Hillary Clinton dart board.

Ba-a-a-rry, Ba-a-a-rry

Barry Bonds will pass Babe Ruth on the all-time Major League home run list this week, as sure as George W. Bush will do something to make us wish either he or we had been born elsewhere. The Home Office will greet Bonds’ accomplishment with unsurpassed indifference. Henry Aaron holds the record, not Ruth. As far as I’m concerned, Aaron will hold the record even if Bonds hits 800 home runs.

This isn’t just the pre-Alzheimer ranting of a middle-aged fart who remembers Bad Henry as an icon of his youth. Hearsay and circumstantial evidence may be all we have, but there’s no doubt in my mind that Bonds cheated. Baseball can’t really put any asterisks next to Bonds’ records; even if he was on the juice, it wasn’t against the rules when he did it.

Everyone has an opinion about Bonds, most of them unfavorable. Many reasons have been put forth for this, ranging from racism to steroid use to his being a California-sized asshole. The big question lately has been why the reactions are so visceral. In the interests of time, we’ll distill some of them into their essence.

Why does Bonds receive more venom than the other steroid-tainted players?

He’s he one who has broken, or about to break, the biggest records. Mark McGwire got a pass in 1998 because the steroid bubble hadn’t burst yet. When Bonds hit 73 in 1991, the clear and the cream were out of the tube.

Another reason may be that Bonds never needed to cheat. He had Hall of Fame talent from the time the Pirates brought him to the bigs. This is not at all the same as some poor sap hanging on by his fingernails to the 25^th spot on a roster.

Compare Bonds’ career with that of Ken Griffey, Jr. Similar body types and skill sets, except Griffey was a superior outfielder with a much better arm. (Full disclosure demands informing the reader that, as a Pirates fan, I still remember Rag-Arm Bonds’ inability to throw out Sid Bream in his wheelchair from deep short, costing the Pirates a trip to the 1992 World Series.) Griffey was well ahead of Bonds’ home run pace until a few years ago, when injuries destroyed most of several seasons. Bonds has been injury-free, or at least blessed with remarkable recovery times, until the big push to root out steroids coincided with him missing virtually all of last season with a minor knee injury.

Baseball has tolerated amphetamine usage for years; what’s the big deal about steroids?

There’s no defense for the wide-spread use of “greenies” in baseball; it’s about time they did something about them. Steroids are on a different plane of cheating; they make physiological changes to the player’s body.

So what? They don’t increase eye-hand coordination. Bonds still has to make contact.

True, but how much distance does the extra muscle mass add to a well-hit ball? Even a five percent increase turns a 380-foot fly to the warning track into a 400-foot blast into McCovey Cove.

Why the fuss about passing Ruth? Josh Gibson probably hit more home runs, but wasn’t permitted to play in the major leagues. Plus, Ruth never had to hit against Satchel Paige, Smokey Joe Williams, or Bullet Rogan.

Negro league records are scanty, so Gibson’s numbers are impossible to verify. (His HOF plaque lists “almost 800 homers.”) If we’re keeping track of who Ruth didn’t have to hit against, it should also be pointed out that Gibson didn’t have to hit against Lefty Grove, Walter Johnson, or Herb Pennock. Besides, the records being debated are for Major League baseball. If we’re going to include all leagues, the guy to catch is Sadaharu Oh, with 868.

Bonds is reviled because he is the point man for an ugly open secret that has blown up on him. Most of those implicated in the steroid scandals had the good grace to slink into the shadows. Jose Canseco blew the whistle, but he was already out of baseball. Mark McGwire is the largest invisible man in history. Sammy Sosa didn’t fuss when no one offered him a contract this year. Rafael Palmeiro disappeared after his now-comical protestations blew up in his face.

Last year’s repeated surgeries gave Bonds ample opportunity to bow out gracefully. As usual, he missed it. Whether he’s refusing to sign balls for the kids at Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh or asking for a child-support reductions during a strike, Barry Bonds is a self-pitying prick. His father had a long major league career and Willie Mays is his godfather: they ensured he learned to play the game right. He also has more talent than any three people have a right to. Barry will endure if the world never gives him his props, or shares the love. He has enough love for the whole world. Too bad he uses it all on himself.

The day is coming for Barry to take his oversized ego and undersized balls and leave us alone. Maybe they’ll give him his own wing in the Hall of Fame, like he has in the Giants’ dressing room. Even better, he can share one with Ty Cobb. They could name it the Sphincter Wing.

Clueless

Gasoline prices are over $3.00 per gallon and the nation is in an uproar. Congress has several ideas calculated to prove they will go to any lengths to solve these sticky problems, so long as no sacrifice is involved, especially by them.

The following bills were introduced last week, presumably not as empty gestures:

1. A $100 tax credit for everyone to offset increased gas prices.
2. A special tax on windfall oil profits.
3. A moratorium on the federal gasoline tax for six months.
4. Drilling in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge (of course).

President Bush, always willing to appear to do something instead of actually doing it, suspended deposits in the Strategic Petroleum Reserve, and loosened environmental standards for refineries. (Another big surprise.)

These “actions” provide the empty suits on Capitol Hill opportunities for Clinton-esque “I feel your pain” moments; none will address the real problem with gas prices. Anyone who took basic high school economics class knows this is strictly a matter of supply and demand. As long we remain “addicted to oil,” the oil-producing countries (read: Iran) have our economy’s balls in a vice.

This is when leaders step forward. Harry Truman said, “Leadership is getting someone to do something he doesn’t want to do and making him think it was his idea.” Let’s see how our “leaders” are doing.

Democrats held a press conference/photo op at a gas station one block from the Capitol for the expected Republican bashing. Not that they don’t deserve it, but there’s blame here to go around.

How did some prominent Dems travel the block to the presser? They drove. Barbara Boxer (D-CA) drove in a Chrysler LMS, getting 18 miles per gallon. New York’s Charles Schumer, never shy about telling us how out of touch Republicans are with the average Joe, drove his Hyundai Elantra at 34 mpg, but still, it was a block.

We shouldn’t be too hard on those two. After yesterday’s lunchtime votes, the following senators could be seen driving (or being driven in) these vehicles to their offices across the street:

John Sununu (R-NH) GMC Yukon – 14 mpg

Jim DeMint (R-SC) Nissan Pathfinder – 15 mpg

Ben Nelson (D-NE) Ford Explorer – 14 mpg

Dianne Feinstein (D-CA) Lincoln Town Car – 17 mpg

Edward Kennedy (D-MA) Chrysler minivan – 18 mpg (In fairness, Ted needs a substantial vehicle to haul him around. The Nimitz was unavailable.)

Evan Bayh (D-IN) Dodge Durango V8 – 14 mpg

Of special interest was Senator Bob Menendez (D-NJ). The Bobster, who just last week ranted about how President Bush “remains opposed to higher fuel-efficiency standards,” scoots around in a Ford Explorer XLT.

We could talk to them about “not getting it,” but why? It’s like talking to furniture. Actually, it’s worse. The furniture doesn’t pretend to listen.

This is the legacy of the Baby Boomers, on the brink of being the first generation whose children cannot expect a better standard of living than did their parents. It had to happen sooner or later? Probably, but the Boomers made damn sure they got theirs before the party was over. For a time it looked like they might just leave it to their kids to turn out the lights; there’s no need to worry about that now. The lights will go out all by themselves.

Independence Day

Updating my voter registration was the last concrete step to officially relocate The Home Office. Having to fill out the forms required by the People’s Republic of Maryland presented an opportunity too good to pass up, so I didn’t just change my address, I changed my philosophy.

I’ve been a registered Democrat for thirty years. Even back in those halcyon pre-red and blue days, before “Republican” came to mean “hypocritically conservative” and “Democrat” meant “anything you want it to mean as long as you don’t call me liberal,” the Democrats seemed to more closely share my outlook on life, conveying to me (accurately or not) that we were all in this together and might as well help each other out. Republicans seemed to me more concerned with keeping what they had.

Crossover was permitted in those days. Southern Democrats, even the ones not standing in the schoolhouse door with an axe handle to keep the Nigruh children out, were often conservative. I still mourn the day Sam Nunn left the Senate. Republicans were sometimes liberal; can anyone imagine Nelson Rockefeller being a Republican today?

Times change, philosophies evolve, not always for the better. Today there are black men in this country who might rather be called “Nigruh” than “Democrat.” Democrats would almost rather be called “liberal” again than “Republican.” (Almost.) The comity that allowed political combatants to share a cold beverage after a long day of legislation is gone. Each party sees the other’s name a notch above al-Qaeda on the Vermin-meter.

I sincerely believe the Republicans started this domestic Cold War, but the Dems were not blameless. The hubris derived from being in power since what Archie Bunker would call “The Big One – WW2” (Archie not being a Roman numerals kind of guy) led to the Republican bunker mentality personified by Newt Gingrich during the GOP’s congressional takeover in 1994. Now even Newt is appalled by the tactics and ethics used by his party.

I feel the hackles of my Republican friends rising. Calm down. This is where the Democrats get theirs.

For years they let Republicans come up with ideas, basing long political careers on not offending anyone. Vision and ideas aren’t something you go to some out-of-the-way store in Utica and buy when you want them. Vision and ideas are nurtured and fertilized for years, which the Republicans had to do of necessity. The Democrats watched the Republicans get their act together and let them do it, confident in the misplaced belief the Democratic coalition of interests would keep them in power.

It’s easy to see in retrospect how wrong this was, not just strategically, but morally. Democratic vision shriveled to tinkering with the same programs that hadn’t worked all that well in the first place. The Republican vision may have been unwise and unjust, but they at least had one. When faced with a choice between a party that wanted to do something, anything, and one that just wanted to putz around rephrasing Franklin Roosevelt, people voted for action.

The Democrats have produced “leaders” no more visionary or smarter than the Gephardt/Daschle group that brought the house down around them. The new group thinks that being strident is the same as being tough. They’re saying the same things as before, but louder.

Dubya has given them every opportunity to make hay; Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid, and Howard Dean can’t do anything with it. I’m old enough to remember Democrats like Sam Rayburn, Mike Mansfield, Carl Albert, San Ervin, and Tip O’Neil. Even my flesh crawls at the thought of reading “Speaker Pelosi.”

The locals are no better, sending me endless questionnaires to fill out so they can show how much alike we think after compiling the results. The recent hijacking of the election process reeks. Current ads for County Executive consist of saying things aren’t so good under the current guy, so elect me. No indication is given of what the challenger will do differently or better.

All of this led to me listing myself as an Independent when I submitted my form today. This was not without sacrifice. Independents can’t vote in Maryland primaries. The current governor notwithstanding, Maryland is such a one-party state the primary is often the only election that matters. Here in Prince George’s County, Jesus Christ Himself could run for County Executive and lose, if He ran as a Republican.

I’ll get over it. If they’re going to insist in acting abhorrently, they can’t have my name associated with them anymore. I’m sure they’ll get over it, too. I emailed the party about the recent manipulation of polling hours and got no reply. I returned the survey sent out by my state senator with a note asking for his positions before I gave him mine. No response.

Fine. Earn my vote, then. Start from scratch with everyone else. It may sound like the height of egotism for me to spend a thousand words or so on this, but that’s all I have. An election of a hundred million votes is really a hundred million discrete acts. This was mine. All I’m asking is for you to think that much about how the people who claim to represent actually do represent you, and respond according to your conscience.

It’s more than most of them will ever do.

Settling In

Things are finally settling down at The Home Office. The furniture got moved on March 10, boxes and other miscellaneous items made the eight-mile trek over the weekend of March 11–12. The Crazy Like Me Correspondent is still bringing regular carloads of stuff from her former residence, aka “The Annex.” Rooms are organized, cable and internet are operational, and things are being shifted around as the new place evolves from a warehouse into a home.

The Ancestral Forebear Correspondents were here last weekend, doing what parents do in a new house: helping to hang closet doors, installing backflow valves in the sump pump, giving landscaping advice, shopping, and cleaning. The combination of two households complicated their decision on a housewarming gift; they left cash so we could get whatever we wanted/needed when we had a better idea of what we wanted/needed.

This was, of course, totally unnecessary. There wouldn’t be a new Home Office today if not for their creativity and generosity to provide some extra money for a down payment, qualifying me for an interest rate so low the closing attorney commented on it more than once. No help had been requested; they have an intuitive knack for knowing when something will be helpful, what would be most helpful, and how helpful to be. That’s a gift greater than any individual act of kindness, as it serves those close to them more than it serves them.

This isn’t the first time they’ve come through like this, without strings or any speech about how much I should be appreciating their assistance, and how I should be at the age where I don’t need them to come to the rescue any more. They’d be right. I do appreciate their assistance, and I am at an age where I shouldn’t need their help. Their unique ability to provide that help without making me feel less than adult is another unique skill, one that I can only hope I have inherited, as the Sole Heir could benefit greatly from it some day.

I’ve moved around a lot for someone universally described as a homebody. Since I left Pittsburgh to join the Army, I’ve lived in or near, Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, and Washington, DC (twice). Some of the above involved multiple residences before loading the wagon, hitching up the team, and moving on to the next metropolitan area. I’ve made friends in every location; some have unfortunately fallen through the cracks as our lives and locations changed.

The one constant in my life has been my parents. They still live in the same house I grew up in. They’ve always been even easier to find than that, though. Any time I need them, they’ll be right beside or behind me, whichever is necessary, and they’ll be there before I’m even aware I need them. Success is too often measured by career or financial accomplishments. My greatest goal is to be as continually good a parent to the Sole Heir as my parents have been to me. No one can be more successful than that.

A Pox on Both Houses

The Home Office has never shied away from trashing Republicans, with good reason. While my politics are somewhat left of center on balance, I’m not dumb enough to think the GOP owns the franchise on unfair, partisan behavior. A recent example right here in the People’s Republic of Maryland gives me a chance to balance out the scorecard a little.

The Maryland General Assembly approved changes to the state election laws last week, after a conference committee consisting of only Democrats rewrote much of the bill. The most controversial component has to do with extending the voting period to several days, all in the name of higher voter turnout. Not every polling place has to be open for days at a time; the twenty-one specified in the law are in predominantly Democratic districts. Coincidence seems not to be a reasonable explanation.

This level of partisanship threatens the fabric of American democracy, and it’s not getting any better. Everyone’s excuse is that the other guys do it: Maryland Dems may consider this a form of payback for the flagrant gerrymandering undertaken by Texas Republicans a few years ago. All it will do is make it easier for Republicans to justify the next round of tit-for-tat. No one will ever win.

Republicans claim the Democratic maneuver is a blatant attempt to prevent the re-election of Governor Robert Ehrlich, and retain the Senate seat of retiring liberal stalwart Paul Sarbanes. Seems a reasonable argument. Democrats have considered Maryland a one-party state for as long as anyone can remember, so it’s likely they felt cheated when Ehrlich defeated then-Lieutenant Governor Kathleen Kennedy Townsend in 2002. Symptomatic of political failings on both sides of any aisle, it never occurred to them that Townsend’s defeat was primarily a referendum on the ignominious failure of the Parris Glendenning regime. Townsend was considered a rising star in Democratic circles, based largely on the “Kennedy” sandwiched into her name. Maryland isn’t Massachusetts; people here actually expect a Kennedy to do more than just be one.

Ehrlich deserves to be sent packing; less certain is either Democratic challenger’s ability to do the job. The General Assembly’s effort to stack the deck forces one of two conclusions: either the Assembly doesn’t think voters are smart enough to know that Ehrlich has to go, or they don’t think Doug Duncan or Martin O’Malley can take him down. Doesn’t say much for their confidence in either scenario, does it?

I have somehow wound up on the local Democratic phone and mailing lists. First came the plea for contributions. I told the caller I blamed Democrats as much as Republicans for the current situation, and wouldn’t give them any money until they provided me with a candidate’s name and some policies. She didn’t even try to argue with me.

Last month I received surveys two weeks in a row, one from my State Senator, and one from the party, wanting to know what I thought about issues of the day. What I want to know is what they think about the issues of the day; specifically, what do they plan to do about them? Don’t get my opinions so you can parrot them back to me in a few months like they were your idea in the first place, asking for my vote and my money because we think so much alike.

I stumbled onto a website full of quotes from Winston Churchill today. One of my favorites was, “I have never accepted what many people have kindly said-namely, that I inspired the nation. . . . It was the nation and the race dwelling all round the globe that had the lion's heart. I had the luck to be called upon to give the roar.” Compare that to what passes for leadership today, our “leaders” asking us what they should believe during the few moments each day they’re not on their backs whoring for more money. That’s why we should all cringe when the bad guy du jour is compared to Hitler. Churchill’s dead; if Hitler were alive today, he’d win.

Not Taking Yes for an Answer

It only took fours and a half years and no one knows how many millions of dollars, but it has finally been decided that Zacarias Moussaoui is eligible to be executed. I wouldn’t take the over on any kind of life expectancy wager; the same people who decided he can fry will be deciding if he will fry. Kind of like having your estranged wife acting as your divorce judge. You might not get hosed, but that’s the way the smart money will bet.

It’s not like Moussaoui doesn’t deserve it. The primary reason he’s still around to be tried instead of having become dog food at the White House seems to be his own malfeasance. He’s done nothing to distance himself from the 9/11 attacks, everything to embrace them. He’s a confessed co-conspirator, which entitles him to all the benefits of those who actually killed someone.

The issue is the unseemly lengths the United States Government has gone to get him executed. I can’t think of too many felons who plead guilty and still get lengthy trials. The Bush Administration wants this guy dead so badly, they spent money and other resources like they were infinite commodities while risking the exposure of classified data and intelligence methods to try a guy who said from Day One, “Yeah, you’re right. I did it.” All the government has accomplished during this trial is to give this towel-headed sand monkey a forum. (I trust my pen pal Anonymous will grant that Moussaoui deserves any insults hurled in his direction.)

Felons have been pleading guilty in this country forever. The sentence of life without parole was made to order for Moussaoui. Send him to the worst place the Bureau of Prisons can find, somewhere he’ll never see natural sunlight again, or feel a warm spring breeze on his face, and let him rot there, to be forgotten with then rest of the refuse.

No, that would make too much sense. What we’ll do is give him his forum, then make him a martyr so some other troglodyte can blow himself up along with God knows how many others in Moussaoui’s name. The Bush Administration can’t be bothered to think of consequences or outcomes beyond gratifying their own impulses. It’s government as a form of masturbation, leaving the sticky mess to be cleaned up by someone else.

The Man With No Name Rides Again

Anonymous has entered another sad chapter in his ongoing saga of learning to read for comprehension. I don’t want to keep him away from his normal reading material of “Highlights” and “Jack and Jill,” but he raised a couple of points that I’d hate for anyone to think were an accurate description of what I wrote.

I’ll begin with kudos. At least this time Anonymous addressed something I actually said, instead of riffing on his own inaccurate inferences. His opening paragraph deserves close examination.

He begins:
No, what's "chickenshit" is calling people you don't even know, or have even taken the time to understand, "towel-headed, camel-driving sand monkeys". Have you even considered how many millions of individual people you might have insulted and degraded with such a blanket comment?

Sure I have: none. The people distinctly referred to as “towel-headed, camel-driving sand monkeys” were those who threaten or carry out extreme violence over a cartoon. No one else was implied. If anything, my comments gave such troglodytes the benefit of the doubt. Nothing I say could possibly degrade them more than their own actions.

Anonymous continues:
I am quite sure you don't even know enough about the Muslim faith to write a paragraph, much less justify this denegration [sic] of millions of people that you've never even met.

I doubt too many would say it takes a religious scholar to identify this spade as a spade. We’re not talking about religion; we’re talking about violence and the denial of freedoms (speech, religion, etc.) to others.

He then goes on about my suggestion to the overwhelming majority of law-abiding, tolerant, and peaceful Muslims to cut these extremists loose as “plain lunacy,” saying Muslims have no more control over these extremists than Christians have over theirs, and that if ending the madness was that easy I should just contact any number of “Christian” organizations and tell them to “knock it off.”

This blog is my forum for doing that. If anything, I have even more scorn for the Aryan Nation, KKK, and the other human impersonators he mentions because I don’t want anyone to think their actions represent me in any way. It’s possible the media underreports the denunciation of extreme Muslims by mainstream Muslims. I can only go by what I know.

Anonymous, do us all a favor. Instead of attacking the messenger, why don’t you apply your righteous indignation to telling us what you think of the medieval morons who carried their “Death to Freedom” signs and pledged violence against blameless individuals living in countries who have done no one any harm? You’ve responded as though this was all about me expressing my opinion. It’s not. It’s about those who would deny others the right to express theirs.

So, what do you think about the cartoon violence, Anonymous?

Keep Those Cards and Letters Coming In

The recent blog post (over)exercising my right of free speech at Mohammed’s expense sure got Anonymous’ shorts in a knot. (See below, “I See Your Intolerance and Raise You,” and the comment that follows.) Getting trashed by a reader is almost as much fun as an appreciation, because no matter what sets them off, the reply is often an amalgam of arguments only tangentially related to the original sentiments, if at all. Anonymous did not disappoint.

Let’s begin with his choice of screen name: Anonymous. He must have sat up all night thinking of that. Granted, the Internet grants even me a fair measure of anonymity; at least have the courage to use a name that could be recognized later so people would have some sense of who you are. What does “Anonymous” tell anyone? “Pussy” was already taken?

As for his argument, his logic is tenuous, at best. (I have too much respect for women to deduce this writer is anything but a male.) He begins with “Ah, so Muslims have a monopoly on terrorist acts, torture, and abuse of those beholden?” Does that appear in my post, or in anything else I’ve ever written? I’ll guarantee it doesn’t, because I don’t believe it. More heinous acts have been justified, and continue to be justified, in the name of religion than for all other reasons put together. Just because Muslims didn’t invent religious evil and don’t hold the franchise doesn’t mean they can’t be taken to task for it.

The rest of his diatribe is a rant against Catholicism. I don’t know where he got his hard-on for the Catholic Church; maybe his last payoff check from the archdiocese didn’t clear. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a whole lot good to say about that church, either. Everything he said is true. So what? The piece that set him off wasn’t about Catholics. They’ll get their day in the barrel. In fact, they have already, as some of you who received my pre-blog rants may remember.

He doesn’t talk about Muslims much, but infers some comparisons by introducing Catholics into a reply to a piece about Islam. It doesn’t take a major leap of faith (sorry, couldn’t help myself) to see him falling into a logic fallacy perfected by Republicans: I don’t like what you said, but can’t defend my position, so I’ll say your guy is just as bad, everyone does it, therefore what you accused me of can’t be that terrible. Lowering the bar for intelligent argument by too easily accepting that line of thinking could someday lead to Danny DeVito playing center for the Celtics, so we won’t go there.

There’s a lot more to pick on in his reply; I’m moving to a new home and pressed for time, so I’ll stick to two distinct items. Most of his comments are geared toward the pedophilia scandals that have shamed Catholics in recent years, and the money spent buying silence while those responsible were shuttled from parish to parish to prey on other unsuspecting children. There are not words strong enough to condemn the priests who abused those children, or the church officials who allowed this to continue.

That being said, I can’t remember a single instance of any Catholic clergyman, priest, monsignor, bishop, cardinal, you name it, advocating pederasty. I dare anyone reading this to name me one example of any ordained Catholic getting up in front of a crowd and inciting them to bugger little boys in the name of Jesus. Blowing yourself up as a way to kill innocent children is touted as the way to martyrdom and seventy-two virgins by certain Muslim clerics. Not mainstream, true, but how long do you think a priest could remain frocked if Sunday’s homily extolled the benefits of polishing Father Dick’s special chalice?

At least Anonymous has a sense of humor. Toward the end he attacks the Catholic Church’s record toward women by documenting its (admittedly true) abysmal record on the treatment of women, concluding with, “women have it made within this church, sign me up!” Given the choice between being a Catholic woman and a Muslim woman seems pretty clear; he had to be kidding, right?

I know, he never said Muslims were better, or even as good. He sure implied the hell out of it, though. Coupling his arguments to mine leaves him at least as open as me to a verbal bludgeoning, if only to get him to pay attention and read what’s written, not what isn’t. No essay is intended to be a comprehensive listing of what irritates me; I wouldn’t have time to do anything else. Criticism of what I wrote is welcome; I’m always happy to learn something new. Anonymous sniping of what I didn’t write because I didn’t write it is chickenshit.

I See Your Intolerance and Raise You

The surrealism of Twenty-First Century life has been ratcheted up another notch by the recent wave of violence surrounding the publication of some Danish cartoons depicting the prophet Muhammad in what some of his more zealous followers consider to be a less than flattering light. There have been demonstrations, violence, stuff blown up; you know, the usual.

The Home Office has scrupulously avoided overtly criticizing religious beliefs; I say overtly because you never know what fringe group might be mortally offended and willing to condemn me to eternal damnation because I put gum in a car lock or don’t believe homosexuals will burn in hell. With that in mind, keeping to our devoutly-held philosophy of religious tolerance, I have a simple bit of advice for those Muslims currently acting out their indignity over these cartoons.

Kiss my ass, you towel-headed, camel-driving sand monkeys.

Who the hell do these people think they are? Pledging themselves to an eradication of another religion with a far longer (and greater) history of accomplishment and wisdom, they disdain the principles of freedom and tolerance we cherish while demanding respect for their own barbaric customs of genital mutilation, female servitude, and “honor” killings. Mayhem is their standard response to anything they disagree with, which is anything that doesn’t comply fully with their own paranoid, vengeance-driven vision of how life ought to be.

I’m no Koran scholar, but is this what the prophet Mohammad taught? (Yes, I know today’s accepted spelling is Qu’ran, or some other arbitrary arrangement of letters. Who’s to say which is right? Their alphabet looks like squid shit on the side of an aquarium; let’s stay hooked on phonics and spell it in some manner we can pronounce.) If intolerance and violence are the primary tenets of his “religion,” then the Danish cartoons in question were too tame. If the radicals storming European embassies recently are truly devout and accurate followers of Mohammed’s teachings, then it’s well past time for outing him as the deranged, xenophobic, closet-living incestuous pedophilic fudge packer that he was. Is that derogatory enough for you? Bring it on, asshole.

It should go without saying (but doesn’t) that these comments are intended for a small minority of Muslims. I have known, worked with, and been friends with Muslims, and find them not to be any different than Christians, Jews, Buddhists, and any other religion you can name in how they treat others, and would like to be treated themselves. Even to them, I must say it’s time you cut these alleged zealots loose; they are the face of your religion to much of the world, and it’s not flattering.

Be Careful What You Ask For

I was kidding when I quoted Shakespeare a few weeks ago and wrote, “First, let’s kill all the lawyers.” How was I to know Dick Cheney reads this blog?

Somewhat buried amid the media wailing about the delay by Cheney’s people to notify them after he shot Harry Whittington is the fact that a law enforcement officer was turned away from speaking to anyone about the incident on Saturday night. The local law had an appointment for Sunday morning; common sense implies the police to you at their convenience after you shoot someone, not yours. Not to imply that shooting Whittington was anything but an accident, but overnight is plenty of time for someone to “get their story straight.” If anyone reading this sincerely believes he or she could just tell a cop to come back tomorrow after you shot someone, let me know. I think my Inbox can handle the traffic.

Granting it was an accident, stonewalling the police makes no sense. How tough was that interrogation going to be? “Uh, good evening, Mr. Vice President Cheney, sir, your honor. Um, did you—sorry, what I mean to say is you didn’t shoot that old gentleman on purpose there, did you? No? I sure am glad to hear that. I didn’t think you would, but it bein’ my job and all, you know how it is. I think that’s enough for tonight. I’ll just mosey back on down to the office and not talk to any of them al-Qaedas on the phone.” They had to get their story straight for that?

Speaking to the press on Wednesday, Cheney said he thought it was better for his host to notify the press because it would be important to get “as accurate a story as possible from somebody who knew and understood hunting.” Where was Cheney when it happened, having a few laughs over the newest round of Abu Ghraib photos? Cheney didn’t have anything to say because, “The accuracy was enormously important. I had no press person with me.” The man a heartbeat away from being president needed a media adviser to tell him what he just did, which, by the way, happened to be shooting someone?

The White House press office, which hadn’t been caught this unprepared since the last time anything newsworthy happened, uses the word “shooting” in conjunction with this about as often as Dubya uses “perspicacity” in conjunction with anything other than sweat. “Accident” is the spin du jour. It’s accurate, as far as it goes, which is about as far as you can throw Bill Bennett. It was an accidental shooting, which is different from garden variety accidents like falling off a ladder or slipping on the ice or getting love ick on some fat chick’s dress. It’s an accident when you throw a baseball to someone who isn’t paying attention and hit him in the face; it’s a shooting when you use a shotgun.

A headline earlier this week quoted a gun safety expert as saying Cheney violated the first precept of gun safety. I didn’t read the article, but I could guess that rule might be “Don’t shoot your partner.” Maybe Cheney’s gun safety skills would be better if his other priorities hadn’t gotten in the way of his military experience.

A Retraction

On September 17, 2005, From The Home Office wrote about the flap revolving around using the word "refugee" to described those displaced by Hurricane Katrina. At the time some had declared the word to have racist overtones in this application, and was inaccurate. From The Home Office stuck to a dictionary definition without political overtones and opined that the word was appropriate in this context.

Recent events have shown the United States government to have paid as much os $438 a night to house these displaced persons in New York hotels. Not even George W. Bush is dumb enough to pay that kind of money housing refugees. They must be something else.

From The Home Office apologizes for any confusion our erroneous conclusion may have caused.

Catch 43

Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez appeared in front of a Senate committee to take his lumps over the Bush Administration’s policy of warrantless surveillance this week. (Don’t you just know that at the first meeting to fill this job, Bush looked at Gonzalez and said, “Hey, Alberto-rama, your initials are A.G., just like this job. That must be like, you know, kismet or something. Let’s dump the rest of these resumes and grill us up some felons.”) The Senate seems to have it in for Gonzalez. First they made him renounce torture to get confirmed in the first place. This week they forced him into defending the Administration’s position that a Congressional authorization of force trumps the Fourth Amendment.

Gonzalez did the best he could, considering he had to talk while Dick Cheney drank a glass of milk. According to Alberto the force authorization passed in the aftermath of 9/11 gives the President the authority to do virtually anything he wants, superseding even Constitutional restrictions.

Ignored by this inventive line of reasoning is the fundamental precept of our government: the Constitution is the supreme law of the land. A procedure for amending it was created for times when the original document becomes outdated in some way. Strange that a president who claims to be a strict constructionist ignores the parts of the Constitution that address anyone’s rights but his own.

Presidents have often assumed extra-Constitutional power during time of war. Gonzo cited Wilson during World War I and Roosevelt in World War II; Lincoln’s suspension of habeas corpus during the Civil War probably springs to mind. There’s a difference. Those were honest-to-Thomas Jefferson wars, where Congress asserted its Constitutional authority to declare war. That has not been done in the present case, for good reason. Who would the war be declared against? A bunch of towel-headed cartoon critics living in caves?

When will these extraordinary wartime powers end? There will never be a peace treaty. One day al-Qaeda will be gone and we’ll still be primed for action. Whoever threatens to blow something up because Daffy Duck looks like a caricature of their god will feel the full wrath of Halliburton descend upon them.

Gonzalez is essentially promoting a variation of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. Where’s the authority to perform warrantless searches? There’s a war on. Who says there’s a war on? There must be; we’re conducting warrantless searches, aren’t we?

How odd that a president who values privacy so dearly in his personal and administrative dealings is so quick to arbitrarily deny it to others. Then again, maybe “odd” isn’t the right word. “Scary” comes to mind.

Not a Tough Call

The Home Office is in the throes of relocating, with closing on the new and improved Home Office scheduled to take place on February 22. Toward that end, my current landlord requires written notice of my intent not to renew my lease. What follows is that notice, to be hand delivered this Saturday.

Community Manager
The Lighthouse at Twin Lakes
Beltsville MD 20705


Dear Ms. _____,

What follows is a brief chronology of my tenure at The Lighthouse at Twin Lakes:

March, 2003 – Moved in.

November, 2003 – Leak in kitchen ceiling requires all food and most pots and pans to reside in living room for over three weeks.

March, 2004 – Renewed lease; rent increase.

November, 2004 – Leak in half-bath ceiling requires ripping holes in two walls and ceiling, leaving infrastructure exposed for almost a month.

March, 2005 – Renewed lease; rent increase, plus additional trash fee.

August, 2005 – Returned from vacation to find up to two weeks’ worth of dirty water on floor of full bath. Almost five weeks goes by, with two walls and ceiling of full bath and three walls and ceiling of half bath torn open.

December 2005 – Receive notice that I am welcome to stay as a Lighthouse tenant, but my rent will be increased for the privilege of getting to pay for my heating gas, which will make for a hefty housing cost increase to absorb while waiting for the annual leak. I am also offered the option of a “free” full cleaning (to remove the drywall dust I still find in unexpected places), a “free” carpet cleaning (to remove the traces of drywall ground into the carpets), or a “free” accent wall (hopefully not one you’d have to rip out to find the annual leak).

January 2, 2006 – Kitchen ceiling springs leak during Rose Parade, requiring relocation of food and utensils to the living room.

February 7, 2006 – Running the garbage disposal, George Foreman Grill, and computer simultaneously is too much for the wiring. Breaker trips, halting meal preparation and crashing computer. The drain from the kitchen sink also backed up into the half bath before the crash, leaving half an inch of garbage-laden water on the bathroom floor. I swear to God this is a true story.

Future events at 11920 Twin Lakes, Apartment 1:

March 15, 2006 – The keys will be returned. I have decided not to take you up on your generous offer to stay here for another year. I just hope I can get out before the entire dump falls apart around me, like the Blues Brothers’ car in the movie.

Sincerely,

Yours Truly.

I wasn't expecting much of my deposit back, anyway.

A Burgh Thing

The Pittsburgh Steelers play in Super Bowl Extra Large later today. It’s their first trip there since 1996, but there was a time when seeing the Steelers playing in, and winning, the Super Bowl was almost as common as seeing a Baltimore Raven taking a perp walk is nowadays. Four times in six years the Steelers took home the big silver football during the 1970s, the high school and college years for yours truly. “Coming of age” years in many ways.

This isn’t going to be some trivial rant about how the Steelers will kick Seattle’s ass this evening. Today’s game is just a reminder about how many people can grow up in or near Pittsburgh, live away for a long time, (twenty-six years and counting in my case), but always be Pittsburghers, even if they have no desire to live there again.

Evidence of this can be found in the oft-cited fact that the Steelers “travel well.” In football-speak, that means that no matter where they play, a large contingent of Terrible Towel-waving Burgh-heads will be there; tailgating, singing, generally making the home team wonder where all this black and gold came from. Does anyone really think Steelers fans by the busload took the week off work to drive to Detroit so they could revel in the Super Bowl experience? Half the people in the Pittsburgh area are either un- or under-employed, or too old for that shit. Where did they come from?

The answer is easy: most of them live in Detroit now. Or Denver. The coaches and mayors of Cincinnati and Indianapolis felt compelled to make public requests to the local fandom not to sell their tickets to anyone from Pittsburgh, lest it seem as though the Bengals and Colts were the visiting team. Several years ago the Washington Capitals hockey team wouldn’t take online orders for playoff tickets for their series against the Penguins unless the order was sent to a local zip code. This was solely to keep Pens fans from packing the MCI Center as they did during the regular season match-ups. I live locally, bought a pair, and still sat in a section full of black and gold.

Pittsburgh’s three teams maintain post-Burgh fandom in proportion to how easy they are to root for. The Pirates were almost as successful as the Steelers in the 70s. Drug scandals and a series of lackluster owners have led to a decade of losing with no real light at the end of the rainbow. Pirate fans don’t hitch their wagons too closely to the team, or any one player. They know as soon as he gets good enough to make real money, they’ll trade him for ten cents on the dollar.

The Pens have struggled of late, but the presence of Mario Lemieux in his adopted city kept the team afloat for over twenty years. Mario wasn’t sure he wanted to come when he was drafted; now he lives there full-time. The affection of even transplanted Burghers is so strong it’s felt by those who had already left before Mario got there.

It’s still the Steelers that have the strongest hold. The Rooney family has owned the team since its inception. They don’t pay the most money, never have, but they keep a core of people together that allows a depth of commitment and personnel rarely seen. The Steelers absorb as many injuries as other teams; they just always have someone ready to step in. No star makes a disproportionate salary, and certain types of conduct aren’t tolerated; responsibilities go along with the perks of being a professional football player in Pittsburgh.

Notice I said “core of people.” Not just players. Sure, Joey Porter runs his mouth and they may have to open the vaults one day to keep Ben Roethlisberger. The Steelers have a certain type of individual they look for, besides being an excellent player. The media focuses on the number of former quarterbacks they keep around, helpful for flexibility and trick plays. The caliber of people they keep around shows even more.

The 1995 Super Bowl team had Carnell Lake, who was willing to sacrifice a perennial Pro Bowl berth (and accompanying bonus) as a safety to play cornerback while Rod Woodson rehabbed his seriously injured knee. (Woodson missed the entire season except for the Super Bowl; the Steelers kept him on the roster, just in case. Pro Bowl voters appreciated Lake’s selflessness enough to send him to Hawaii, anyway.) Jerome Bettis took less money to stay in Pittsburgh. Hines Ward cut short his holdout without a contract because he wanted to stay, and Bill Cowher said they’d take care of him. Duce Staley took less money to come to Pittsburgh; he was injured early this year and lost his job to second-year back Willie Parker, yet not a game goes by you where you won’t see Staley on the sidelines with Parker and Bettis, encouraging, making suggestions. A reporter found Ward crying after losing last year’s AFC Championship game. When asked why, Ward said it was because they’d blown their last opportunity to get Bettis to the Super Bowl.

Bettis gave them another chance. The Steelers will have the majority of the crowd with them today. In addition to traveling well, Detroit is Bettis’ home town. I’ll be with a small group of native and adopted Burghers, eating kolbassi (no one spelled it kielbasa when I was a kid), pierogies, Clark bars and Klondikes, waving our towels and wearing black and gold. Part of me will be a little homesick, but another part will realize that I never left.

Sports holds disproportionate sway in our society. But for a Pittsburgh native, the phrase “you can’t go home again” only applies until the next Steelers game. It doesn’t matter where you are when you see the Terrible Towels, you’re home again.

Hell on Earth

What’s your worst nightmare? The thing so bad you can’t even truly imagine it? Turn on all the lights and sit with your back to a corner and we’ll examine it. Everything you’re about to read really happened. Just be glad it didn’t happen to you.

Say you’re a musician. A trumpet player. You graduate from one of the best music schools in the world, then spend ten years playing with the orchestras in Boston, New York, Vienna. Never quite able to grab the hot gig, but always working.

The lack of steady income gets old after a while and you end up far away from the madding crowd of musical high society. Just to pick a city at random, let’s say Portland, Oregon. There you’re stuck as the assistant behind a man more acclaimed as a douche bag than a trumpet player for ten years, putting up with his attitude and whining and sorry playing because the job’s yours when he’s gone. Somewhere along the line the music director changes, but the signals don’t.

Then the douche bag retires.

The orchestra has auditions. No big deal, they have to replace someone, and the auditions can be for an associate if the principal job is filled from within. (Nudge, nudge.) People come in from all over and play. You play. And finish second. The winner is the single person in all recorded history you’d like to spend your career sitting next to less than the douche bag who just retired.

Up until today you thought the worst thing that had ever happened to you was losing a coin toss for a ticket to see the Boston Celtics win Game 6 and clinch the 1986 NBA Championship. That was a nude beach during Carnival compared to this. What have you done to deserve this?

You think a minute. Remember the time you ran off to get married? All the male friends you had reduced to the subjects of burlesque were good sports about it because they knew some day your bachelor party would come, and all debts would be settled. Remember the wedding announcements you sent? After the fact?

Life’s a bitch, and karma is its agent on earth.

Shakespeare was Right

The Home Office is about to relocate to wholly-owned digs to provide you, dear reader, with the service you deserve. There will be the inevitable fits and starts along the way; this is only to be expected at my advanced age. As in any real estate transaction, lawyers will enter into it. As in any real estate transaction so close to Our Nation’s Capital, (aka the Bend Over and Spread Your Legs Capital of the World), lawyers will enter into it where you least expect them.

The property in question is a townhouse, part of a Homeowners Association. This association isn’t so bad: the Master Deed and By-Laws run a mere 31 pages. The original Home Office resided in an association which by-laws were sent over in a heavy-duty binder. Why the Andover Heights Condominium needs 31 pages while the Constitution of the United States can get by with three is a question for greater minds than mine, and there is no shortage of those.

People around the country sometimes wonder why housing prices escalate so much in the DC area. The only local industry is government, and we’re in the midst of a presidential administration originally elected in large part due to its devotion to reducing the size and expense of government.

Reading my condo documents has explained a lot. I thought I was just buying a house; just last night I found out that what I’m buying “is basically a rectilinearly shaped parallelepiped.” Damn right that’s worth more money than just a house.

And it’s not just the physical parallelepiped; we get air—front and back—too. The front of our humble rectilinearly shaped parallelepiped “is a vertical plane through the forwardmost point of the roof, so as to include all of the wall and air space directly under overhangs, if any.” (Emphasis added.) Thank God we got that squared away.

I understand this level of detail is designed to avoid confusion about who has to fix what should the excrement hit the thermantidote. That being said, maybe even more confusion could be avoided if the terms were easily understandable by someone with a Masters degree. (Granted, it’s in music, but still.)

What possible reason could there be for this paroxysm of obfuscation? Wouldn’t everyone benefit if the terms could be discussed without a background in surveying or geometry? Why must every circumstantiality be formulated in such recondite argot? Wait, though this be madness, there is method in’t.

Who might benefit from such elutriated phraseology? Among all the people potentially involved in a real estate transaction, who might possess the expertise to procure and perpetuate such atypical cognition? Could it be someone who can choose to look it up every time it crosses his desk and bill you for rectifying his alleged ignorance?

A lawyer, perhaps?

Don’t get me wrong, I believe in delayed gratification. I’ve waited fifty years to become the principal trumpet of a major orchestra, and I’m willing to wait another fifty. It will be worth it. Aside from the house hunting and the mortgage company’s anal probes, buying the domain of which you will be the master should be a joyful experience. How secure can anyone feel in their domicile if they aren’t sure they have an understanding of the rules to which they will be subjected? Why should anyone have to go hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, then have to pay some pettifogger to explain to them that their rectilinearly shaped parallelepiped is as defined, “notwithstanding the definition of general common elements presently set forth in Article 21, Section 117A(g) of the Annotated Code of Maryland (1957 edition as amended).” Just so they don’t confuse it with Article 21, Section 117A(h)?

In Shakespeare’s Henry VI, Part II, Cade promises a utopian society, should he ever become king. Seven half-penny loaves will cost a penny; three-hooped pots will have ten hoops; it will be a crime to drink small beer. (I have no idea what any of that means. It still makes as much sense as my condo documents.) His friend, Dick, sees an obstacle, and offers a simple, effective solution.

“The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.”

To which Cade replies, “Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentablething, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings:but I say, 'tis the bee's wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since.”

I’d trade the pleonasm of my association docs for that loquacity any day. I’d vote for Cade for king, too. I’m not sure what he means by that small beer and ten-hooping stuff, but I’ll bet he doesn’t say nuke-ular.

The Big Five-Oh

Well, today’s the day. The Big Five-Oh. A lot of things happen in 18,264 days, and I like to think I’ve learned something from them. That doesn’t mean I have. You be the judge; I’m not as impartial as I should be.

Several things stick out. The first memory I can positively situate in place and time is sitting in the back seat of the family car driving up the hill toward our new house on October 13, 1960, listening to Jim Woods describe Bill Mazeroski’s home run to win the World Series. That a baseball game is my earliest memory probably says a lot about how some things have worked out since then.

I was in Mrs. Trulson’s third grade class on November 22, 1963, when I learned that President Kennedy had been killed. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was, but by the end of the weekend I knew something major had happened.

On July 20, 1969, I sat cross-legged on our living room floor and watched Neil Armstrong take a small step that everyone remembers everything about, except how to do it again. A different living room in Norwood, Massachusetts held me on January 28, 1986. Within a year I sat in a car and listened to Richard Feynman describe how O-rings lose their resiliency in cold and knew I would never feel the same way about NASA again.

A nurse said, “Would you like to see your daughter?” and I peeked over the curtain separating my wife from her Caesarian incision and saw the Sole Heir for the first time. On March 1, 1991, I became a better son, and understood that nothing was as simple, or as easy, as we’d like it to be.

Two strangers in a San Diego elevator looked at me like I had no clue about life in general after my perky morning greeting, and told me there was something different about September 11, 2001.

I stood with a hand resting on my dining room table on April 22, 2003 when Bill Ray’s son told me his father had died. Not being a surprise didn’t make it any easier to take.

Graduations, weddings, jobs, all have strong memories. The specifics have a tendency to blur, mixing in the Cuisinart of experience to create lessons you hope to get something worthwhile out of. Season with some common sense and a healthy bullshit detector, and you get the Top Ten Things I Think I Know at Fifty. (Anyone worthy of reaching fifty should know you don’t know you know anything.)

In no particular order:
· Intelligence without introspection is like sex without orgasm. It’s nice, and it’s better than not having any, but what’s the point?
· If the worth of a man is measured by the friends he keeps, then Bill Gates has a ways to go to catch me. That doesn’t mean specific friends should be kept at all costs. People are your friends through their actions, not their words. You have not lost a friend if you cut loose someone who misuses your friendship; he has.
· I make every effort to treat people as they would like to be treated. I pay everyone I meet the compliment of assuming the same about them. This is why some think I am an SOB.
· My favorite age for The Sole Heir is whatever age she is when you ask me.
· There is a great difference between being a good guy and being a good man. Just because my brother makes it look easy doesn’t mean it is.
· It is unconscionable that any child should go sick or hungry in a nation wealthy enough to spend over a trillion dollars to redraw org charts and call it Homeland Security. Security is built from within, not enforced through edict.
· The primary difference between most politicians and most whores is wardrobe, as well as when, how, and what it costs for them to show you what’s under it.
· Humans as a species are neither inherently good or bad. Americans are not nearly as good as we like to think we are relative to the rest of the world, even France.
· Those who proclaim their Christianity too vocally seem to want New Testament tolerance and forgiveness for themselves and their friends, Old Testament fire and brimstone for everyone else, choosing their own standards for casting the first stone. Christianity does not own the franchise on hypocrisy; it does employ many of the store managers.
· Life is too short to hold grudges. It’s way too short to tolerate injustice.

Any reasonable fifty year-old must assume most of the sand has run out of the hourglass. The trick is to savor every grain as it falls through the neck. The good years are always with us, if we keep realistically adjusting our definition of good to mesh with what’s important. In the timeless words of Senator John Blutarsky, “Nothing’s over until we say it is.” I can’t even hear the fat lady singing yet. That may be because my hearing’s no better than my eyesight or my feet. I prefer to think it’s because there’s no better place for me to go just yet, and, at the rate things are going, there won’t be for quite a while. Things are fine in the place I’m at now.

Because His Lips are Moving Again

Earlier this week, Vice President Dick “Darth Vader” Cheney said the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 could have been averted if the president had the power to secretly monitor the conversations of two of the hijackers without first getting a court order. This is a prime example of how the Bush Administration has run the country into the ground using smoke and mirrors, arguing “oranges” every time someone criticizes them by saying “apples.”

First, the easy answers. There are lots of ways those hijackings could have been averted without violating the Fourth Amendment. The FAA could have banned potentially dangerous sharp objects like box cutters. They reacted by banning everything from scissors to nail clippers, which amounted to locking, bolting, and nailing shut the barn door after the horse has been flown into a building.

Faulty administrative procedures played quite a role. Instead of spending what’s approaching a trillion dollars on the Department of Homeland Security and excising large chunks of the Bill of Rights in the name of this alleged security, why weren’t the heads of the FBI, CIA, and other relevant organizations told in no uncertain terms to find ways to share their information, or we’ll find someone who will? The government had enough information to stop the attacks if anyone had bothered to make sure it got into the right hands.

These issues have been debated before. The primary approach utilized in Cheney’s remarks is another Administration standby: only address part of the argument. Never mind that leaving out the salient features of the criticism invalidates your argument; who’s going to look that deeply into it?

Hardly anyone is criticizing the surveillance itself; it’s warrantless surveillance that has people’s drawers in a knot. The special courts for secret warrants existed prior to 9/11. These warrants can be issued retroactively for up to 72 hours if speed is an issue. If the government was so sure monitoring the phone calls of these two guys could have stopped an attack, then why didn’t they get a couple of warrants? Cheney’s comments imply more than ample probable cause.

To take Cheney’s disingenuousness one step further, the Bush Administration has never shied away from assuming the broadest interpretation of presidential power, especially as it relates to the other branches of government and the public. Does anyone really think they would have hesitated to take extra-Constitutional means before they got the war powers resolution, which they are essentially interpreting as the granting of dictatorial powers?

Think “dictatorial” is too strong a word? Bush and Cheney continually stress the safeguards and good judgment used to ensure no innocent Americans have their rights trampled on. Whose good judgment are we depending on? George W. Bush. Let’s look at his history of good judgment, just since he’s been president. Cutting taxes in time of war to create record deficits. Invading Iraq in the name of 9/11, knowing full well Saddam Hussein had nothing to do with it. Getting us stuck there, with over two thousand Americans killed since Bush’s Priapic exhibition on the USS Abraham Lincoln, when he announced “mission accomplished.” The repeated assurances that the insurgents were a small cadre of “dead enders” that were forever in their “last throes,” so they should “bring it on,” we can handle it. Is that who you want making the decision about whose rights are observed and whose aren’t?

And for you Bush supporters out there, what about when he’s gone? The next president gets the same powers. Do you want Hillary Clinton making those decisions? John Kerry?

The terrorists can do no worse than kill a few of us. These power grabs have the potential to destroy us. Once you start down the slippery slope, each incremental diminution of rights seems less significant than the last, until one day you look around and nothing’s left. Simon Bolivar is known as the George Washington of South America. Let’s hope no one ever has to be referred to as the Oskar Schlindler of the United States.

Don't Believe Everything You Read

The following item, with accompanying photographs, has been circulating the Internet via email. It refers to an event that took place in December of 2004. It’s a good story, and Denzel Washington’s a good guy, but it’s also a good object lesson for the old saw, “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

Don't know whether you heard about this but Denzel Washington and his family visited
the troops at Brook (sic) Army Medical Center, in San Antonio,Texas (BAMC) the other day.

This is where soldiers who have been evacuated from Germany come to be hospitalized in the United States, especially burn victims. There are some buildings there called Fisher Houses. The Fisher House is a Hotel where soldiers' families can stay, for little or no charge, while their soldier is staying in the Hospital. BAMC has quite a few of these houses on base, but as you can imagine, they are almost filled most of the time.

While Denzel Washington was visiting BAMC, they gave him a tour of one of the Fisher Houses. He asked how much one of them would cost to build. He took his check book out and wrote a check for the full amount right there on the spot.
The soldiers overseas were amazed to hear this story and want to get the word out to the American public, because it warmed their hearts to hear it.

The question I have is why does (sic):

Alec Baldwin, Madonna, Sean Penn and other Hollywood types make front page news with their anti-everything America crap and Denzel Washington's Patriotism doesn't even make page 3 in the Metro section of any newspaper except the Local newspaper in San Antonio?

Here ends the piece that has been circulating on the Internet. The reason no other papers picked up the story of Denzel’s spontaneous check writing is because it didn’t happen.

No criticism of Denzel Washington is intended or implied. He did come through in “a big way,” to quote a Brooke Army Medical Center spokesperson, and now serves on the Board of Directors of Fisher Houses. See this link for verification : http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/d/denzel-brooke.htm

It’s still a great story, and hats off to Denzel Washington for stepping up like he did. Let’s just remember not to be too quick to tar too many people with the same brush. Alec Baldwin, Madonna, and Sean Penn are loudmouths whose opinions get a lot more credence than they deserve because they’re celebrities. That’s not a media issue, that’s a media business issue.

It’s not just television and radio entertainment programming that looks at ratings anymore. Newspapers, magazines, TV and radio news, all are focused on getting maximum readers or viewers. This places the emphasis on reporting the news most people want to hear. Do you really think any reporters worth their salt thought the Michael Jackson trial was the most important thing going on in the world last June? Name two stories that received more coverage. That’s because the average mouth-breathing Joe Six-pack was interested. The media reports what Baldwin, Madonna, and Penn say because it’s easy (and therefore cheap, saving even more on the bottom line), and because people are a lot more likely to read or listen to what they say instead of someone who has made a career of studying such issues, but we never heard of.

Again, kudos to Denzel. The sad truth is, his generosity should not have been needed. We sent these people off to fight our war without anything like the support services they, and their families, need. How many of the same Joe Six-packs who teared up over this story are far more willing to bash a celebrity for being anti-war than they’re willing to insist their elected representative do anything about the situation Denzel took action on? This isn’t something on which we should be depending on charity. People acting in our name spent our tax dollars to put the troops in harm’s way; why aren’t we as vociferous about demanding those tax dollars get spent to ensure they get what they need after the inevitable consequences have taken place?

The next time anyone gets in a lather distinguishing “patriots” who support the war and those who don’t, let’s not forget that not supporting the war doesn’t mean not supporting those who fight it. Conversely, supporting the war doesn’t mean supporting the troops, or they wouldn’t have been sent there with inadequate equipment and insufficient Stateside facilities in the first place.

Ringing out the Old

It’s customary as any year draws to a close to recount its major events. “From the Home Office” celebrates its first anniversary by beginning its own year-end tradition.

JANUARY – George W. Bush is inaugurated as President, claims his election victory gives him a mandate to act as he sees fit. When an aide points out the dictionary definition of “mandate” implies getting more than 50.000000001% of the votes, Bush replies, “The dictionary’s just a goddamned book. I’m the president, that Constitution thing says words mean what I want them to mean.”

In a related event, the Christian Coalition and Moral Majority remove their endorsements of Bush, stating they’re uncomfortable with the idea of the president having a “man date.”

FEBRUARY – North Korea announces it has nuclear weapons. Former Director George Tenet returns to the CIA to unveil the complicated mechanism through which Saddam Hussein transferred all his nuclear weapons to North Korea hours before the war began in 2003. Tenet also reveals the existence of surveillance photographs of Mohammed Atta meeting with Kim Jong Il in Prague several days before 9/11.

When asked why he didn’t invade North Korea, President Bush says he didn’t want to fool with that International Date Line thing and not know if any news took place yesterday, or was going to happen tomorrow.

MARCH – Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist attempts to prove Terry Schiavo is not in a persistent vegetative state by having her flown to New York to appear “live” in the Broadway musical “Spamalot,” as part of the “I’m Not Dead Yet” number.

APRIL – Pope John Paul II dies, is replaced by Pope Benedict XVI. Vatican announces that in an attempt to appeal to a wider base of Catholics, all Masses will now begin with the Who’s refrain, “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

French Catholics surrender in droves to altar boys wearing new “brown shirt” vestments.

MAY – Mark Felt admits to being Watergate’s Deep Throat. Democrats laud him as a man of conscience; Republicans condemn him as a traitor. Bob Woodward pays tribute to the man who made his career by hiding under the bed when the feds come to ask what he knows about the Valerie Plame case.

JUNE – Michael Jackson is acquitted of child molestation charges. Jury members say they think he did it, but so little of Michael Jackson’s original equipment remains, they weren’t sure who it was they were voting on.

JULY – I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby and Karl Rove are implicated in the Valerie Plame leak scandal. President Bush backtracks from his original pledge of “anyone involved in leaking will no longer work in this administration,” to “anyone found guilty of a crime will not longer work for this administration.” Future fallback positions include “anyone caught red-handed on videotape,” and “anyone caught red-handed on videotape actually shooting Valerie Plame” will no longer work in his administration.

AUGUST – Hurrican Katrina destroys New Orleans. CIA reveals evidence of Katrina having lunch with Saddam Hussein in the days before 9/11. FEMA Director Mike Brown embarrasses Arabian horse enthusiasts by shopping at Nordstrom’s when he should have been watching CNN for updates.

SEPTEMBER – Dennis Kozlowski sentenced to 8 ½ years in prison for bilking Tyco shareholders out of $600 million. Supreme Court decrees this to be the standard for dollars stolen per years sentenced, releases every other thief currently in prison.

House Majority Leader Tom DeLay indicted by a Texas grand jury and has his name legally changed to Tom DeNy.

OCTOBER – Chicago White Sox end 87 years of frustration by winning World Series. Harriet Miers nominated for Supreme Court to show Cubs fans the true meaning of “hopeless.”

NOVEMBER – Senate Minority “Leader” Harry Reid invokes a rarely-used Senate rule to demand a closed session when Ted Kennedy is too drunk to tell the difference between “yea” and “nay.” Majority Leader Frist takes advantage of no gallery or reporters to kick Reid’s ass in cloak room, saying, “I used to take Daschle’s lunch money every day. Now I’m going to eat your lunch.”

DECEMBER – President Bush admits to ordering the National Security Agency to perform warrantless surveillance on American citizens inside the United States. Bush condemns the New York Times for breaking the story, claims to have classified photos of Times’ editorial board having lunch with Mohammed Atta and Saddam Hussein shortly before 9/11.

Happy New Year, folks. If the seeds planted in 2005 ripen as expected, 2006 should be a blast.

Great, Not Perfect

No disparagement of the accomplishments of Tom Brokaw’s “Greatest Generation” will ever be found here. They grew up amid the deprivations of mankind’s greatest economic cataclysm, too young to understand why. That sense of deferred satisfaction served them well during the war, and a profound desire never to do without again probably fueled the duration of the subsequent economic rebound.

They decided their children should not, would not, suffer these hardships. Therein lies the rub, as Shakespeare would say. The Greatest Generation’s greatest strength, their willingness to sacrifice, spawned the subsequent Baby Boomer generation’s greatest weakness, their demand for instant gratification without consequence.

Politics has given us two men to personify this thesis: George Herbert Walker Bush, forty-first president of the United States; and his son, George Walker Bush, President Forty-Three.

George H.W. Bush was a child of privilege in an era when the credo “to whom much is given, much is expected,” held sway, especially in the Puritan-influenced New England of his childhood. Bush was one of the first carrier-based fighter pilots of World War II, a war when the families of privilege considered it a matter of honor for their children to serve. He continued his national service in a number of roles, including Congress, Chairman of the Republican National Committee, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Vice President, and President.

Regardless of one’s opinion of his politics and policies, all can agree George H.W. Bush served his country well and faithfully. The only breath of scandal to touch him was Iran-Contra, when he claimed to be “out of the loop;” no scandal for personal gain or advantage was ever associated with his name. He lost his bid for re-election as president when he did what he thought was right for the country, reneging on his “read my lips” pledge to raise taxes. This probably cost him the presidency, and may well have led to the period of sustained economic growth shepherded by Bill Clinton.

George Walker Bush grew up in post-war boom times, in an era when privilege meant shielding your children from the burdens of your youth. The younger Bush will not (cannot?) account for his first forty years, except for selected excepts beyond his ability to shield. He went to Yale as a legacy, and was given choice duty in the National Guard while his less-fortunate peers were humping mortar plates and body bags through the rice paddies of Vietnam. As some point, even that may have become too onerous for him; the service records of the second half of his hitch are essentially unverifiable.

He firmly believes that finding God at age forty granted him a clean slate. He failed at everything he tried before politics, using his family connections to finally be elected governor of Texas as a “compassionate conservative.” The record shows little record of his compassion; Texas executions rose as quickly as its educational standards declined. He continues to show no tendency to conserve anything except what is his, or that of his friends.

He wants what he wants when he wants it, leaving the bills for future generations to pay. His “conservatism” does not extend to the environment, where today’s children will have to contend with the damage of his policies, enacted with an eye to keeping his backers happy today; later is someone else’s problem. He regularly attacks the liberties his father spent his life defending, because he gets to do what he wants. Others are either for him, or against him; there is no “loyal opposition” in his eyes. Disagreement is disloyalty.

This is not meant as an attack on Bush the Younger. The Bushes were only used here as examples of the sad state we currently inhabit, where primacy is assumed, and no sacrifice is too small to accept if it delays what we want. The Baby Boomer Generation stands on the shoulders of those who came before them and dishonors their sacrifices. Hundreds of thousands of Americans have died to defend the liberty they assume as their birthright. The lack of outrage over the current violations of the Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Fourteenth, and who knows how many other amendments, all in the name of “protecting the homeland,” show the heirs of the Greatest Generation believe only others should sacrifice.

The greatest accomplishment of the Greatest Generation was to reshape the world they inherited and hand their children a far better place. Their greatest failure was in not passing down the values that made those accomplishments possible. It would be a sad legacy it this was the longer-lasting bequest.

A Christmas Miracle

There are more Christmas miracle stories than Liza Minelli has prescriptions. How often to you actually see one? Or have one happen to someone you know? Even rarer, have it happen to you? I have, just yesterday. Don’t believe me? Just look at all the things that had to go exactly as they did for this true, and truly heartwarming, story to occur.

I had one last errand to run at the local mall. I usually spend as much time at malls on Christmas week as George W. Bush spends at Mensa meetings. This year I had to get one special gift for a special someone. My heart was so overwhelmed with the spirit of the season that I took advantage of a rare weekday off work to brave the mall.

I had someplace to be later, so I was in a bit of a hurry. Lacking time to brush my teeth after a quick snack in the car coming home from grocery shopping, I grabbed two sticks of gum from the kitchen counter and popped them in my mouth. The gum had been sitting there at least six months, as I chew maybe a pack of gum a year.

Parking at the mall was at a premium, as you’d expect on December 23. It took ten minutes of looking until I found a spot only a few rows from the entrance. Something looked unusual a lane over from me and, good Samaritan that I am, I went that little bit out of my way to see if anything was wrong.

Imagine my surprise and dismay when I saw a big, honking Dodge Durango parked to occupy three spaces! Pulled in at an angle, the nose filling what might have been a pull-through space, the rest of the Durango parked across two spaces on the side from which the driver pulled in.

You can imagine my concern. What looming catastrophe could cause a driver to park in such a haphazard manner so close to the mall entrance on a day when everyone knew parking would be at a premium? Imminent childbirth? Dire illness? Needing to get to the last X-Box at Electronics Boutique? Whatever had happened, surely this person was in need of everyone’s understanding and sympathy.

I noticed a piece of lined notebook paper under the back window wiper. Thinking it might be a clue to provide more information, possibly allowing me to be of some assistance, I moved closer to read what it said. Three simple words: You are rude.

My heart went out to the poor parker. Surely he or she must have faced a daunting hardship, or the Durango would not have been parked in such a seemingly thoughtless manner. Based on personal experience, owners of enormous SUVs are renowned for their consideration of others, as well as calm and passive driving habits. How would this innocent feel if, bearing parcels of Christmas joy, he or she returned to the vehicle only to find such a snarky insult clipped to it?

I thought of removing the note but stopped with my hand in mid-reach. Who was I to deny the First Amendment rights of the note writer, no matter how distasteful the opinions expressed? Especially at this most sacred season, would not such a gross violation run contrary to everything we hold dear as Americans? I knew in my heart that if I removed the note, the terrorists would have won.

But what to do? The Durango person had to be shown there were those among us who felt his (or her) pain, and were appalled by the fascistic antics of the intemperate note writer. I pondered for only a few seconds before the true meaning of the season brought me an epiphany. A gift! What better way to express disapproval with the nasty note than to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas (Hanukkah) by leaving a small token of our shared humanity?

Now the question of what to leave was thrust upon me. Money seemed too impersonal, and would blow away in the breezy weather. I had little else of even sentimental value on me, as I was on my way into the mall, not laden with gifts as I would be when exiting. I stood pensively, chomping on my now-flavorless gum, until my second, and even more miraculous, epiphany of the day struck me.

I vowed to leave something of myself. Unfortunately, almost all physical aspects of humans are firmly attached. Hair would be blown away by the same avaricious breezes lurking to steal the previously considered cash. Yet there was one item with which I had become so intimately acquainted that it bore my very DNA. What more profound and sincere gesture could be given?

All that remained was to find a suitable location for this simple token. The cool, breezy day would dry it up if left anyplace exposed. It was easy to roll my gum into a properly-sized ball and park it in the driver side door lock with considerably more accuracy than the driver had used to park the Durango.

Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah.

Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye

Fear not, Red Sox Nation. Examine how this fall has gone with a clear eye:

Sure, Johnny Damon and his rag arm have left to join The Evil Empire; Corey Patterson and his US trade deficit-like walk-to-strikeout ratio are available.

They traded their primo shortstop prospect for a starting pitcher with enormous potential (cool) and a third baseman in his mid-thirties coming off a season even worse than the year he had testicular cancer (not so cool); immediately turned around and traded the shortstop to whom they gave a 4-year, $40 million contract just last year, leaving the position in the capable(?) hands of Alex “I’m not even Joey” Cora.

They traded Doug Mirabelli, the only man with the Zen-like concentration to catch Tim Wakefield, leaving Jason Varitek to lay awake nights with the sweats over the prospect of having to catch Wake every fifth day. They got a good second baseman in return, but he’s changing leagues and has played 120 or more games only twice in the last seven years.

Things look gloomy in Beantown. Schilling and Foulke are still unproven, most of the guys who made their weird chemistry work are gone, and the only team older than the Sox is the Supreme Court.

Despair not, Chowderheads. It’s early in the off-season and Larry Lucchino’s on the job. Remember the great job he did with the Orioles? How about with the Padres? Lucchino’s greatest accomplishment was hiring Theo Epstein, who spent $100 million a year and did for the Carmines what Kenny Williams did for the Pale Hose for maybe two-thirds as much.

The new boss (same as the old boss) has performed a daring daylight raid, strengthening the Sox while potentially crippling the Yankees with the recent signing of backup catcher John Flaherty. Who has Posada’s back now, Big Stein?

I wonder if Scott Adams is a Red Sox fan. This has Dilbertian overtones all through it.

On a baseball-related note, the United States government has prohibited Cuba from playing in March’s World Baseball Classic. When I first saw the headline on the Internet, I thought it said Cubs Couldn’t play. That I could understand.

Why Didn't He Ask Congress?

My opinions are rarely confused with those of George W. Will. That doesn't mean he's always wrong. Witness this column from the December 20 edition of The Washington Post.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/12/19/AR2005121900975.html?referrer=emailarticle