Tucker Carlson is a twit. It's not just the bow tie this time - it's the stuff that leaks out of the hole in his face just above the bow tie. This is how he explained why he was pro-France: "You know, France blew up the Rainbow Warrior, that Greenpeace ship in Auckland Harbor in the '80s. ... It won me over."
For the record, French secret service frogmen planted two mines that tore apart the ship's hull as it was preparing to sail to France's South Pacific nuclear test site at Mururoa Atoll and campaign for a nuclear-free Pacific Ocean. Two French agents were arrested by New Zealand authorities in the bombing and convicted of manslaughter. They were released after less than two years in prison.
So, you do the math - Tucker Carlson promotes manslaughter. And who was this person who deserved to be snuffed out by Tucker's Froggie men? Fernando Pereira was a Dutch photographer, originally from Portugal. Pereira had just celebrated his 35th birthday in Rongelap Atoll in the Marshall Islands with the crew of the Rainbow Warrior. He was planning to go to Moruroa to bring photographs of French nuclear testing to the world. Aha! One of those Portugese photographer trouble-making peace types. I can see Tucker's point.
If he's starting to remind you of another of our media's conservative blowhards, Robert Novak, it's no surprise. They shared a special little corner of journalistic hell called "Crossfire" until Jon Stewart showed up and pointed out that the emperor had no clothes - or maybe the emperor was just a big bag of gas, spewing vitriol.
Here's how Tucker is described by his pals at PBS: "Tucker Carlson's rise to prominence in the media landscape is rooted in his unique vision, combining wit, wisdom, insight and a wry perspective on the events that shape our lives politically, socially and culturally." Here's a bit of the touch of Tucker's wry perspective from April: Laura :Why isn't a Libertarian like you pro-choice? Why aren't you a feminist?
Tucker:If you think there is even a possibility that a fetus is a human being, and I do, then abortion isn't really a personal choice; it's a decision one makes about another's life. And I don't believe we have the right to kill other people, except in self-defense. As for feminism, I've lost track of what the term means. If it means treating women fairly, I'm a feminist. If it means pretending that men and women are the same, I'm not.
Okay - if you still don't believe me, go ahead and watch this pinhead's show. He's on MSNBC - he got fired from CNN.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Professional Development
We sit in these conference rooms for six and a half hours a day for five days in a row. When we're done, we're supposed to come out with a better understanding of what it takes to be a better (fill in the blank). This is the nature of seminars/conferences/retreats. Professionals are herded off into these hotel settings with their high ceilings and easels with chart paper, and suddenly we revert to our base instincts.
"Why can't we get the air conditioning to turn off when we come in?"
"When will the parking validation stickers be handed out?"
"What is the vegetarian lunch alternative?"
"How do you get Post-Its like this?"
It's a stirring sight, really. Watching adults mill about with no real sense of the task ahead of them except to avoid the task itself. It's a trick we learned in grade school. If we ask enough clarifying questions about process, the process might just cave in on itself. It is actually a pretty impressive sight, as trainers who came prepared to discuss the importance of the innovation of the implementation of the particular service or process that will impact the attendees are forced to scurry about researching menus and parking regulations while the rest of the crowd simmers in their minimally padded chairs.
Is it better than a day at work? Probably. Are we able to take some of our petty work frustrations out on the facilitators who won't see us again for at least a year? You bet.
See you next year at the Hilton - I hear the buffet is great!
"Why can't we get the air conditioning to turn off when we come in?"
"When will the parking validation stickers be handed out?"
"What is the vegetarian lunch alternative?"
"How do you get Post-Its like this?"
It's a stirring sight, really. Watching adults mill about with no real sense of the task ahead of them except to avoid the task itself. It's a trick we learned in grade school. If we ask enough clarifying questions about process, the process might just cave in on itself. It is actually a pretty impressive sight, as trainers who came prepared to discuss the importance of the innovation of the implementation of the particular service or process that will impact the attendees are forced to scurry about researching menus and parking regulations while the rest of the crowd simmers in their minimally padded chairs.
Is it better than a day at work? Probably. Are we able to take some of our petty work frustrations out on the facilitators who won't see us again for at least a year? You bet.
See you next year at the Hilton - I hear the buffet is great!
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Lunch Break 2
Last day of junior high school. He had waited for it. He had made some solemn vows over the course of three years, not the least of which concerned his lunch box. His mind traveled back to the sunny summer afternoon before seventh grade. He had admired his masterwork in the light coming through the window: a flying pig, a seal with a propeller for a tail. One end had a bullet shaped man with drooping eyes and enormous hands. His name swirled across the front. It was his lunch box.
He had used enamel paint, and almost three years later, even with daily insertion and removal from his backpack the graphics remained sharp and intact. So did the memories of abuse. After the first day of ridicule, he could have left it at home, but he promised himself then that he would carry his lunch in that bucket every day of his junior high career. He was called a retard, a baby, a fairy, a nerd, a geek. That rolled off. He rarely flinched when the bigger kids pulled their punches - still he invariably got "two for flinching." It made his resolve stronger.
By eighth grade he made the wrestling team (B-mat), and track (shot put and discus). The lunch box followed him on this adventure, and in ninth grade he was on the football team too - a three sport man. He still played in the band. And he carried a lunch box. He had a close circle of friends - none of whom carried their lunch to school.
That last day, as lunch was ending and his friends heading inside for yearbook distribution, he paused at the end of the soccer field. The sun came down through a cloudless sky to remind him of summer's approach. He set the lunch box down, carefully removing the thermos bottle and setting it aside. Closing the lid and flipping the latches shut, he closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. He jumped in the air and landed squarely, both feet on the lunch box, flattening it. The bell rang as he opened his eyes. He was alone with the black metal pancake that had held his food for three years. Picking up the thermos with one hand and peeling the lunch box from the grass with the other, he walked a few steps to the trash can at the end of the bike rack and pitched the hunk of painted metal. He hurried into the building carrying his thermos, on his way to get his ninth grade yearbook.
He had used enamel paint, and almost three years later, even with daily insertion and removal from his backpack the graphics remained sharp and intact. So did the memories of abuse. After the first day of ridicule, he could have left it at home, but he promised himself then that he would carry his lunch in that bucket every day of his junior high career. He was called a retard, a baby, a fairy, a nerd, a geek. That rolled off. He rarely flinched when the bigger kids pulled their punches - still he invariably got "two for flinching." It made his resolve stronger.
By eighth grade he made the wrestling team (B-mat), and track (shot put and discus). The lunch box followed him on this adventure, and in ninth grade he was on the football team too - a three sport man. He still played in the band. And he carried a lunch box. He had a close circle of friends - none of whom carried their lunch to school.
That last day, as lunch was ending and his friends heading inside for yearbook distribution, he paused at the end of the soccer field. The sun came down through a cloudless sky to remind him of summer's approach. He set the lunch box down, carefully removing the thermos bottle and setting it aside. Closing the lid and flipping the latches shut, he closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. He jumped in the air and landed squarely, both feet on the lunch box, flattening it. The bell rang as he opened his eyes. He was alone with the black metal pancake that had held his food for three years. Picking up the thermos with one hand and peeling the lunch box from the grass with the other, he walked a few steps to the trash can at the end of the bike rack and pitched the hunk of painted metal. He hurried into the building carrying his thermos, on his way to get his ninth grade yearbook.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Lunch Break
He was just getting used to the lunches that his mother wasn't making him. In the eighth grade, he was finally turned loose on his own midday meal. It was ironic that he was using most of the same raw materials from his mother's pantry, but now he took special care in making a lunch that looked like he imagined teenagers should eat. No more Wonder bread - sandwiches came on rolls that were carefully split down the middle. Chips were pretty much the same - Mom wasn't buying any of those individual serving bags (waste, waste, waste!). The chip portion was larger because there weren't carrot or celery sticks. This too was sometimes cause for a moment of melancholy, since Mom was so very good at putting just the right amount of peanut butter in a celery gutter. There were days he wished he had the patience. Dessert was where the difference really showed. Instead of a few cookies in a bag, or a single Zinger, there was a pair of Twinkies or a foil wrapped Ding Dong. When he had the time to spare he went to the store with his mother to make sure she brought home the chocolate Snack Pack pudding - not those damn fruit cocktails. He didn't need milk, since he brought his thermos full of water kept cold by the ice cold aluminum of the mountaineering bottle that had his name etched in the bottom.
He was completely self-sufficient and didn't need to stand in line for a minute. He walked to the lunch room with his lunch box and started eating. Wait. Lunch box? Eighth grade? Not a brown bag? Nope. A big black construction worker's lunch pail that had been lovingly decorated with cartoons from his own feverish imagination. Lunch box in junior high school=social death. How could he have known?
He was completely self-sufficient and didn't need to stand in line for a minute. He walked to the lunch room with his lunch box and started eating. Wait. Lunch box? Eighth grade? Not a brown bag? Nope. A big black construction worker's lunch pail that had been lovingly decorated with cartoons from his own feverish imagination. Lunch box in junior high school=social death. How could he have known?
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Nuance
Shrevie: Ok, now ask me what's on the flip side.
Beth: Why?
Shrevie: Just, just ask me what's on the flip side, OK?
Beth: What is on the flip side?
Shrevie: Hey, Hey, Hey, 1958. Specialty Records. [Beth nods blankly]
Shrevie: See? You don't ask me things like that, do you? No! You never ask me what's on the flip side.
Beth: No! Because I don't give a shit. Shrevie, who cares about what's on the flip side about the record?
Shrevie: I do! Every one of my records means something! The label, the producer, the year it was made. Who was copying whose style... who's expanding on that, don't you understand? When I listen to my records they take me back to certain points in my life, OK? Just don't touch my records, ever! You! The first time I met you? Modell's sister's high school graduation party, right? 1955. And Ain't That A Shame was playing when I walked into the door!
That scene in "Diner" kind of sums up my periodic angst about being married. Why don't we care about the same things? Why doesn't it get easier? Well, the truth is, it does. It just takes time. And patience. What does it mean to get up every morning for twelve years with the same person? Well, if you're not a teenager sharing your room with anolder brother, then maybe it feels something like marriage. There is a certainty to it that I enjoy immensely. I do a little dance each anniversary that I like to call my "Thank God I Never Have To Date Again Dance."
I know more now about who I am than when I started this relationship. A lot of things that I believed to be certain truths turned out to be a lot of hooey. To her credit, my wife has had the same challenging learning curve. We're trying to do all of this as we glide through our own discovery of just what we want to be when we grow up.
Of course, this path is frought with peril. There is money and childrearing and chores and the ever-present spectre of failure. That fifty percent divorce rate does a lot to keep my brain attached to my mouth. I have learned to be more careful with what I say and how I say it. Do I still need practice? You bet I do - but the real amazing thing about this is that I am being allowed to get it right over time. Perfection is still quite a ways off, but I'm waddling there as fast as I can.
Beth: Why?
Shrevie: Just, just ask me what's on the flip side, OK?
Beth: What is on the flip side?
Shrevie: Hey, Hey, Hey, 1958. Specialty Records. [Beth nods blankly]
Shrevie: See? You don't ask me things like that, do you? No! You never ask me what's on the flip side.
Beth: No! Because I don't give a shit. Shrevie, who cares about what's on the flip side about the record?
Shrevie: I do! Every one of my records means something! The label, the producer, the year it was made. Who was copying whose style... who's expanding on that, don't you understand? When I listen to my records they take me back to certain points in my life, OK? Just don't touch my records, ever! You! The first time I met you? Modell's sister's high school graduation party, right? 1955. And Ain't That A Shame was playing when I walked into the door!
That scene in "Diner" kind of sums up my periodic angst about being married. Why don't we care about the same things? Why doesn't it get easier? Well, the truth is, it does. It just takes time. And patience. What does it mean to get up every morning for twelve years with the same person? Well, if you're not a teenager sharing your room with anolder brother, then maybe it feels something like marriage. There is a certainty to it that I enjoy immensely. I do a little dance each anniversary that I like to call my "Thank God I Never Have To Date Again Dance."
I know more now about who I am than when I started this relationship. A lot of things that I believed to be certain truths turned out to be a lot of hooey. To her credit, my wife has had the same challenging learning curve. We're trying to do all of this as we glide through our own discovery of just what we want to be when we grow up.
Of course, this path is frought with peril. There is money and childrearing and chores and the ever-present spectre of failure. That fifty percent divorce rate does a lot to keep my brain attached to my mouth. I have learned to be more careful with what I say and how I say it. Do I still need practice? You bet I do - but the real amazing thing about this is that I am being allowed to get it right over time. Perfection is still quite a ways off, but I'm waddling there as fast as I can.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Hey, Kurt!
Here's my guilty pleasure for the week: Kurt Russell. I went to see "Sky High" the other day with my family and had a very pleasant time. Kurt plays Steve Stronghold, a.k.a. The Commander, real estate agent by day - super hero by night. It's a family movie, so the kids were the focus, but it was nice to have Kurt there to ground us parents squarely in our Disney litany.
Way back when he started being in movies, Kurt Russell was the new face with Fred MacMurray in "Follow Me, Boys!"(1966) He spent his teens working for Disney, perhaps no more memorably than when he played Dexter Riley in "The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes ."(1969) Dexter showed up in two more films, "Now You See Him, Now You Don't" and "The Strongest Man in the World." He was always just this side of hip - but he looked like he might be trouble if you messed with him too much.
That would happen in 1975, when he played Charles Whitman in "The Deadly Tower." Kurt was more than a little stressed when he looked down on the campus of the University of Texas in Austin. This role pretty much put an end to the speculation that Dexter Riley might reappear in "The Sniper Wore Tennis Shoes" for The House of Mouse.
After he left minor league baseball because of a shoulder injury, he auditioned for the role of Han Solo in a little sci-fi project George Lucas was putting together. That didn't pan out, but in 1979 he played Elvis in a TV movie directed by John Carpenter. The Elvis motif carries throughout his career, beginning with bit part in "It Happened at the World's Fair" when he was a kid who kicked the King in the shin. After the Elvis on TV, he had a voice-over as Big E that went uncredited in "Forrest Gump." He was an Elvis impersonator/casino robber in "3000 Miles to Graceland." And let's face it - unless his hair all falls out and his lip stays still - he's always going to have (with apologies to Mojo Nixon) a little bit of Elvis in him.
John Carpenter pushed Kurt's nice-guy all the way to the edge when he cast him as Snake Plissken in "Escape from New York." There wasn't much nice about Snake - he did save the President and all - but then he tore up the cassette tape that would have saved the world from World War Three. Kurt was a tough guy, and if you see him in "Big Trouble in Little China," he's got a sense of humor about it.
Kurt's in his fifties now. He's still hanging around with that Goldie Hawn, and he's back making movies for Disney. These days it's a toss-up whether the grizzled old dreamer will be played by Dennis Quaid or Kurt Russell. That's fine with me - but when they start work on "The Secret Life of Elvis," I hope Dennis isn't waiting by his phone.
Way back when he started being in movies, Kurt Russell was the new face with Fred MacMurray in "Follow Me, Boys!"(1966) He spent his teens working for Disney, perhaps no more memorably than when he played Dexter Riley in "The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes ."(1969) Dexter showed up in two more films, "Now You See Him, Now You Don't" and "The Strongest Man in the World." He was always just this side of hip - but he looked like he might be trouble if you messed with him too much.
That would happen in 1975, when he played Charles Whitman in "The Deadly Tower." Kurt was more than a little stressed when he looked down on the campus of the University of Texas in Austin. This role pretty much put an end to the speculation that Dexter Riley might reappear in "The Sniper Wore Tennis Shoes" for The House of Mouse.
After he left minor league baseball because of a shoulder injury, he auditioned for the role of Han Solo in a little sci-fi project George Lucas was putting together. That didn't pan out, but in 1979 he played Elvis in a TV movie directed by John Carpenter. The Elvis motif carries throughout his career, beginning with bit part in "It Happened at the World's Fair" when he was a kid who kicked the King in the shin. After the Elvis on TV, he had a voice-over as Big E that went uncredited in "Forrest Gump." He was an Elvis impersonator/casino robber in "3000 Miles to Graceland." And let's face it - unless his hair all falls out and his lip stays still - he's always going to have (with apologies to Mojo Nixon) a little bit of Elvis in him.
John Carpenter pushed Kurt's nice-guy all the way to the edge when he cast him as Snake Plissken in "Escape from New York." There wasn't much nice about Snake - he did save the President and all - but then he tore up the cassette tape that would have saved the world from World War Three. Kurt was a tough guy, and if you see him in "Big Trouble in Little China," he's got a sense of humor about it.
Kurt's in his fifties now. He's still hanging around with that Goldie Hawn, and he's back making movies for Disney. These days it's a toss-up whether the grizzled old dreamer will be played by Dennis Quaid or Kurt Russell. That's fine with me - but when they start work on "The Secret Life of Elvis," I hope Dennis isn't waiting by his phone.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Turf Wars
I just finished mowing the lawn. I've always liked that job. When I was growing up, the oldest kid got to mow the lawn, and the middle one got to pick up after the dog before the mowing could begin. I don't think I have to describe the details of why I was anxious for my older brother to pass along mowing duties to me so that I could hand off my "pooper scooper" detail to my younger brother.
While I was waiting for my time to come, I would hang around while the lawn was being mowed on the off chance that I would be allowed to empty the grass bag over the fence into the vacant lot behind our house. Or maybe I could bring the gas can from the garage for a quick refueling stop - anything to get me closer to the machine.
When the day finally came that I was welcomed into the fraternity of mowing, I was ready. I had studied the careful turns and cuts that needed to be made on our back lawn beneath the crab apple tree. A side-bagging mower meant that the front yard, with its twisting sidewalk and hedgerow, was especially treacherous. I learned early on to vary my path on a weekly basis. Constantly mowing in the same direction allows the grass to lie down and become matted. Sometimes vertical stripes - sometimes horizontal - other times I mowed in concentric circles until I reached the center.
I grew up in Colorado, so I spent winters shoveling paths in the snow, clearing driveways. The satisfaction of cutting a swath through the green grass was very similar to that of cutting through ice and snow. Now that I have moved to California and have a house of my own, there's not much snow to shovel - but I get to mow the lawn all year 'round. Today I did a combo pattern - the back yard got stripes, and the front got a capital "C."
While I was waiting for my time to come, I would hang around while the lawn was being mowed on the off chance that I would be allowed to empty the grass bag over the fence into the vacant lot behind our house. Or maybe I could bring the gas can from the garage for a quick refueling stop - anything to get me closer to the machine.
When the day finally came that I was welcomed into the fraternity of mowing, I was ready. I had studied the careful turns and cuts that needed to be made on our back lawn beneath the crab apple tree. A side-bagging mower meant that the front yard, with its twisting sidewalk and hedgerow, was especially treacherous. I learned early on to vary my path on a weekly basis. Constantly mowing in the same direction allows the grass to lie down and become matted. Sometimes vertical stripes - sometimes horizontal - other times I mowed in concentric circles until I reached the center.
I grew up in Colorado, so I spent winters shoveling paths in the snow, clearing driveways. The satisfaction of cutting a swath through the green grass was very similar to that of cutting through ice and snow. Now that I have moved to California and have a house of my own, there's not much snow to shovel - but I get to mow the lawn all year 'round. Today I did a combo pattern - the back yard got stripes, and the front got a capital "C."
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