The entire quote goes like this: "The point is, ladies and gentleman, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind. And greed, you mark my words, will not only save Teldar Paper, but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA. Thank you very much." This comes from the Oliver Stone film, "Wall Street" that came out in 1987. You may remember this as the waning days of the Reagan Revolution. This was just about the time that the wheels were coming off the fast train to nowhere. And if you've seen the movie, you may recall that the character who spoke those words was Gordon Gekko, the villain of this morality tale. A man so vile that no one really noticed that he was named after a lizard.
That was twenty-plus years ago - a generation. We're not worried about saving a fictional paper company from financial ruin anymore. We're now focused on rescuing financial giants. Things have changed, right? Twelve years ago, I had a friend who insisted loud and long to anyone who would listen that there should be such a thing as a "personal salary cap." At that time, he felt that anyone should be happy and comfortable making fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars a year. We did not own houses back then. We did not have children. We thought about retirement only when forced to by our wives. Things have changed. For some of us. I don't need to worry much about imposing a salary cap on my career. Fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars a year for teaching in a public school is a pretty good deal these days. As more and more of our life savings get swallowed up by the economic vacuum that has become our new reality, I wonder if I didn't make a bad choice back in the eighties. I wonder if my career choice was a prudent one, given the fact that I have chosen to live in a house with dependents in a state where being "comfortable" and being "well-off" are notions to which half of its population cannot relate. The rich do indeed get richer and the poor stay that way.
And all of this makes me wonder: "Do I want the person who will decide my economic future for the next four years to be the kind of person who cannot remember how many houses he owns?"
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Chew On This
I believe it was my father who first set the notion in my head that if you swallowed a piece of gum, it would stay in your stomach for twenty-five years. This piece of wisdom dovetailed nicely with his general and overriding distaste for gum-chewing. Though my father had a much more profound sense of the time it would take to digest a stick of Juicy Fruit, there are plenty of other parents who would tell you it takes at least seven years for your body to be rid of it. Twenty-five or seven, the truth is that it is indigestible and it will move through your body in much the same way that corn makes the same trip.
This was the thought I had as I listened to the announcement this morning of Coastal Cleanup Day. This Saturday, volunteers from around the Bay Area will descend on area beaches to put litter in its place. A cigarette butt would decompose quicker than that lump of gum. It takes somewhere between two and twenty-five years for them to return to the earth. Aluminum cans, by contrast, take two to five hundred years, and everybody's favorite plastic six-pack rings can take up to four hundred and fifty years to become just a memory. That's why we need to pick this stuff up and put it where it belongs. Happily, the recycling process helps in some of those tough cases. It seems a wonder that there are any unattended aluminum cans left anywhere, given the number of industrious types I see weekly rummaging through our recycling bin, but maybe there are still certain locales and destinations off their beaten path.
But cigarette butts? What can you do with those? There are over one hundred seventy-six million pounds of discarded cigarette butts in the United States each year. What sort of craft project can you envision? I'm back to thinking about that undigested wad of gum and believing that is a much more palatable discussion. Or maybe we should ask smokers to chew up their own litter. That way we know exactly where it would be, at least for a few hours, if not twenty-five years.
This was the thought I had as I listened to the announcement this morning of Coastal Cleanup Day. This Saturday, volunteers from around the Bay Area will descend on area beaches to put litter in its place. A cigarette butt would decompose quicker than that lump of gum. It takes somewhere between two and twenty-five years for them to return to the earth. Aluminum cans, by contrast, take two to five hundred years, and everybody's favorite plastic six-pack rings can take up to four hundred and fifty years to become just a memory. That's why we need to pick this stuff up and put it where it belongs. Happily, the recycling process helps in some of those tough cases. It seems a wonder that there are any unattended aluminum cans left anywhere, given the number of industrious types I see weekly rummaging through our recycling bin, but maybe there are still certain locales and destinations off their beaten path.
But cigarette butts? What can you do with those? There are over one hundred seventy-six million pounds of discarded cigarette butts in the United States each year. What sort of craft project can you envision? I'm back to thinking about that undigested wad of gum and believing that is a much more palatable discussion. Or maybe we should ask smokers to chew up their own litter. That way we know exactly where it would be, at least for a few hours, if not twenty-five years.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sorry - Wrong House
John McCain is not reading this blog. If he was, he probably would not have sent me a letter soliciting funds to support his campaign. It was a rambling, two page discussion about how desperately we needed to band together to help defeat the "liberal agenda" proposed by the opposition. If John McCain had been reading this blog, he would have understood that I am that opposition, and I fully support that liberal agenda.
I know John's a busy guy. He's running for President of the United States, and I know that must keep him away from his screen, but you might expect that he would keep up with me on his Blackberry or some other wireless device. I know that we don't always see eye to eye on things, but I would expect that, from time to time, he would drop me a note. Just a quick text or a comment on the blog, letting me know how he feels.
But instead, I got this great big diatribe filled with italics and bold type, telling me that I needed to get in line and send him some of my hard-earned dollars to help fend off the cataclysm that would erupt on the fifth of November if the election doesn't go his way. "A Democratic President - particularly one who is rated the most liberal member of the US Senate - working hand in hand with a Democratic-controlled Congress would truly spell disaster for our nation." For the record, I spell "disaster" with a great big "M." And a little "c."
And so, on the bottom of the letter John sent me, I wrote the following: "I'm sorry, but I have no money to send you. I am a school teacher in Oakland. My district is under state control, in part, because of the demands put upon it by the current regime in Washington. As a member of that liberal elite that seems to chafe you and your running mate so very much, I can't imagine that you'd be interested in my contribution anyway." I signed my name and stuck it back in his prepaid envelope, noting that he hoped that I would affix my own postage to "save desperately needed funds." I did not put on my own stamp, and I stuck it in the mailbox. I wonder if he will write back. I wonder if he'll read this blog.
I know John's a busy guy. He's running for President of the United States, and I know that must keep him away from his screen, but you might expect that he would keep up with me on his Blackberry or some other wireless device. I know that we don't always see eye to eye on things, but I would expect that, from time to time, he would drop me a note. Just a quick text or a comment on the blog, letting me know how he feels.
But instead, I got this great big diatribe filled with italics and bold type, telling me that I needed to get in line and send him some of my hard-earned dollars to help fend off the cataclysm that would erupt on the fifth of November if the election doesn't go his way. "A Democratic President - particularly one who is rated the most liberal member of the US Senate - working hand in hand with a Democratic-controlled Congress would truly spell disaster for our nation." For the record, I spell "disaster" with a great big "M." And a little "c."
And so, on the bottom of the letter John sent me, I wrote the following: "I'm sorry, but I have no money to send you. I am a school teacher in Oakland. My district is under state control, in part, because of the demands put upon it by the current regime in Washington. As a member of that liberal elite that seems to chafe you and your running mate so very much, I can't imagine that you'd be interested in my contribution anyway." I signed my name and stuck it back in his prepaid envelope, noting that he hoped that I would affix my own postage to "save desperately needed funds." I did not put on my own stamp, and I stuck it in the mailbox. I wonder if he will write back. I wonder if he'll read this blog.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Credit Report
On Saturday I received my new Bank of America credit cards. These replace the ones that they sent me some time ago that replaced the ones that were from MBNA, which they swallowed up three years ago. I had originally applied for a credit card through the University of Colorado Alumni Association because I thought it might be nice to kick back a few dollars to my alma mater when I was buying things from Amazon.com. And it had a cool running buffalo logo on it.
That card sparked a number of different conversations. With it, I was able to make a number of interesting connections with strangers across a counter. Even when B of A engulfed MBNA, I got to keep my buffalo. Then they started playing games with our interest rates and our credit limits and making things difficult to manage our account, so I paid off the card and filed it away.
No longer was I able to strike up a casual conversation about the campus in Boulder as I waited for my purchases to be tallied, bagged and passed over to me. I take all the "convenience checks" Bank of America sends me to consolidate my debts and shred them because the word "convenience" and Bank or America have been mutually exclusive in my dealings with them.
I've kept the card "just in case." I have been told that it is good to have an open line of credit "just in case." The new card they sent me is sleek and black and would look cool if it were a cell phone, but it has no running buffalo. They didn't even send along a little note of apology, or a call to ask if I would mind. Nope. Nothin'.
Today Bank of America bought Merrill Lynch. Merrill Lynch owns our mortgage. I wonder if the guys at Merrill Lynch get to keep their big black bull.
That card sparked a number of different conversations. With it, I was able to make a number of interesting connections with strangers across a counter. Even when B of A engulfed MBNA, I got to keep my buffalo. Then they started playing games with our interest rates and our credit limits and making things difficult to manage our account, so I paid off the card and filed it away.
No longer was I able to strike up a casual conversation about the campus in Boulder as I waited for my purchases to be tallied, bagged and passed over to me. I take all the "convenience checks" Bank of America sends me to consolidate my debts and shred them because the word "convenience" and Bank or America have been mutually exclusive in my dealings with them.
I've kept the card "just in case." I have been told that it is good to have an open line of credit "just in case." The new card they sent me is sleek and black and would look cool if it were a cell phone, but it has no running buffalo. They didn't even send along a little note of apology, or a call to ask if I would mind. Nope. Nothin'.
Today Bank of America bought Merrill Lynch. Merrill Lynch owns our mortgage. I wonder if the guys at Merrill Lynch get to keep their big black bull.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Health Plan
I have not met my doctor, but I have heard good things from my wife. Those good things are echoed on his web page by a number of other happy patients. This comes as good news, since I am now set to meet my fourth new doctor as a California resident. It doesn't help that we have just changed health care providers, and I haven't met any of the folks whose job it is to look after my physical well-being down at Kaiser.
This is not particularly troubling for me since I have spent most of my adult life in conscious avoidance of doctors. The mild irony in that stems from the fact that my father-in-law is a physician. Since I have been married, he has become my go-to medical support staff when my aches and pains veer away from the acceptable range. He's been there to answer those occasional questions about why this started to hurt after I did that, or what I could possibly do to keep from having that feeling again. He's been an excellent source of free medical advice.
But now it's time once again to greet my new flesh-and-blood doctor. This only seems appropriate since he will be dealing with my flesh and blood, both literally and figuratively. I haven't made an appointment or anything, since I feel that makes me seem to be just a little to desperate. After all, I wouldn't want to appear too needy. Or sick. Because that's my little problem. I'm not much for preventative maintenance. I tend instead to focus on maintaining my own limbs and innards until some crisis develops. I know this isn't the best plan, but it keeps me from having to get a second opinion, especially from somebody who graduated from medical school.
This is not particularly troubling for me since I have spent most of my adult life in conscious avoidance of doctors. The mild irony in that stems from the fact that my father-in-law is a physician. Since I have been married, he has become my go-to medical support staff when my aches and pains veer away from the acceptable range. He's been there to answer those occasional questions about why this started to hurt after I did that, or what I could possibly do to keep from having that feeling again. He's been an excellent source of free medical advice.
But now it's time once again to greet my new flesh-and-blood doctor. This only seems appropriate since he will be dealing with my flesh and blood, both literally and figuratively. I haven't made an appointment or anything, since I feel that makes me seem to be just a little to desperate. After all, I wouldn't want to appear too needy. Or sick. Because that's my little problem. I'm not much for preventative maintenance. I tend instead to focus on maintaining my own limbs and innards until some crisis develops. I know this isn't the best plan, but it keeps me from having to get a second opinion, especially from somebody who graduated from medical school.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
...
"Obama for president..."
That's exactly the way it appears, in spray paint, on a brick wall six blocks away from my house. It's not the words that stuck with me. It's not my general disdain for graffiti. On the contrary. It occur ed to me that if ever there was a sentiment that needed to be scrawled across city streets and sidewalks, that would be it. It's the urban equivalent of a yard sign, I suppose. It was not the opinion expressed that struck me. It was the punctuation.
According to Wikipedia: "The triple-dot punctuation mark is also called a suspension point, points of ellipsis, periods of ellipsis, or colloquially, dot-dot-dot." An ellipsis is generally used to indicate an omission. Maybe just a word, or a phrase, but it could be a thought or conclusion that has been left out. I use this device myself on a regular basis when I am writing notes or e-mail. It is a great way to lead a reader to a conclusion. It is very effective in comedy, when you write your setup, and leave the punchline hanging in the guise of those three dots.
Parents use it when they don't want to give voice to their threats. Teachers use it when they expect their students to know an answer. It is not a question, but a rhetorical pause. The response should be known to the reader or listener. "Or there will be trouble." "George Washington and the Continental Congress." "Voodoo Economics." What follows "Obama for President..." leaves me wondering. Is it a threat? Is there an obvious response?
I want to believe that the author's intent was to suggest that the election of Barack Obama is a foregone conclusion. I hope that whoever wrote that on the wall had something in mind when they left me hanging. I have decided that this is what the politically-minded vandal had in mind: "Obama for president, because the alternative is unthinkable."
That's exactly the way it appears, in spray paint, on a brick wall six blocks away from my house. It's not the words that stuck with me. It's not my general disdain for graffiti. On the contrary. It occur ed to me that if ever there was a sentiment that needed to be scrawled across city streets and sidewalks, that would be it. It's the urban equivalent of a yard sign, I suppose. It was not the opinion expressed that struck me. It was the punctuation.
According to Wikipedia: "The triple-dot punctuation mark is also called a suspension point, points of ellipsis, periods of ellipsis, or colloquially, dot-dot-dot." An ellipsis is generally used to indicate an omission. Maybe just a word, or a phrase, but it could be a thought or conclusion that has been left out. I use this device myself on a regular basis when I am writing notes or e-mail. It is a great way to lead a reader to a conclusion. It is very effective in comedy, when you write your setup, and leave the punchline hanging in the guise of those three dots.
Parents use it when they don't want to give voice to their threats. Teachers use it when they expect their students to know an answer. It is not a question, but a rhetorical pause. The response should be known to the reader or listener. "Or there will be trouble." "George Washington and the Continental Congress." "Voodoo Economics." What follows "Obama for President..." leaves me wondering. Is it a threat? Is there an obvious response?
I want to believe that the author's intent was to suggest that the election of Barack Obama is a foregone conclusion. I hope that whoever wrote that on the wall had something in mind when they left me hanging. I have decided that this is what the politically-minded vandal had in mind: "Obama for president, because the alternative is unthinkable."
Friday, September 12, 2008
System Requirements
It's been one of those weeks that my wife would refer to some relative motion of the planets to explain the way that machines and technology have fought against me. As the officially anointed "tech guy" at my school, I have spent the better part of the past three weeks connecting this to that, chasing down this piece of software and eliminating this or that bug from this or that system. All of this I do with a smile on my face and joy in my heart because in another version of my life I am still repairing modular office furniture for IBM.
Things at home have been just as frustrating. The power cord for my laptop has become useless unless it is held at a certain angle with a very specific tension in order to charge the battery. My bike had a flat tire on Wednesday morning. Machines at all levels of complexity are failing on me and I am scrambling to keep up.
But this is also the first week that I am getting back to teaching kids. As challenging as I found last year's class, I am already enjoying my new position as prep teacher in a palate-cleansing-sorbet-kind-of -way. I don't teach twenty-four kids. I teach three hundred and fifty. I get to meet all of them. I get to learn all of their names. I get to teach the whole school. I am especially fond of the kindergartners. This week all we managed to get through was the rules and procedures for the computer lab, but they were excited about that. And they were all excited to see me after school too. "Hi Mister Caven!" they squealed from across the yard as they headed toward the gate at the end of the day, waving furiously.
Kindergartners don't care if the scanner you are trying to install is compatible with the operating system on your CPU. They want you to know what their mother's name is, and when they need to go to the bathroom (which is often). I'm even getting hugs from the third graders. I know that it won't always be like this, but I know that the machines will start working again soon too. It might be the motion of the planets, but it's much more likely that it's the first weeks of school.
Things at home have been just as frustrating. The power cord for my laptop has become useless unless it is held at a certain angle with a very specific tension in order to charge the battery. My bike had a flat tire on Wednesday morning. Machines at all levels of complexity are failing on me and I am scrambling to keep up.
But this is also the first week that I am getting back to teaching kids. As challenging as I found last year's class, I am already enjoying my new position as prep teacher in a palate-cleansing-sorbet-kind-of -way. I don't teach twenty-four kids. I teach three hundred and fifty. I get to meet all of them. I get to learn all of their names. I get to teach the whole school. I am especially fond of the kindergartners. This week all we managed to get through was the rules and procedures for the computer lab, but they were excited about that. And they were all excited to see me after school too. "Hi Mister Caven!" they squealed from across the yard as they headed toward the gate at the end of the day, waving furiously.
Kindergartners don't care if the scanner you are trying to install is compatible with the operating system on your CPU. They want you to know what their mother's name is, and when they need to go to the bathroom (which is often). I'm even getting hugs from the third graders. I know that it won't always be like this, but I know that the machines will start working again soon too. It might be the motion of the planets, but it's much more likely that it's the first weeks of school.
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